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Am I Looking Back To Sea?

I had the dream again.
Not a bad dream,
But an odd dream.
I have it often.
I’m on shore, and looking at
The Lighthouse
On Partridge Island.
And
As I sit there,
I wonder what I am doing
On the Island.
(You’d think I could have
Dreamed up a spyglass).
However, now awake,
I plan to turn my dream 
Into reality.
I made everything right

At the Lighthouse.
And I made sure Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as night

With one white mitten,
Was played with, and fed.
I walked him to my dorey
So he’d know I would be away,
And
Away I went.

It’s a peaceful row,
The sea is calm,
The distance isn’t great.
The biggest chore

Is climbing up
From the rocky shore,
To settle into the comfort
Of the trees.
But, I did,
And I did.
I sat upon
A grassy perch
And looked back
With my spyglass.
What did I expect to see?
What revelation did I hope?

Well – yes – I wanted to see

Paw, my cat/kitten.

And he did not disappoint,
Though he revealed no secrets,

He did the same damn fool
Leaps, and bounds, and rushes
From place to place.
I spied no secret trysts.
I was, however, myself
Taken by surprise,
When Michael, the Mi’kmaq Indian,
Approached my seating place.
He used no stealth,

For I would have never heard him.
He asked no questions.
I handed him my spyglass.
He adjusted it, and peered.
Many minutes passed.
He handed it back to me.
“Wild cat,” he said,
“Got Glooscap in him.”

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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Shakespeare Birth Date + Shakespeare Death Date = A Couplet

The stage is as bare as my lady’s ass 

In his lordship’s bedchamber.

Rough-hewn in the most knockabout way, 

Leaving splinters in the palace lawns

Of the imagination.

There’s many a dip

‘twixt the trap and the lip.

It fares little better than hastily strewn boards 

Covering parched ground, 

With barely enough elevation 

To keep the understanding masses at bay.

Were one fool enough 

To come from out the wings, 

And at centre front begin a soliloquy 

About the beauty of the wretched arena 

On which he stands, 

To fight the resulting and justified spontaneous combustion, 

There would not be found one drop of piss 

From any a Thespian’s hose.

For who could allow this sacrilege to be spoken? 

Even the flag atop the pole 

Knows that the magic is not yet arrived.

A stage without commercial trappings:

Without solid doors and thick drapes,

Uncluttered by pillars,

And arches,

Tables and chairs,

Windows and fireplaces;

Sans orchestra, sans balcony, sans pit.

A stage revealing all its secrets.

Profound as emptiness.

A stage in wait.

For in this world writ small 

(As in the globe around)

The audience

Has nothing to know/ nothing to learn,

Until the actor makes an entrance 

And prepares

To fight through our eyes and ears

To battle with those thoughts and fears

that lurk in sheltered halls.

What’s Hecuba to him?

Why – nothing!

Merely a name on a page of script.

A cue at which to turn his profile thus.

It is what Hecuba becomes 

To we who wait,

That turns the key

Upon the heavy gate.

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If Your Cat’s In A Jam – Who You Going To Call?

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as good-bye,

With one white mitten,

Has disappeared.

I sent a note, 

By boat,

To Sister Darling of

The Rarified Church of the World (reformed)

To come and help me search

Partridge Island.

She arrived with a

Boatful of Evangelists to assist.

Now, put their proselytizing beliefs aside,

And you can’t do better than

A boatful of Evangelists

To get a job done.

They packed seventeen adherents of

The Rarified Church of the World (reformed)

Onto a fishing boat,

And faster than you can say Holy Roller,

A search of Partridge Island began.

They – like me – first started at the Lighthouse,

But to no avail.

Nor any luck at my Lighthouse Keepers House.

So,

They broke into three groups,       

One up each side and shore of the island,

And the biggest group up through the centre.

It’s not a big island,

But – Jesus –

It’s big enough. 

Sister Darling and I

Moved from group to group.

Five and one half hours and four minutes later,

There was a yell,

From the direction of the left shore.

“Come!”  “COME!”

Sister Darling and I ran.

I stumbled, and she pulled me up.

And we ran again.

When we got to the searchers,

They just gaped and pointed.

I hesitated, but Sister Darling

Pulled me again.

And when we reached the place

I gaped myself.

That miserable, cantankerous, intransigent cat.

That insistent insistent insistent animal,

Was guarding a brood of baby rabbits,

Their pecked and ravaged mother at their side.

Paw had become a feral protector.

And would let nothing near.

Until Sister Darling spoke, and cooed his name.

When she touched him, he almost fell over from fatigue.

Those Blessed Evangelists picked up each baby,

And snuggled them carefully into a pocket.

Sister Darling handed Paw to me and

– Sweet Jesus, I confess it –

I was crying.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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Spring Lets ‘Er Rip A New One

It’s a “kick in the arse” day,

On windswept Partridge Island.

The sun rose with enough red sky

To make even Paw, my Cat/Kitten,

Black as the dwindling night,

With one white mitten,

Shield his eyes.

But then

– Oh, then –

The sky tumbled full of

Dark, hellish clouds,

And then

– Oh, then –

The snow started

To fall

Like there was no tomorrow.

The Almanac tells ya

“Spring has arrived.”

I’ll let Paw tell them

What he thinks.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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What Slides Through The Fog?

What slides through the Fog?

Or hides in the fog?

Or lies in the fog

In wait?

These are the questions of,

The Lighthouse Keeper of Partridge Island,

Feeling his way from Keeper’s House

To Lighthouse,

In this fourth day


Of fog

To consume the Island.

It is a futile chore to maintain

The Light,

Which remains unseen from

Shore to ship.

Yet, I do.

From treacherous day,

To treacherous day,

Proving

– I think –

Some sort of Faith.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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A Grey Ship Slides Past Partridge Island On A Grey Day

There have been too many grey days

In the Lighthouse

Of this grey island.

Sailors talk of the Doldrums

Of the southern seas,

Where ships get stalled

With their empty sails

And listless winds.

So that you can feel you

Are not moving or living,

Beneath the cloudy cloudy sky.

This ship was under steam,

And tooted a fitful horn.

Of course I waved, and even forced

A little jig of welcome.

But – really – my heart was not in it.

I was more than happy to squirrel myself

Away with Paw, my snoozing cat/kitten,

Black as apathy,

With one white mitten,

And sip dram plus dram of dark rum,

To accompany my cheering meal

Of bread and stew.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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Sister Darling Puts Paw, The Cat/Kitten, In His Place

I am submitting

To the blandishments

Of Sister Darling, of

The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed),

Because she is a woman of God.

(Though her take on the teachings of the Lord,

Do have a belligerent slant).

And,

She can play me like a fiddle.

So, at her suggestion,

I let her make, for Paw, my Cat/kitten,

Black as the night

With one white mitten,

A winter suit,

For days like today,

With wild winds cold

As an iceberg,

And snow enough to

Bury any cat.

She has knitted him a body suit,

And four booties,

Coloured blue, so we

Won’t lose him in the snow.

Paw is none too happy

Being press-ganged into this gear.

Nor does the chore,

Fill me with cheer.

But out she tosses him

Into a drift.

Two other days he protests,

But this morning, he is calm as a clam,

And stays out for hours.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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Robbie Burns Night On Partridge Island

I’ve made a special meal

For Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as dark ale,

With one white mitten.

It will be his first

Robbie Burns Night feast,

But I do not want him

To hope

That it will be his last.

So,

I am going to omit the haggis

(A hellish thing to make anyway),

And lay on the

Tatties & neeps.

But,

Since I doubt Paw will enjoy

Either Spuds or Rutabaga,

There will be a couple of

Mutton chops each,

And a piece of steak.

I will, however,

Have the whisky flowing.

And be in full voice

When I recite:

‘The Selkirk Grace’

“Some hae meat and canna eat,

And some wad eat that want it,

But we hae meat and we can eat,

And sae the Lord be thankit.”

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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The Winter’s Tale On An Island

I’ve been reading
“The Winter’s Tale”
To Paw, my cat / kitten,
Black as a bear
With one white mitten.
I confess I emote with
Gusto,
Which he likes.
And I growl at the part
[Pursued by a bear]
Which he really likes.
And sometimes I,

(I confess),
G R O W L

Which makes Paw
Spit and bristle
And back up.

He even
– Sometimes –
Looks around the room.

Which makes me call his name,
Which calms him down.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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