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An Elephant Tale For Christmas Eve

creche2b1

The Elephant was not oblivious to the

Christmas season, and wanted to pay his

respects. He travelled to the special clearing

where a cloud waited for him.

“It’s your Son’s birthday and I want to congratulate him.”

“Thank you.” The cloud descended further.

“It is a grand time.”

“I’d like to …” the elephant hesitated.

“Yes.”

“You sent your son for us to see, so we

would believe.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I want to …”

“Spit it out,” said God. “You’re fired up.”

“I want to see you.” The elephant spoke

quickly. “I don’t have to see you, you know

that.  I believed even before you talked to

me. But I want to see you; it would mean so

much. I wasn’t around for the Baby, but

cows and sheep and things got to see Him. I

can’t explain, but …”

“Go home,” said the cloud.

“You’re not angry with me?” said the

elephant.

“No.” The cloud started moving away. “It’s

an honest request.”

“Thank you for coming to see me,” said the

elephant.

“Sing some carols.” The voice was distant. “I

like them.”

The elephant turned and started through

the woods. He ignored the tasty leaves

within easy reach, and the rich grass near

the brook. He wanted to get home as quickly

as possible, so he could join the singing at

the Mission he knew was happening later in

the evening.

He trotted along the trail, snapping a branch

here and there in his haste, when he noted

the stillness, the hush which had overtaken

the forest. He slowed down and then

stopped in his tracks.

He turned his head, his small eyes squinting

into the brush. There was movement

coming toward him, and when the trees

parted, he went to his knees with a gasp.

Tears rolled from his eyes, and the golden

trunk touched his own, and gently


wiped them away.

(Image) 3.bp. blogspot.com/-Cu2l0Z3a5RY/UNX-AVe2xcI/AAAAAAAABfo/xse8jdvJsLo/s1600/creche%2B1.png

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Flotsam and Jetsam Wash Ashore On Partridge Island

As the Lighthouse Keeper on Partridge Island,

I have to make a monthly inspection

Along the shore of the whole island.

Of course, I make reports, and haul the 

Moveable trash off the shore, and put it

Above the tide line (which is high),

So it won’t set sail again.

All this is true,

But,

What I’m really supposed

To report,

Are the bodies I find.

There are generally three or four a year,

Mostly beyond recognition.

I can spread out this chore if I desire,

But – generally – I prefer to do it over a

Couple of days.

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as deep tide pools

With one white mitten,

Always wants to come along. 

He always regrets it,

When we reach the ocean tip,

Where he is surrounded, 

On three sides,

By water.

He doesn’t like that.

And he always complains,

But he soldiers on.

Today was no different.

Although the day was beautiful,

With clear sky and pleasant wind,

The ocean had an odd, opaque shimmer.

It was like looking at the coated side

Of a mirror.

Paw – who has been known to step

Over a dead body to see what

Was on the other side –

Avoided the shore,

And stayed above the 

High tide mark.

I guess he didn’t want to see

Something he couldn’t see.

He was impatient for me to haul ass.

And he let me know it.

{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 UE

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What Do You See When You Are Black As Agate?

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as agate

With one white mitten,

Is turning into Narcissus.

He is gazing at himself

In a quiet pool of water,

Becalmed along the shore

Of Partridge Island.

He does – sometimes – look

Into the mirror,

And lingers.

I assume he sees 

What I see.

But I know cats,

And many of the other animals,

Also look with their noses,

And ears.

Perhaps that is why 

He gazes so intently,

Not being able to recognize

What he sees.

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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Is The Summer Solstice The Top Of The Hill For Life?

Michael, my Mi’kmaq friend; 

Sister Darling, of the

Rarified Church of the World (reformed);

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as smudge

With one white mitten;

And myself,

The Lighthouse Keeper

Of Partridge Island;

Are banded together to celebrate

The twenty-first day of June

The Summer Solstice

The first day of summer.

Really, say what you will, 

We are all going to stay out 

Until the sun goes down.

Michael points to trees, leaves

And shadows,

To explain the importance 

Of the Day.

Sister Darling quotes parts

Of Genesis, and the sun, 

And what happened when

All was in place.

I have some seafaring instruments,

And twist dials, and

Slide pieces of metal

To prove summer’s existence.

And

Of course

There is a FEAST!

Michael brings a haunch,

And steaks,

Of Venison.

Sister Darling brings

Two pots of stew,

And two rhubarb pies.

I have delved into my

Bread recipes and

Offer three different selections.

And Paw, the cat/kitten

Catches a plump robin,

But he lets it go.

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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What Did The Black Cat Find?

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as a starless night

With one white mitten,

Has outdone himself.

Again.

He came and got me,

Tracked me down,

(I was repairing part

Of the Partridge Island

Dock)

And bade me follow.

Demanded, actually.

So (of course) I did.

He has yet to understand

I can not scramble

With the alacrity

His four paws

Allow.

He stood waiting

At the top of

The rough trail

And complained.

He then stood by the base

Of the Lighthouse

And complained.

He paced at the

Entrance

Of our rough little forest

And complained.

But he didn’t enter until

I stood beside him.

No complaints now.

So . . . I wondered what 

I was going to find.

And – no – I would 

Never have guessed.

Paw moved carefully,

But unerringly,

To a spot not far

From the water.

He stopped in front

Of a swath of tall grass.

He sat down.

The rest was up to me.

I stepped (deliberately) over him,

And peered.

In the middle of the

Swath of grass

Was the leg of a deer.

One leg.

Nothing else.

No head

No antlers

No exposed bones

No hide nor hair

(Save the tiny hairs

on this solitary leg

complete with hoof).

Paw didn’t make a sound,

But his tail twitched.

There couldn’t be

Enough meat on it

For even a cat to chew.

There are no deer on Partridge Island.

Nothing much larger than

Paw, himself.

Some hawk or osprey or eagle

Might have dropped it.

Some storm might have 

Heaved it ashore from some

Hunter’s field-dressing 

Of a fresh kill.

I let Paw do what he wanted.

He didn’t want much.

He did walk its whole length,

Sniffed and licked,

And once

Rubbed his face

Against it.

He paid special attention to the hoof.

He was satisfied.

I was satisfied.

The deer was

With its ancestors.

I carried it 

Across the rocks

And tossed it back

Into the sea.

By the time I turned 

Back to shore,

Paw was on his way

Home.

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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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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A Valentine’s Day Feast Awaits Sister Darling On Partridge Island

Sister Darling, of

The Rarified Church of the World (reformed),

Steps upon the dock of the Partridge Island Lighthouse.

My humble self (the Lighthouse keeper) awaits her,

As does Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as Liquorice candy

With one white mitten.

I pondered tying a red riband

Around his neck, in celebration

Of the day.

But our cat/kitten is not as young

As he used to be,

And took umbrage at my attempt.

Still, he is young enough

– And spry enough –

And has memories enough,

To jump upon Sister Darling’s shoulder

And nestle in her hair.

And thus, we three climbed our way

To my Lighthouse Keepers house.

I have prepared a most wonderous fish stew,

Bubbling on the hob

(It even has lobster),

And, I have baked a pan of biscuits,

For her edification.

Sister Darling presents me with

A red envelope, wherein resides

(If I don’t miss my guess)

An embossed card to celebrate the day.

But,

Before I can open it,

She shoos Paw from her locks,

Opens wide her winter cloak,

And

“Oh, My!”

Our repast is threatened

To be delayed.


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

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Scots Wha Hae W/ Robbie Burns 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 second

Robbie Burns Night feast,

 And again, to keep him

In good cheer,

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’ by Burns himself.

“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.”

And,

If the little bugger

(And myself)

Have more luck than we deserve,

We’ll be sharing our wee feast

With Sister Darling, of the

Rarified Church of the World (Reformed)

Who is

(Hopefully),

Boarding a fishing boat

On its way to our Lighthouse,

Right Now.

{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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There Are No Small Gifts On Christmas Day On Partridge Island

Christmas Day is like
Any other day at
The Partridge Island Lighthouse.

Ya gotta trim the wicks,
And renew the oil.
So, I went about my business
At the usual time, only noting that
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as soot

With one white mitten,
Had abandoned me.
‘Mice’, thought I.

For there are always mice
On Partridge Island.
But, I found out

(After my chores were done),
That wily Paw had used stealth
– and his sensitive hearing –
To scurry to my Lighthouse-keepers house.


When I returned, as darkness settled,
I saw twinkling lights 
Through the windows,
And smelled the  delightful warmth

Of roasted fowl, and sweetened baking,
As I walked through the door.

Sister Darling, of

The Rarified Church of the World (Reformed)

Had hired a fishing boat to
Bring her to the Island, whilst I

Was occupied in the tower.

She had put her pre-baked goods
Into the oven, and
Stoked the fire.

A bottle of red wine, and
A bottle of white,
Sat upon the kitchen table.
And

Paw, the cat/kitten
Had a red red riband tied

Around his neck,
With a key attached.
I took it. 
When I turned,
Sister Darling removed a small casket.
And handed it to me.

I used the key
To open a tiny lock.

I Opened it,
And looked inside.
Oh, My!
Oh, My!!
It GLOWED.

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

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