This Poet's Corner


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This Poet's Corner

Taxing Matters!

“Are the taxes done?”

These were the last words

Of my grandfather.

He and my grandmother died

Just ten days apart o’er fifty years ago. Now,

Five decades later, I muse as I render unto Caesar.

Grammy suffered horribly.

He kept up the family tradition

And died of a stroke.

The Colored Ladies were suddenly busy

Stuffing smoked ham with kale,

A Maryland tradition.

We were filling up holes back of St. Mathew’s

Fast as they could dig them 

Close by the unmarked graves,

Lost babies to Grammy’s salad years.

I muse to just how many more tax returns I’ll file-

Tedious American rituals, these

Taxing matters!

Like Sebastian

It is a pain

Second only to one far worse.

I hold on, 

And so, I 

Serve people for whom I am  

Of secondary purpose.

I keep going

On and on and on

While others drop away.

I am afraid I will be the

Last one standing.

I would have you lay me gently down, please.

I am not blind

to your sufferance,.

Humbly and gratefully,

I plea

As I skate boldly

On thin ice.

I am always

The risk taker

Trusting  that You,

The Director,

Will keep the measure

Of me.

Holy Mary,

Mother of God,

Intercede for me,

A sinner.

Blessed Maria.

Look down upon me.

I would that I could

Find a monastery

Where, like Flyte,

I could

Retire from

This field of battle.

Lay me gently down, Lord.

                             E. D. Ridgell

Two Down And One To Go

My Dad and I were grieving.
He’d just lay there on his side 
Looking into a well of memories.
He’d lost a patchwork wife,
I the anger dumping mother-
We were both relieved.

Uncle Frank had introduced us
On her high school athletic field.
Confused but sincere
I began to court her
To Edith Piaf and frogs legs.
Dad as always tried to buy my love.

He went back to sea.
I flew to Frisco-
Sent her back a carved bauble.
She’d given me her virginity.
I’d given her a pregnancy. 
She was circling me.

She moved in
Where a mother had died out.
Her’s was a yellow diamond,
Mine a gold band I soon lost.
I gave up the rich lawyer
To do the right thing.

Oh it was all right at first.
Our baby girl was beautiful.
I taught by day and 
Guzzled Chianti at night.
Trying to make Amway Direct
We stress-stumbled into divorce.

The daughter would give us
Three grandchildren.
The ex would marry three times.
So would I and two would die
To pancreatic cancer-
She and my soul mate.

Two down and one to go?
                              E. D. Ridgell, 2018


The Changing of the Gargoyles


What better shape-shifter a fallen angel,

So beautiful as to make a heart stop

And eyes question?


A kingdom his own,

His angels in liveries of gold,

Plied discord, distrust, and disharmony.


The Day of the Last Judgment

Held no mysteries for them. 

They were forever loyal. 


He was perfect evil, 

The marvelous manifestation 

Of his Creator for purposes his own-


Serfs staring into 

Nooks and crannies saw 

Shadows of shifting gargoyles-


Who would believe them 

If they spoke of 

Shifting, shifty forms? 


These would shift again 

At the telling, leaving them

Superstitious fools.


The good monks,

Not bothered by these flocks of fool’s  

Were safe. They were not deceived.


The Prince of Darkness lay 

No temptations for them

But moved on. 


He shape-shifted into more

Gargoyles with gullets open-

Their bulging, stone eyes following.

                                © 2008 by E.D. Ridgell

                                      Revised 2018

The Melon

A Virginia melon,

Lying nestled decades ago,

In rich, sandy, Southern soil-

That melon

Is still etched in my mind.

An enormous cantaloupe,

Ripe for plucking,

Tempting yet too perfect to pick-

Its rich colors matched a copperhead,

Spied, sunning, ‘side Dad’s pier.

Everything about the nursery, stocked fields,

Reminiscent of those salad years 

Was abundant and vibrant with beginnings.

Times were perfect and I was young-

Safely bundled in denial.

Came life’s passages,

And harvest time-

Consumption spread and

Worldly things plowed youth’s disdain

With its insistent optimism.

Life’s harvest proved good and

As September draws near,

The melon is a memory,

One of many memories, more good than bad-

Since I plucked that melon from out Dad’s garden. 

                                                              E. D. Ridgell

                                                               Revised 2018



She arrived drunk
She was almost always drunk 
She spilled her drink.
I fixed everything.
I understood and liked her.
She was a bird with a hurt wing.

I forget just how she died.
One day she just wasn’t there anymore.
She hadn’t really visited that friend
When in Frisco. She made it up.
She just needed it to appear 
Somebody wanted her-
Needed her in anyway.

Charles and her were buddies.
That Christmas they arrived with the snow
Giggling all over one another
Dangerously close to sober.
Charles died first, oddly enough 
In Frisco.

When Al’s mother left him
All that money
Jean just stuffed it somewhere
And took it on the bus with her.
We thought that

Jean was a poor soul
Who just came to mind some
Fifty years later.
She has lain somewhere 
For half a century.

                           E. D. Ridgell 2018



Now I Understand!

Oh Vincent, now I understand!
I’d forgotten so much about London 
But not your sad sunflowers. 
Those around me ‘oo’d’ and ‘ah’d’-
I just thought Oh, I see!

You understood cutting-
The slow demise, a wilting in the sun
Aided with failing water,
Or was there water in the vase?
I think not.

The courage of your weapon
Striking in thick bold strokes.
Did they think the impasto from tubes?
One shot only led out a barrel.
What an expense is pain!

Why must some think beauty
Must be pretty?
Who sees any prettiness in the 
Swirls of those starry, blue skies?
A sadness lights your starry starry night.
                                                   E. D. Ridgell
                                                     Revised 2018

Further Still

Three score and ten
And I’m carding memory.
It’s important to 
Recollect the smallest detail.
I stroll down modified streets
Hand in hand with google.
It mesmerizes me 
And I am in awe. 

Before thirty
I swore I’d never see it
And now scores later
I’m cognizant
Of that enigma that 
Bid me travel this far
And perchance
Further still.
                 E. D. Ridgell 2017

Pancreatic Cancer Three


So I’m into “Shameless”.

Seems real enough to me.

Seems tricks these days are 

“Done with mirrors.”

He used to say that,

The soul mate,

The one who gave it up-

To what?

To the pancreas.


Life’s one big kick in the ass.

Everybody’s ass-

The most recent, the ex now

Six feet below a cancerous



So come to the Point-

Get to the point. The series’ 

Dip shit’s gone and fallen for her.


Who else-

The bitch with the pancreatic cancer!

Can you believe that?


Seems like

Life is, real or not,

Just one big kick in the ass.

Whose ass?

My ass!


E. D. Ridgell 2018


A Shot Of Brandy!


It works, you know-

A shot of brandy.

Takes the shock away!


I took the call.

Charles was dead-

Dropped dead of a stroke

In Frisco and

On my birthday!


I went white,

Started to shake when 

Larry quickly handed me 

A shot of brandy.


It works you know

A shot of brandy

Takes the shock away!

                                  E. D. Ridgell, 2018

The Jacket with the Missing Button


The body is not easily identified:
A young, black girl around aged twelve;
Cause of death, unknown, but probably exposure, 
It being bitterly cold these last few days;
No signs of trauma or violence;
Neither poorly nor expensively dressed; 
No means of identity on her;
And no explanation as to why her body 
Is found hanging by that convenient hang-loop 
On the back of her military-like jacket 
From the chain link fence hugging Route 1.

A Sunny Surplus, military-like jacket, 
Of an olive green, it is neither badly soiled nor entirely clean; 
More in-between being used and worn.
The jacket has many pockets, all of them empty.
The pockets of her jeans are empty too
As are her shirt pockets. The shirt, not too drab a green,
Compliment the fading jeans.

The treads of her tennis shoes betray no unusual wear, 
And her socks are all white except for gray bands at the tops.
This inadequate jacket for such raw temperatures 
Neither looks recently purchased or bespeaks old.
The article of clothing has no tears or stains.
It is not exactly in and not exactly out of style.

All the buttons are still securely sewn on, save one. 
“Look! It appears ripped or torn off!"
This unexpected incongruity in the face of so 
Unembellished and austere impersonality, 
Breathes new life of its own into the forlorn cloth-
The clothing of its sad, abandoned, and dead owner.
This jacket with the missing button 
Suddenly contrasts with the melancholy anonymity of the child.

The county sheriff, the coroner and her assistants, 
Even the lone reporter, flash in hand, live tape reserved 
For stories of importance-- all seem more subdued than usual 
As if a dreary and heavy mist has descended upon 
The taped off area where someone has taken her down 
From the crisscross of metal fence by the simple act 
Of lifting her up, off, and down onto the black tarp.

That olive green jacket with its missing button is now 
Disarmingly and immensely more interesting
Than the disturbingly empty riddle a young, dead, black girl
Hugging Route 1.

© 2008 by E.D. Ridgell

                                                                            Revised 2018 


It’s Raining Friends

Half century later 
And he wants to talk.
My voice is not that long-
The best man is too late!

He’s a grant to share-
Just for me
He still trolls

She wonders 
If I got mine
Is insistent

It’s raining friends!

        E. D. Ridgell 2018

On The Horizon

The second Tudor
The eighth Henry
Lived to fifty five.
The last Tudor
Shown till sixty nine.
I am seventy
In times more reaching.
Still I feel a hoary age,
And death is on the horizon
No matter how much I seek 
To avoid the lopping
Of its servant’s sickle.
                                 E. D. Ridgell

The Opening of Parliament-

The Queen is eighty eight;
The sand is downing down
On our age, and
Grief is a pastime
From dawn to dusk.

Nothing is amiss.
Everyone and everything 
Is snug, as
We settle patiently
Into like-rituals all do observe.

Though shape-shifting, the patterns
Rote-repeat ancient themes from
Cavemen's  ceilings. Softly, echoes 
Weaken as they bounce
One last time off the canyon walls.
                                     E. D. Ridgell

I Won’t Be Long

Some fifty years ago
In our appetizer years
You schooled me on
A mocking bird outside 
Our apartment window.

Now long gone you lie upon 
The Palace Green and 
I listen again to a mocking bird
Just outside singing
In the springtime night.

It’s a bittersweet song
At once beautiful and forlorn
At missing you. I do miss you 
So much at times it frightens me 
Though why I do not know.  

Come dawn and the tiny bird 
Grows less talkative. More like 
Bukovsky’s bluebird. it’s had its
Time to serenade the night.
Wait for me. I shan’t be long.
                         E.D. Ridgell 2019

Made For Walking

They’re marching again
The many boots
Stepping into many

Many, many, many
Move o’er land and water 
Fleeing a place
No longer a home

Up to, under, around 
And over
The indigenous 
Who will  have none of them

These boots shod of fear
Threadbare and worn
They’re made for walking
They’ll walk right over you
                               E. D. Ridgell

Tuckered Out!


Barack hit it out of the park!

You could read it on his face.

I’m glad I lived to see universal healthcare-

To see the first African American President.


We landed a space probe on a meteor,

And I thought back on Kennedy-

The race for the moon,



Bill’s gotten better with age,

Like an aged wine. Hillary’s winding down.

The Dem’s got plenty, though,

Whereas they. They got nothing!


Immigration reform?

I’m tired. The family is moving on.

Rudy is happy. I have to hold on,

But truth is I’m tired. I’m plum tuckered out!

                                                 E. D. Ridgell


Do not let the dark shape-shifter within
And, shouting, shape-shifters from without,  
Chain you in, box you up;
Silence you with insecurities,
Speed glued too quickly into the psyche.
To that degree that you are passionate and 
Naked in the mind’s eye to be self gutted and
Re-righted, finally to stand revealed ‘fore 
Yourself, friend and foe-

Know that it is to that degree that this effigy 
Be empathic; that alone, is the degree to which 
You might pride yourself,
Though in probability it be
Some sort of self deluding-
You feign to know let alone define
The Creator.

I think?

                            © 2011 by E.D. Ridgell
                                Revised 2013



Is This Depression?


In the end all you really have is yourself.

Everyone and everything else is tenable-

The longer the walk, the lonelier the wood.


I write groping to connect to something beyond my comprehension.

Perhaps it’s an addiction. The pathway is paved with distractions.

Where does it lead? No one living really knows.


I am a burdened man on the levels of time.

If only I weren’t so right in my foresight,

I might catch a patch of light.


Peculiar people find me peculiar.

As for myself, I’ve done the best I can.

My faults are always just there beyond my control.


I feel like a shoe with a worn soul.

I know longer want to wander much,

And a nap is a sojourn of sorts.


Is this depression? I think not.

People label uncomfortable feelings;

Bastions against overt surrender.


Every thing living feeds off of something else living.

Like the Ancients it is not unreasoning to think our gods want feeding.

We feign a power over the violence of this universe; our strong levies.


One thing I’m sure of;

Both good and evil have their tentacles

In the evolution of man.

                              © 2011 by E.D. Ridgell




Further Still...


Three score and ten

And I’m carding memory.

It’s important to 

Recollect the smallest detail.

I stroll down modified streets

Hand in hand with google.

It mesmerizes me-

I am in awe. 


Before thirty

I swore I’d never see it.

Now, scores later

I’m cognizant

Of that enigma that 

Bid me travel this far

And perchance

“Further still...”

                      E. D. Ridgell 2017

Quote by David Livingstone

I Remember Ronnie


I remember Ronald Reagan,

And the indignant chatter 

At the vast numbers, too many of them veterans,

Who skewed his statistics!


I remember the great communicator who busted

His first union so soon it made Thatcher giddy at the power,

That could lay low so many good families, and

When Daddy blew his brains out in the shadow of the conning tower!


I remember Ronnie’s template that made

Walker the Scottie governor he is today-

Jelly beans, astrologers, and Coats of Arms on the White House china,

As though Mrs. Lincoln was haunting the shopping and taking notes!



I remember Ronnie telling Gorbachev

That he just couldn’t sign after all and to take his wall down.

Mikhail did more in four years than the ‘Just say no!”

Did in eight as our prisons grew so fill they might overthrow!


I remember Ronald Reagan as though it were yesterday,

And Mamie’s piece of puff furniture in her pink boudoir.

Afghanistan will soon be through, the tide is turning,

And Oh Barack, “Tear Down This Wall!” shading Mexican sombreros!

                                                                                                                  E D. Ridgell



A Sestina to Refrain

From Baghdad near and afar attend a refrain;
eyes billow crimson spying clouds sanguine.
The knifelike wounds are deep as regrets are awful
and no succor for fools your uniformed peace.
I would the world were not this nice
comrades and I safely and rudely absent.

Here with no bush and too little cover present,
allegiance tempers a query too eager to refrain,
lest you think youth be complacent, stupidly nice.
Do rosters repeat duties not sanguine?
What’s the going price for peace
save to sully honor with deeds so awful?

For rumor is rampant and doubts are full
with approbations of allies so absent,
and growing so the tally of final peace.
Verily do we not recall a historic refrain;
the chorus of mothers weeping eyes sanguine,
and heed the councils of nations delicately nice?

Assume this land suzerain as to suffice
with the toppled tyrant no longer awful.
Consider it done and be sanguine;
the weapons of mass destruction absent.
Echo the muezzin’s sweet refrain.
Strike your tents. Depart in peace!

Reckon your troops the legends for peace
lest they grow dissolute and too nice.
Discordant whispers caution you to refrain,
‘fore thunderous shouts make elections awful,
and driven in haste all caution absent
your hawks find their nests less sanguine.

Hear from here tempers are nary so fine.
The Kingdom’s oily de1eds pump no peace,
and fair pursuits of this Republic go not absent.
Assume no mandates distorted and not nice,
for much that is already done is awful
and soldiers march to a rude refrain;

She’s bloody awlful She sure ain’t nice!
No thanks, sweetheart. I’ll refrain from that price,
and wait on peace with some arse that’s nice!
© 2008 by E.D. Ridgell

Creative Commons License


Tweeter, Tweeter, Dumb!


I woke this morning deciding to be depressed,

focused the media to stoke that fire that burns within;

stuffed sugared feelings into the furnace that fuels

my stroke, stoked, heart,

and decided to write, no type,  

before downing my daily meds, all seven, pretty pills,

all in a line like some cocaine kick

to the clogging drains flowing out an old pump.


I thought to forward the fading strangers and failed closures

within in my contacts this protest against the growing tide,

but indolence won out the day,

and I decided instead to cop another day in my well worn bed

and muse on happier days

when I had any interest in the thirsty garden.


I peeked out at the feeders. The finches are almost all gone,

flown to safety in numbers that dwindle each year,

like hippies dying, one by one, irritants to Reagan written history.

Someone intimated lately, laboring over a crossword puzzle,

that even Samuel Clemens might still be present somewhere,

hiding on some dusty shelf in a foreclosed bookstore-

asked me if I thought he might today be considered liberal.


CNBC suggested we may need to test the bottom again.

I’ve tested so many bottoms it’s become passé.

Bottoms are society’s taboos,

and an outcast’s opium den,

one floor above any chamber in Dante’s hell.

It seems to me more and more are drifting down lately

to that dangerous bottom where “freedom’s nothing left to loose”.

Like Jefferson there is that ambivalence in me

that on a dark mornin’ like this

sorta’ makes me hope so. That liberal in me,

well, it just won’t die.

© 2009 by E.D. Ridgell

Creative Commons License



                      I Am ‘Bout Done With You!


I was born and tagged

With tiny initialed beads

Strung in white and blue-

Suckled to mother’s milk

And the grand plans she

Must have had for me.


Early on, I protested

Your selection of me,

Dodged your bullets and your war!


I swam bare-assed

In your reflecting pool-

Tossed my freedom flag with flare!


For resistance to you

Was the embodiment of me.

I’d make my own arrangements.


I coveted no path of your plans.

I hollered “Hell No”! I did not surrender-

Don your dog tags!


You would have

bayoneted the queer out of me,

If you’d had your way with me.


Now lay me gently down

Upon a green I deign as patriotic.

I am ‘bout done with you’!

                                   E. D. Ridgell


Humm'n With!

I'd had a bump or two
And she was sod all-
I knew deep root'd
As I do, she was go'n
To loose it!

It burst forth
Like the breaking of 
The Johnstown Dam, 
And I just 
Rock'd her in my arms.

"Pops, my own 
Mother forgot my birthday!"
Every wave
Billow'd o'er me-
Like to broke my heart!

Lord, lay me gently 
Down now-
I'm break'n with the
Weight of this here

All these Scientists piss me off-
They'd rob me of You
Just when of so late,
I'm hmm'n with the
Amazing Grace of You!
            c. E.D. Ridgell, 2016

Sweet Jesus, No!

Oh Lordy, Lordy, Lordy,
It took me awhile to see'
What so disturbed me 
At the sight- the very idea of this!

How can we punish the 
Offense by repeating that offense?
What reasoning is this?
How does this fit into Your Creed?

I am an old man. Surely I 
Can stomach this. I've seen far worse
Than a Blown Vein, for Christ's sack!
That's just it though, isn't it?

The table Sweet Jesus, no!
Is it not in the shape of a cross?
                       c. E.D. Ridgell, 2014


NOTE: Q is pronounced chin.
Huang is pronounced wang.

The Qin Soldier of Qin Shi Huang

I have severed many heads
in the service of our king.
Send word to my village
of an ever soaring rank.

We move against the Chu.
Soon all under heaven-
kowtow now to Qin Shi Huang,
who awaits to offer His tally
to the revered River God.
Let all the Gods welcome
Qin Shi Huangdi,
first emperor and living God.
2008 by E. D. Ridgell

Creative Commons License


The Homophobe

Bachman's hubby calls me a barbarian,
Eliciting the first belly guffaw out of me in ages.
In Kenya they want to kill me outright 
Or lock me up- have my neighbor report on me.
Thanks to Secret Societies and their prayer meetings,
Conducted just blocks from The Hill, the poison
Transverses oceans and continents to search me down.

The followers of Allah, "Alhamdulillah", say I am 
An abomination and string me 
Up to swing by my powdered, roped neck. Even the innocent
I supposedly touched must swing in a hot sunrise.

The pink star sewn on my breast pocket has rotted 
Along with my emaciated body that once wore it,
‘fore being buried dead or alive next to the Jew
Who both abhorred and detested me-just some 
Piss and shit faggot bulldozed into a latrine trench, 
I had dug minutes before, 
Whilst being beaten about my shaved, 
And bleeding, sorely, scarred head.

All of this is to nothing though as to the anger
And resentment I feel for you, the homophobe,
Whose silence screams at me through the history
Of two-bit bigotry and ignorance for which I,
With the help of that God who made me, 
Somehow must command the love 
To forgive you your cruelty.
                                                          E.D. Ridgell


Turtle Dove

The geese were overhead
Migrating south and making those
Sounds I loved so much.
I’d thought how lucky we were-
You and I, together,
Doing what we loved most,
Following symbiotic fancies.

Geese, swans, ducks,
All forms of fowl
Came with you.
You shared your darkest secret,
Lamenting how you could have done such a thing.
For one brief moment
You had hosted the Polish man’s touch of sadism.
I knew he burned the whiskers off the kitten.
I watched him from then on-
An old Pollock, not evil but not nice.

Sadly, you related how you took your peeps
To the zoo for them to care for,
Only to learn later they fed them to the snakes.
Then there was that silly parakeet,
You almost tossed out with the Christmas tree.
It ended up dying in Sandy's lap.

Ducks and geese and
All forms of fowl came with you-
You were the kindest man I ever knew.
If ever there was a turtle dove,
It was you my love. It was you.

E.D. Ridgell, 2016


Two Down And One To Go?

My Dad and I were grieving.
He’d just lay there on his side 
Looking into a well of memories.
He’d lost a patchwork wife,
I the anger dumping mother-
We were both relieved.

Uncle Frank had introduced us
On her high school athletic field.
Confused but sincere
I began to court her
To Edith Piaf and frogs legs.
Dad as always tried to buy my love.

He went back to sea.
I flew to Frisco-
Sent her back a carved bauble.
She’d given me her virginity.
I’d given her a pregnancy. 
She was circling me.

She moved in
Where a mother had died out.
Her’s was a yellow diamond,
Mine a gold band I soon lost.
I gave up the rich lawyer
To do the right thing.

Oh it was all right at first.
Our baby girl was beautiful.
I taught by day and 
Guzzled Chianti at night.
Trying to make Amway Direct
We stress-stumbled into divorce.

The daughter would give us
Three grandchildren.
The ex would marry three times.
So would I and two would die
To pancreatic cancer-
She and my soul mate.

Two down and one to go?
                              E. D. Ridgell, 2018

Dactylic Hexameter

Whoever Homer was
He was nothing if not heroic.
One foot here a syllable there
Laced with spondee.

Besides war and 
Penis facsimiles,
Rome managed little poetry
And a lot of history.

The poetry you could trust.
The history you could not.
Augustus banished the poet
Ovid to far off Romania.

The Emperor was long gone 
When they sacked Rome.
History is often written
In the guise of poetry.

The truth is on the wing-
If you will know a thing
Look to poetry-
Not  history!
              E. D. Ridgell 2018


The Terrible

All the Tsar's are Ivan's.
Heavy is the crown,
Dripping diadems
Of gems and jewels-
Diamonds, red rubies,
The bluest of sapphires!

Our Streltsy from out
Our Oprichniki,
Mingle with our Boyars-
The farther away the poorer
But by far the safer
From one swipe of Our Bear paw!

                         c. E. D. Ridgell, 2015


Do not forget The Trail of Tears.
That trail runs through our veins.

The Great Spirit knows the trail we walk
And He will guide our footsteps gently,
Outside once proud tribal lands.

Great Spirit lead us o'er strange lands,
Alien to us, plains we take no pride in.
Whiskey wetlands we must die in,
Wandering shadows under the 
Grey, grey clouds of The Great Spirit.
                                    E.D. Ridgell, 2013

All The Flags Were On The Field,

The CEOs, moguls, generals;
Divers and sundry world leaders,
Whoever- must entertain you constantly,
In your New World Colosseums!
Named after cell phone companies and 
Big banks, too big to fail!

All the flags we're on the field 
For you to see, but you would not 
Hear the dying words of liberty.
The most difficult and complicated
Character of the Bard's 'Hamlet' was 
The voice of the ghost..."Remember me"
                                    E.D. Ridgell, 2013

Consider it a Consideration-
I went and got 'em some
Tight, sturdy rope, here.
Does anyone know how to tie
A right good noose knot, you know,
The kind that snaps the neck
When they step off 'an swing?
Yep, looks to me like those
Folks are fix'in ta hang themselves.
Ain't none of my do'in.
I just gave 'em more yeller rope...
Least a body could do,
Consider it a consideration.
Glad to do it! Glad to do it!
E.D. Ridgell...2012



On The Shoulders Of Giants


Carl Sagan is

Planted somewhere 

Near Ithaca New York

Under a comforter of newsprint

Anchored with tiny stones

Although he was not Jewish.


Stephen Hawking 

Resides in Westminster Abbey

Near Sir Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin

Having come there from

Great St. Mary’s Church Cambridge

Although he was a devout atheist.


“By denying evidence

For climate change and 

Pulling out of the Paris Climate Agreement,

Donald Trump will cause avoidable 

Environmental damage 

To our beautiful planet…”


The time for compromise is past-

There is no room for debate

For us and our children,

Less we become another Venus

Under a hot comforter of

Raining sulphuric acid.


If there were a God,

“We would know the mind of God”-

Everything that God would know

“If there were a God,

Which there isn’t.”

“We’re made of star stuff.”


“Like butterflies who flutter

For a day and think it is forever”,

We fly in the face of Science-

“Extinction is the rule.

Survival is the exception.”

The time for compromise is past-

                                         E. D. Ridgell 2018