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Will The Cat Extend His Toe Beans, Or His Claws?

Sister Darling, of the

Rarified Church of the World (Reformed)

Wants me,

The Poet Laureate of Partridge Island,

To publish

A booklet

Of my poems.

She swears

(well – you know

as much as a lady of God

will actually “swear”),

That Paw, The Cat/Kitten,

Black as printing ink

With one white mitten,

Does wish the same,

If

(You know)

He could speak our language.

Perhaps she is correct.

However,

I am not convinced

That Paw,

Could he articulate

A review

Of my graceful,

(Though somewhat slapdash)

Lines of verse,

Would be an appreciative connoisseur.

I have seen him, oftentimes,

Express his natural nature.

He can be,

Remarkably,

Savage.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2025/ A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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The Old Order Changes, A Saint Passes On

Robert (Bob) Gibbs has left the building:

I considered Bob Gibbs an honorary member of my very exclusive (and never acknowledged) “Grand Lake Writers Group” This august body consisted of myself, Elizabeth Brewster, and Robert Hawks (neither of them knew of its existence, either). We all three lived within the vicinity of Grand Lake (I could see it from the upper windows of my home). 

We three included aspects of the Grand Lake area in our books.

Well . . . so did Bob.
In some of his writings, his characters boarded riverboats, and took a trek which got them to Grand Lake from Saint John. One such Riverboat pier was a twenty minute walk from my house. Although not certain of this, I like to think he pulled into this port upon occasion. Evangelical meetings were generally on the agenda. I have (in my way) incorporated this into one of my novels.

I remember Bob once being nonplussed by my activity.There was a party at his house (such a delightful place, next to a railway). It was either a birthday party for Elizabeth Brewster, or a celebration of a book launch by her. I showed up with the gift of a bottle of champagne. I handed it to Bob.

His look was one of surprise. I’m not sure I had ever seen him surprised. I had the suspicion he knew everything. I still have that suspicion.

He made the comment (I don’t remember if it was to anyone) “Look, he brought champagne.” My interpretation was that Bob didn’t think I had enough sophistication to do such a thing. Or, he didn’t know what to do with the bottle.

When I left, it was still unopened.

The Essential Robert Gibbs – Robert Gibbs – Google Books

Whatever three ships mean

         two freighters and a tanker

         standing off Partridge Island

more like scanned-for presences

                            than really anything out there

(I saw three ships come sailing in 

            come sailing in        singing itself

            off-season  off-key)

                                          ~ Bob Gibbs [Skipping Round the Biosphere]

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Gunpowder, Treason and Plot, & A Cat In A Lighthouse

Paw,My cat/kitten

Black as gunpowder

With one white mitten,

Is having the time
Of his

Life.
We are in the Lighthouse,

On this Guy Fawkes Night,

Searching down the gunpowder

The dastardly villain

Has planted.
This has been part,
Of my traditions

For years.

Straight from

My Father.
“Remember Remember The Fifth of November.”

And though I tell Paw,

The cat/kitten,

To run wild

And

Search everywhere,

In truth,

He doesn’t want to

Stray too far

From my side,

Which is fine.

For,

In truth,

The Lighthouse is

A strange

And peculiar

Place.

So he stays near

To the glow of my

Lantern,

As I go through

My ritual.


We are both pleased.


And,

Will both

Have a

Fine Fish Feast,

When Guy Fawkes is

(As he inevitably is)

Brought low.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report

DE BA. UEL

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A Snake In The Grass Is Worth Two In The Bush

Paw
My cat/kitten,
Black as Spades
With one white mitten,
Stopped dead in his tracks
And stared.
He could have been a statue.
So, I walked carefully
To stand beside him,
And also stared.
In the grass,
Perhaps a foot away,
Was a thin, long and
Young-looking snake.
It was stretched out,
In curves,
With its head erect,
And motionless.
Much like Paw.
There are not many snakes
On Partridge Island, and I have seen
Much bigger.
But, still,
It was a snake.
Paw was curious,
Cautious,
And scared.
I was careful.
Old Nick
Chose well

To use a snake,

To bring down
Humankind.
I guess we three
Waited five full minutes
With none of us moving.
So, I scooped up Paw
(He made no complaint),
And retreated the way
We had come.
I know the snake felt
Every step we trod.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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I Sing Wagner As Arctic Winds Howl Straight From The North Pole

You don’t see it often,

(And you don’t want to).

The water along the rocks

Is splashing up as ice

On this frigid, frigid day.

Paw, my cat/kitten

Black as the ice

Sometimes can be,

With one white mitten,

Does not cease in his complaints.

I’ve brought him with me

In his cage,

Because,

On his own

He would be blown away.

He doesn’t realize that.

We cower on the shore,

And look out to sea.

We spy a ship

With its sails down

And a white aura

Enveloping her.

A snow squall perhaps,

Or,

Perhaps something else

As you can only see

Out at sea.

And, to appease the cat/kitten,

To calm him down,

(As well as myself)

I sing some Wagner,

Belt it out against the wind.

“That storm it wants a battle
And it’s sure that we’re outgunned!
That ghostly ship is hunting us
It’s bringing on the gale!
She’s called the Flying Dutchman
And it’s rage that fills her sails!”

And – indeed – it does us some good.

And then,

We high tail it

Back to the shelter

Of home.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report

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Happy Birthday, Shakespeare the Bard

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, and 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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April Fool’s Day / April First / Taillie Day/ The Cat Laughs Last

It’s April Fools Day,

On Partridge Island.

And the pickings

Are slim,

For a laugh or a guffaw,

And that’s no joke.

I was reduced to

Tying a paper tail

To the real tail

Of Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as ink

With one white mitten.

But,

It does appear,

He did not take it

With the same good cheer,

As did I.

It’s true I got a chuckle

At his annoyance,

And his tugging,

And tumbling,

To be rid of it.

Which I did myself

Within five minutes.

But perhaps not fast enough.

Can Paw tell time?

Can I make a rhyme?

I served up my luncheon soup,

And went to slice some bread

For sops.

I returned to my steaming bowl,

To find a headless mouse

Floating in the broth.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2022 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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The Biggest Crow In Christendom Lands On Partridge Island

The biggest Crow

I ever did see

Is roosting

On the tallest tree

On Partridge Island.

I’m guessing for a day,

Or two,

Of rest.

Wingspan beyond belief.

He won’t find much

Winter fare to eat,

Except carrion.

And they do like clams.

But their choice of seeds,

And nuts and berries,

Is not available.

Nor insects,

Though they’ll dig for them.

But a taste of a small animal,

Might be very tempting.

So, I will keep

Paw, my cat/kitten

Black as a crow

With one white mitten,

In his carry case

Whilst the crow visits.

And,

You know,

My cat/kitten

Has not made one

Complaint.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2022 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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High Winds And Seas And Whitecaps Smashing On Shore Keeps A Cat At Home

Paw,
The cat/kitten,
Black as storm clouds
With one white mitten,
Made no objection
When I kept him in
Today.
I had put him
In his cage,
And took him
To the door,
Which I opened.
But he hissed,
And looked at me
As if to say,
“Are you nuts?”
So I walked to
The Lighthouse
On my own,
Holding for dear life
To the rope secured
Between both houses.
I marvelled at

The height of the waves,
Attempting to tear
The island
Limb from limb.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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