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Where Do You Go When You’re Lost In The Fog?

Paw, the cat/kitten

Black as being blind

With one foggy mitten,

Is lost,
And coughing,

In the fog.

He lets me know

Of his displeasure,

Which I can hear from him
Even if I can’t see.

It is a Friday of fog,

Which has followed a
Week of fog,

From the Monday last.

It has made Partridge Island

Disappear into the sea.

The Lighthouse light

Is so smothered, even I

Can not see it from its base.


Paw blames me for this,

And also blames me for 

The incessant foghorn that

– I hope –

Penetrates the gloom to

Ships at sea.

I sit

And knit

Paw, my protesting cat,


A woolen cap

To stop up his ears.

{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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When The Fog Is A Shroud For Death, Do The Mermaids Still Sing?

It’s illegal, of course

What Sister Darling of

The Rarefied Church of the World (Reformed)

Wants me to do:

But who am I,

Belated sinner, and open to

Any supernatural suggestion,

Going to do?

Acquiesce, of course.

Submit, of course.

As is (I am sure) God’s will.

So she has transported her beloved aunt,

Dead these past three days,

On a boat to Partridge Island.

Captained by a cousin and

A crew member who will ask no

Questions,

So they will not have


To give any answers 


– If asked –

As to what might have been

In their coffin-shaped cargo.


Sister Darling’s beloved aunt

Wished – implored – to be buried

On Partridge Island as,


Over a half century ago,

It was the place of her birth.

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black himself as Death,

With one white mitten,

Tolls a tiny bell which

Sister Darling has affixed

Around his neck.

The grave (of course)

I have already dug,

And Sister Darling is

(Of course)

Full of the appropriate prayers.

{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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When You Have Angels In Your Hair, Can You Be Stopped?

I’ll repost a favourite summer memory:

I visit wharves and gaze out to sea.

I prefer small working ports, gritty and smelling of fish and lobster and ocean. The scurry and comings and goings (though I also like them in the evening when most work is done). I walk the docking between the boats and peer from the end of the wharf. I ponder distant shores or endless sea and screaming gulls with sometimes seals and whales and archaic Blue Herons.

Last night, when I thought the wharf was my own, a man, woman, toddler and dog arrived. They seemed to do much as I was doing, though they knew the owner of one of the fishing boats. The man was gruffly talkative, the dog was rambunctious, the woman apologized for the toddler’s dirty face and the little girl didn’t quite know what to make of me. Friendly and chatty but she wouldn’t take my hand as I offered to walk her up a gangplank.

I left them on the docking between the moored boats and started to walk on the wharf itself.  The fishing boats and the docking were parallel to the wharf.  I was half way along when I heard a shout. I heard the dog. I looked over and this is where life becomes art becomes life. It was a Kodak moment. It was a Motorola moment. It was a ‘freeze frame/real time/fast forward’ moment. It was a composition/edited moment. It was all these things which came to my visual mind. All this and the knowledge that there was no way I could get there if I was needed.

The little girl was going for the gold.

She had God in her feet and Angels in her streaming hair as she raced between the moored boats. Her dirty face was wide with excitement and it is probably the happiest she has been in her life.

The man was restraining the dog and the woman was in athletic pursuit. They raced between the boats and the mooring lines and the tools of the fishing trade.

The dock swayed in the movement of the waves.  

I could not believe the swiftness of the child. The woman finally took what seemed to me a runner’s stance and eventually grabbed the exuberant child. I heard, over the water, admonishments of what could happen if she had “gone under a boat.”

All – of course – true.

But the dog understood.

DE

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If The Flag Can’t Fly, Do We Still Salute?

HMS Styx, Her Majesty’s Sloop-of-War,

Steam engine and paddle driven,

Six guns on deck,

Paused on its way into harbour,

To deliver a package

From the good Queen herself.

It is a snapping-new


Union Jack,

To be hoisted from

The top of the Lighthouse.

The idea was that,

It would be seen for miles.

So, I opened the package

Opened the package

Opened the package

And, when finally,

The package was open.

Her Majesty’s flag could be

Wrapped around the Lighthouse

Twice.

It can’t be hung

By man nor beast.

I won’t even try

To guess

The way our masters think.

But – at least –


I will not have to teach

A patriotic salute

To Paw, my Cat/kitten,

Black as a Jolly Roger

With one white mitten.

Which will be a relief

To us both.

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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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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The Shipping News – Sunset On The Red Sea

There is an odd
Configuration of ships
This evening

At the mouth of the harbour.
I grabbed my telescope,
And headed out to see.
Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as the distance,
With one white mitten
Demanded to come along.
So – why not?
He knows what the telescope means,

And headed for the furthest outpoint,
Of Partridge Island.

Then, when we reached it,
He scrambled up my clothes,
And perched on my shoulder.
I assume we see the same thing.
For he started to spit

And not purr.
Three ships,
Side-by-side-by-side,
Exchanging goods of
(Perhaps)
A dubious nature.

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 Calls You Into The Dark On Partridge Island?

It’s one of those nights,

Black as Paw, my cat/kitten,

With one white mitten.

Paw knows it, too.

A calm night

Or – more –

Becalmed.

Something has stopped

While on its way

Past Partridge Island,

Coming in from the sea

Or going out to the sea.

As it passes,

It hovers,

It ponders,

It sucks in the air

And holds its breath.

Neither the one of us

Want to go out

To see what it is.

Paw sits with

His back to the door.

And I

Will put off

Trimming the wick

Until Paw

Turns around.

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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It’s Saint Patrick’s Day On Partridge Island And Sister Darling Brings Stew

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as the Ides of March


With one white mitten,

Has a green ribbon


Tied around his neck,

As we stand on the dock


And welcome the arrival of Sister Darling,

Of The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed)

On this Saint Patrick’s Day,


She steps off the fishing boat,

And unceremoniously hands me


A hefty cauldron,

As she scoops up Paw


And holds him close, the way


(I trust)

She will eventually hold me.


“Irish stew,” says she.

But I didn’t even have to guess,


For I can recite, by smell,

The ingredients.


Lamb on the bone

Carrots/celery

onions/leeks/garlic

Bay leaf/sea salt/black pepper

Lots of potatoes

And two (I hope) pints of ale.

“You are right,” she says


As Paw snuggles into her hair,

“And you will get

A Reward.”

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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Trapped On Partridge Island And Freed By A Cat

I allowed Paw, my cat/kitten

Black as all thunder

With one white mitten,

To walk, without cage or leash,

On this so-close to Spring day.

He’s gotta learn.

So, I was surprised when

He came dashing back,

Hooked a claw to my pant leg,

And pulled me forward.

I followed.

Down near the shore,

Close to the water.

Was a deer.

It had a hoof trapped

Between rocks.

Deer don’t swim over often,

And when they do,

They don’t stay.

But this doe,

In her way, young as Paw,

Was not going to leave.

Paw went up to her.

She didn’t struggle.

And, I swear to God

– Yes, Jehovah Himself –

That Paw started digging

Around the hoof.

Now, I would have had

Heavy second thoughts

Of helping,

If it had been a back leg.

One kick, and it would have been

Arse over teakettle for me.

But the deer tolerated Paw,

And Paw tolerated me,

And I got her free in a minute.

And away she ran.

And away she swam.

And I swear again to God

– Yes, Jehovah Himself –

Paw smiled.

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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