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It’s A Hell Of A Halloween On Partridge Island

Sister Darling,

Of The Rarified Church of the World (reformed),

Leapt from a fishing boat,

Onto the dock of the

Partridge Island Lighthouse,

Wearing a large, silver cross

Around her neck.

“Isn’t that Papish?” I asked.

“We’re going to need all the help

“We can get,” she answered,

Looking around.

“Where’s Paw?”

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as Satan

With one white mitten,

Made his appearance

From the bushes beside the path.

“Hop on,” she patted her shoulder,

“If we ever needed a black cat,

“Tonight is the night.“

Paw sprang to her shoulder.

“To the point,” she said,

“To the tip of the Island.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“You know what’s the matter.”

She took the time to jab me in the chest.

“You’ve been feeling it,

“Heading toward us.“

It’s true – I have.

All Hallows’ Eve, 

With a ship of

Disparate and  dangerous souls,

On the tide coming toward us.

As we hastened toward the outer

Tip of the Island, in half the time

It would usually take,

We acquired a flock of chattering

Crows, making a number more 

Than any murder would demand. 

We reached the water

In the setting, slanting sun.

The crows flocked 

Over our heads, scaring

The seagulls away.

A full-rigged sailing ship,

Wrapped in streaming fog, 

Made its approach.

“We must enter the water.”

Paw did not take kindly to that,

But he stayed perched where he was.

Sister Darling walked out until

The ocean was at her knees.


“Stand thee behind me, poet,

We will share the cat.”

Paw had his front feet on her shoulder,

And his back feet on mine.

He ignored the circling crows.

Then Sister Darling said such prayers, 

That human beings are not supposed to hear.

She repeated them, yelling into the wind.

Even the crows fell silent.

Paw chattered and sputtered and mewed.

My own prayers fell like curses.

Sister Darling held her cross

In front of her like a shield.

The Ghost ship, which had risen

From Davy Jones’s locker,

On this night when the Dead roam,

Became shrouded in smoke and flame,

Its sails engulfed in fire.

Paw dug his claws into my shoulder

And howled.

The ship returned to the depths of the sea.

Sister Darling seemed near to fainting.

I held her close.

Paw, the cat/kitten, draped himself

Around her neck.

The crows went on their way.

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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It Is Friday The 13th And The Red Ship Passes: Part The First / Part The Second

PART THE FIRST

It isn’t that we had no warning.

Hell, even Paw, the cat/kitten.

Black as Death with one white mitten,

Knew it was coming.

Knew (perhaps) before the rest of us.

And fishing boats, the last couple of days,

Have left notes in the Message Box,

Down on the Lighthouse dock.

One of the notes had been relayed

From the brigantine, HMS Buzzard,

Informing of this passage into the harbour,

And the night this would be done.

So,

As Lighthouse Keeper, I await

On the Lighthouse dock,
In my navel uniform,

Which I am sometimes

Expected to wear,

Since

I represent the might

Of Majesty,

As sole subject, yet overlord,

Of the Lighthouse on Partridge Island.

Waiting for the Red Ship to pass.

I feel the still on the sea.

I understand why they have awaited

This shroud of fog.

I have,

With my vantage point atop the Lighthouse,

Seen the approaching ship,

With each of its lanterns

Glowing through red glass.

I can imagine the unfurled red sails.

So, I stand,
And I wait,

With my own red lantern,

And wish I were hunkered down

With Paw, the cat/kitten,

Who chose his hiding place

An hour ago.


PART THE SECOND

I had wished for Sister Darling,

Of The Rarified Church Of The World (Reformed),

To be with myself and Paw,

On this night.

And this passage.

She could offer both physical

And Spiritual comfort,

To Paw and me.

Paw likes to nestle beneath

Her wealth of long hair,

And I would like to touch it.

But she,

With both the Bishop of the Roman church,

And the Bishop of the Anglican church,

In their simple cassocks,

Unrobed of their vestments,

And also, with the Mi’kmaq Shaman,

Await on the dock, 

On shore,

In the deserted port,


To move this cursed cargo
Of human decay and death.

They will sing and chant their

Religious words of hope.

While I, when the time is right,

Will curl up in my greatcoat

Beside Paw,

And wait out the night

While these folk of Faith
Do the dirty business of God.

{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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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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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 Brings Religious Fervor On Walpurgis Night

One chore I have

As Lighthouse Keeper

On Partridge Island,

Is to count the ships

As they come

And as they go.

They signal me with their bells,

And some, with their new-fangled horns.

It was one of those blasts

That took me down to the dock.

And, indeed,

A ship was leaving for sea.

But first,

(Much to my surprise)

It let off

Sister Darling of

The Rarefied Church Of The World (reformed)

” It’s Saint Walpurga’s Eve”, said she.

“What?” asked I.

“Don’t be an oaf.”

She hit me on the shoulder.

“Grab the cat.”

She heads along the shore.

I scoop up

Paw, my cat/kitten,

Black as the Furies

With one white mitten.

And away we follow.

Sister Darling scoots along the

Narrow path beside the water.

And comes to a stop,

Looking far out to sea.

“Start praying!”

Which I do, for after a

Bout of fervent prayer,

Sister Darling wants fervent relief.

She speaks and sputters about

Ghosts, and opening veils, and

Blessed Saint Walpurga, opening

Doors to God.

Blessed Be! say I

Paw and me, we exchange

A certain glance

Knowing we both

Will feast tonight.

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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The Ghost Ship Under Full Sail And Flaming On Halloween

As the Lighthouse Keeper

On Partridge Island

I see a lot,

Whether I want to or not.

And I’ve seen her before,

The Flaming Ghost ship,

On the dread of All Hallows.

But you never really know.

But this time,

Paw, my cat/kitten

Black as Satan

With one white mitten,

Saw her too.

And didn’t like what he saw.

But he’s a brave soul,

And didn’t leave my side.

So we stayed in the Tower,

And watched from the windows,

The light circling behind us.

The flames coming from the dark,

Full sails, all unfurled,

And all ravaged by flames

That never burned out.

And the deck,

And the gunwales

From prow to stern,

And the sailors.

Those poor lads,

Never consumed

As the full-of-flame ship

Passed the mouth of the harbour.

And what could I do,

But touch the life that was Paw,

Feel his fur, and his breath,

With one hand,

While I made a shaky

Sign of the Cross,

On my chest.

With the other.

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

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A Right Royal Time On Partridge Island

Shiver me timbers

And call me Aunt Hattie,

Prince George of Wales

Is coming to the Island.

He requests (that is – orders)

A look-around

On his way into port.

I know not why.

Maybe to adjust his sea legs.

Before he meets his Loyal subjects.

At any rate, I must

Tidy and fuss and putter,

And wear my fancy uniform,

And present

(This is my own idea)

The one other loyal subject

Of this whole domain,

Paw, my cat/kitten

Black as Davy Jones locker

With one white mitten.

I’d best spruce up his cage

Yes – I must.

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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I Saw Ships Come Sailing In Before Christmas Day

(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

It’s the full moon before
Christmas Day
With a heavenly glow,
On the water.
I’ve often wondered if
The Star the Three Kings
Followed,
Was really the Moon,
‘Cause I bet those old
Translations
Were really buggered.
Any way, I have unfurled
Swaths of red and green
Sail canvas,
Down the side of
The Lighthouse,
To be festive for
Approaching ships.
And if
– if –
Anyone comes to visit,
I have a red riband
Necktie
For Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as the space between stars,
With one white mitten,
To wear by way of
Jesus celebration.
I’ve tested him with it,
He doesn’t mind,
Though, by now,
He knows there will be
Extra fish in his dish,
Whenever I
Tie one on.

(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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To Be A Cat And Bat At That

A Brigantine
Hove to,
As it came past
The Lighthouse,
On its way
Into harbour.
A rowboat came to
My small dock,
And,
Deposited a cask
Of Caribbean rum,
Compliments of my cousin,
The ship’s Boatswain.

And it appears

The fame,
Of my cat/kitten,
Black as the rum
With one white mitten,
Is spreading across the seas.
Though perhaps, not
All seven of them.
For there was also,
A ball of twine,
With some loose ends,
That has become
An instant,
And favourite,
Plaything.


(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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