This Poet's Corner


Welcome-20 Pages in All !Family-FriendsFamily-Friends-AFamily-Friends-BMD/VA-AMD/VA-Bpg. 7pg. 8pg. 9pg. 10pg. 11pg. 12pg. 13pg. 14pg. 15Prose, Short Sales, Reviews, etc.More Prose, Short Stories, etc.More Prose...ProseSnippets Of Prose...Photographs and Digital Pictures

This Poet's Corner

       Somewhere Up North


I cry sanctuary and flee

Into the peace of my garden,

Pausing to putter and sort these 

Shock induced thoughts.


Somewhere up north a liberal is dying.

We’ve not been popular these last, greedy, slanted years.

One senses this is changing, and just when…


Oh my God, look at the clematis.

It’s flush and covering the ground.

I’ll pick it up and string it around the Birdhouse poll.


He is the youngest of the three and living the longest

Somehow sets things right ‘specially

Since John John went flying into the sea.


These Hosta couldn’t have been a better choice.

Just look at the perfect height and contrast.

I have to see which one this is. I can’t recall.


I’ve been grieving that family all my life.

I can mark my own by the ups and downs of it.

I wonder how long? Oh, anyway it’s about quality now, not time.


This weed with the pretty, purple flower spreads like kudzu.

Maybe I’ll let it run wild in chosen areas to act as a spread.

This wants to be an English garden- so say you, Capability Brown.


‘He is an Englishman!

For he himself has said it,

And it's greatly to his credit,

That he is an Englishman!’


The next time we’re down to Williamsburg,

I’ll look for a matching birdbath

For the other side this bed to catch out the winged things. 


He’s still a wet-whistle and Irish to boot. He’ll go sailing for sure.

His sailboat is as this garden to me- 

Nature centers a confused man- less there’s a bottle hidden in the hold.


I’m surprised that I’m tired already. Sixty was a mistake.

The informality of cottage beds is the ease in which I can cover my tracks

Or lack of them. I’ll lie and say I planned it. It’s politics.

Hypocrites want perfection in everything especially people.

They cannot forgive or forget the libertine nature of the liberal man-

Blinded by the occasional weed, they do not discern the beauty of the garden.


I wonder what mementos he has tucked away,

Those personal private things that today you share with no one?

Will he leave pressed flowers to be found? Do you burn the diary or not?


I’ll mix these promised, fat tomatoes, in here, and here, and perhaps there.

Those last year, were too small, and ripened too late.

I can’t believe store prices, today. Too dear with the garden so near.


I’m tired. I’ll go in now, break my diet yet again, and nap-

Then later try and remember what the news had the muse whisper in my ear.

“Somewhere up north a liberal is dying”.

Somewhere up North an angel awaits his wings.

The Lion of the Senate

The Hope Still Lives 



I love Baltimore.  


I lived and worked there thirty years. 


I worked the hard schools, 


Taught sundry shades of an inner city. 


I could barely card those nappy flocks. 




It’s always been that way, 


And it may always be 


But you don’t give up. 


Fact is, you 


“Never, never, never, give up!” 





Poverty, ignorance, scapegoating- 


Feeling left out and abused. 


It only takes a spark- 


The errant word,  


A woeful arrest. 




Only by peaceful protest, 


Can the many mend discord 


And stand down the 


Few who would brutalize- 


The peacemakers. 




“The hope still lives… 


Love abides… 


And the dream will never die.” 


I will die but not the dream. 


It will live on far after I am gone.  


                                E. D. Ridgell



Mums the Word!


We’ll work for a dollar a year,

And we’ll lay off a few thousand workers-

At last their real agenda!


Shh! Steve Jobs works for a buck a year,

And millions more in stock options!

It’s called insider trading, but mums the word.


We’ll make fuel efficient cars,

When we’re rid of the menials.

That will drive the cover up!


We’ll sell the company jet.

No prob! It’s no sweat!

We can fly the private jet for fun.


Now ya see him. Now ya don't;

He’s caught in the shell game.  

“My poor fool is hanged!


The Real Housewives of Detroit

are not dressed in

golden parachutes!


Remember now, mums the word;

Hmmm. Henry IV, Part 2-

“…all are punished”, Romeo and Juliet!

                                  © 2008 by E.D. Ridgell


                          Incoming Dart


Who hung me a target board

The scapegoat dodging poisoned darts? 

Mommy seducing me only to divorce me..

In the end a hospital ward of witnesses.

Her replacement, a wife armed with a secret 

Carrying her quill of misplaced arrows

She reserved for the lucky men in her life- 

First me, then a facsimile of Lincoln followed by an uncivil old lawyer

Who beat her up with jewelry she did not prize, and finally 

Big Daddy with the big bucks that everybody did love.

And here comes another wheeling her iPhone

At some officer on the other end who bites

At the chance to be her stalwart yet absent knight-

Just another dart thrown sideways at me,

Ammunition clouding her anger at a husband

Who would die rather than abide her any longer.

I am left with the tatters, a bossy bitch with

Cold angry eyes and a hot burning anger at anyone

Who would dare bump her not once but twice in the ass.

Oh well, bother but definitely she’s taking aim at me. 

There’s an old Polish saying; “What’s for ya won’t miss ya!” 

This incoming dart’s for me!

E D Ridgell


The Alchy Blues  


Snow Mountain blues, 

Bipolar blues- 

Can’t shake them 

No matter what I consume. 


Got them DT blues, 

Delirium blues- 

Can’t sake them away  

No matter my tremors. 


The Van Sant blues, 

Towns blues- 

Can’t shake them away 

No matter what I play. 


The GABA GABA blues, 

Alchy  blues- 

Can’t shake them away 

No matter how hard I try. 

                          E. D. Ridgell


Cat Nap 


In truth, 

I haven’t the luxury 

For breaking news anymore. 


Bordering the end 

I muse and remember it all- 

So vivid and clear is yesteryear. 


How did I not break 

Against the shore? 

How come I end this well? 


I treasure much 

But much treasure is buried. 

That’s the fare.  


The world is as tilted 

As ever it was, 

But I am only half here. 


It’s not a bad place to be. 

If truth be known, I treasure each day  

And nap with the cat. 

                                                   E D Ridgell 


Sorry, My Dear

Nights in the gardens of Spain;
I was falling in love with you.
In Madrid you drove me wild with 
Fluent Spanish in the throws of the sheets.
I threw that glass of wine at you in Paris and
Broke the mirror to the armoire.
We both laughed.
We had that habit of throwing things.
We were passionate.
In London we saw Hermione Gingold
In “A Little Night Music”.

Back in the States you
Drifted away. ‘What a surprise. What a cliché’.
I saw you months later from a bus window,
But unlike Zhivago I made no effort to move.
We came so close. ‘Don’t you love farce?’
Whenever I hear “Send in the Clowns”
I think of you with sadness but never with regret.
‘Sorry, my dear, but where are the clowns?
There ought to be clowns…
Quick, send in the clowns.
Don’t bother. They’re here.”
                                          © 2008 by E.D. Ridgell

A People's Prince

Check It Out!


The loss isn't easier with age.

Grief never ages. 

The young don't want to hear it. 

The old congregate around it,

Fearful, watchful or worrisome.


Killer pain's the terror. 

They've kept vigils-

Don't want that. A quick death tempts,

With the price of a 

Wal-Mart handgun. 



Pills are a mercy and a partner,

If you're lucky enough to have one. 

Is your pillar worth 

All the gold in the world?


When one goes the other often follows.

It's proven, chiseled deep 

Into their coupled


Check it out!

                             c. E.D. Ridgell, 2014

                                    Revised 2018



Like The Corners Of My Mind


 I’ve been grieving for days.

I don’t know why. Waves of memories

Meandering back, break o’er me.

Maybe it’s the antibiotics.


I’m exhausted!

Grief does that, and it never

Recedes, altogether. It doesn’t do that.

It leaves the shore of the mind wet.


I feel wise and as old as the Grand Canyon

Nobody likes or heeds

My many marbled measures,

Bleaching the canyon walls!


Caesar speaks

To bored snores

Rising from

Bart-cloth pillows.

                      E. D. Ridgell


Tiny Tim


Shadows shape-shift 

Not just some Syndrome

Resentments plenty


No ivy clings a bastion’s

White walls

“All are punished”


Beyond the walls

Open more fronts

Inaccessible endeavors


“Dangerous Liaisons”…

“They hardly pay their shoddy way…”

Liaisons shadowboxing 


Corrosive collusion’s

Seep out a swamp

And into…


Bitterness abounds

Rifts widening



Heavy is the Head

Heavier still 

Dreamers and the undaunted



Yet to come

“Bless us one and all”

                               E. D. Ridgell 2018


Remember, Remember, The Ninth of September! 


Words, like hanging chads,

Hang loose over our catwalks;

Feeble attempts to recapture some moment.


It was September wasn't it? Remember,

Remember the ninth of September?

We stopped by his Soho digs on the way to Bar Harbor.


How he shined fresh from his shower,

With beads of water running down the back

Of his sun bleached summer head of hair.


At the door, wrapped in his best, modest, smile,

He hugged us both, and gave me a squeeze,

And wished me an early, best Birthday.


On the twelfth, I blew out,

A heart broken, snotty blow

That choked me up. Remember?


Wrapped in each others anger and grief

We sobbed and sobbed,

In the helpless awe of evil.

                                            E. D. Ridgell

                                               Revised 2020

The Hope Still Lives!



I love Baltimore. 


I lived and worked therethirty years.


I worked the hard schools,


Taught sundry shades of an inner city.


I could barely card those nappy flocks.




It’s always been that way,


And it may always be


But you don’t give up.


Fact is, you


“Never, never, never, give up!”





Poverty, ignorance, scapegoating-


Feeling left out and abused.


It only takes a spark-


The errant word, 


A woeful arrest.




Only by peaceful protest,


Can the many mend discord 


And stand down the


Few who would brutalize-


The peacemakers.




“The hope still lives…


Love abides…


And the dream will never die.”


I will die but not the dream.


It will live on far after I am gone. 


                      c. E.D. Ridgell, 2015

                          Revised 2018


A Red Maple Leaf

Who struck you skidding ill humor
with a last laugh in the rear view mirror
offering not even one rain-soaked tear?

Do their elfin black eyes peer
from the safe-harbored, nervous grass?
It pains me, this wriggled pass.
The traffic tarries and goes askew
wobbling worrisome at you.
Why do we brake to care so,
while others typify speed sports to go
invisibly wet-patching from this crosswalk
on wheels fast searching slower stalk?

Each day falls, a red maple leaf,
spinning down in the mythical belief
that the privilege of innocence must be attended,
allowed due course before in its turn it withers dead.

Indifferent witness to the pain of this common goose,
the symbol of bliss now plentiful and profuse,
hear a mother honking in pain on a wet road near Ottawa,
O Canada! O Canada! O Cana……
© 2008 by E.D. Ridgell

Creative Commons License


Walk Down With Davis Tutt


Hickok shot Tutt trough the heart

In a first recorded, slap-leather shoot-out,

From some fifty, some say seventy-five

Feet away. Bill was a dead shot!


That thar Pistol Prince

Was not ignorant of notoriety,

And he reckoned the gravity

Pull’n down on that thar spin’n

Bit of lead, leav’n Dave right dead

In Springfield’s town square-

All cause of a gold watch and, 

One rascally, Missouri woman,

Susanna Moore!


Who Let The Dogs Out?

Oh for pity sake,
When will we see some leadership?
It’s such a familiar ruse played out 
So often on the rungs of history.

Contrived infractions of a weaker state,
Met on land, sea, and air by a pompous perpetrator.
Does the Fuhrer finesse? Does Stalin simmer?
The media Tsar has made a move on the oily chessboard.

Our Beloved Leader slips and slides,
One step forward, two steps back-
Forever a pawn-
Never a knight!

Is an ally not a friend?
Where is fidelity?
Is there no mettle?
Where is might in defense of right?
                            © 2008 by E.D. Ridgell
                                    Revised 2018

Social Issues!

It seems I have undergone a me,me,metaphor,fa,fa,fa,sis.
I have become a Social Issue, a hanging chad, examined.
Out of the closet to be welcomed by some and condemned
By others to be frack'd down into Dante's imagination,
A Santorum stain on the shower-room floor!

Oh yes, I'm still a peda-fille, waiting in the van for
Middle school to let out! "Little Boy, we have candy for you!"
I track Pete. He was out in something short of seven years.
Even his pic is on the Internet-last address-last job;
A real pedophile, I helped to track down so long ago.
They caught up with him in Germany. During his trial
He still could not fathom the effect of his causes.
I don't understand this particular flavor,
But God help me, I can forgive him, see the Fascist system
That will never forgive, and at least wish him a gun shot to
The head. Better that, than no cure, topped by no solution, 
Chased from one place to another, exposed publicly 
As a perverted ex-con. We've got a perve in the neighborhood.
What do we do.We have and there's no cure, there's the rum, no cure!

I don't know. I have old perverts in the family tree,
Eighty year old watermen who married the next twelve year old
Lass in on the island. Some sired more. The wash got done. It was
Necessary. Where is Michael Jackson performing, now?

Here, then, where the grass is greener, I find little to graze on.
Mythology is fading. Intimacy is warping. Friends are
Misunderstandings waiting to happen on a ever clearer screen.
Sex is so dirty to these people. They taunt with jacket-likes
From Brokeback Mountain. They miss the message of what they
Can not feel themselves, not to mention
A damn good score! Finally,
We can welcome real sex addicts
Into the fold! No matter, but they take it so seriously.
Conceal their porn sites! It's a rum world,
and at times, I reminisce  for the closet!

Oh, Frack it! This is a poor poem,
And they delete them now anyway, 
Pretending to have read them. I can feel the irritation
At the interruption to what? What do they do?
Oh well, another sing song for the poetry site,
Another entry into my private diary, a comment
On the Social Issues of my time.

© 2012 by E.D. Ridgell
 All rights reserved

Singapore Slings!

The shapeshifters shuffle about Singapore
Peddling lies with an ease only
Merchants of mindless, muddled missives
Would dare compose in the name of the people.

No people will bear the tyrant indefinitely.
Everything living feeds off of something else living,
And everyone eventually eases down-
Receding into the bowels of history.

The mausoleum’s temperature control 
Comes with no timeless warranty.
The most corrupt of incorruptibles 
Is destined to rot. No saint is immune.

The sound bites grow silent as 
Flashbulbs give way to death’s darkness.
Their ivory towered writs are as useless
As their nuclear arsenals. This orb
Oozes objections that trump all ordnance’s.
                                         E. D. Ridgell 2018

A Red Maple Leaf [Version 11]

Who struck you skidding ill humor
With a last laugh in the rear view mirror 
Offering not even one rain-soaked tear?
Do their elfin black eyes peer 
From the safe-harbored, nervous grass?
It pains me, this wriggled pass.
The traffic tarries and goes askew
Wobbling worrisome at you.
Why do we brake to care so,
While others typify speed sports to go
Invisibly wet-patching from this crosswalk
On wheels fast searching slower stalk?

Each day falls, a red maple leaf,
Spinning down in the mythical belief
That the privilege of innocence must be attended,
Allowed due course before in its turn it withers dead. 

Indifferent witness to the pain of this common goose, 
The symbol of bliss now plentiful and profuse,
Hear a mother honking in pain on a wet road near Ottawa, 
O Canada! O Canada! O Cana……
© 2008 by E.D. Ridgell

Four No Trump!

Eighty four!
Who would have thunk it?
Certainly not you.
Edward Lee survived you.
There is nothing so hard as grief.

Edie Johns tells me you and Larry 
Had argued and weren’t speaking anymore.
It seemed to me you two were teetering
On the edge for years. I am sorry though. 
I don’t recall a single serious conversation between us.

I think this place beautiful only I find the headstone wanting.
At least someone cared. I’m the last of the foursome,
Four no trump, I wish. Trink was the best player,
Then you as I recall. I handled Trink’s estate.
She was inheriting upon her own death. It was bedlam!

I’m being scattered. So was Trink, but I don’t recall where.
Larry donated himself. Dropped dead at dinner with the vicar-
Show off! Randy handled his affairs. Randy didn’t so much
As ring me. Edie finally found a number. She’s closing in on a
Hundred. Everything and everybody is fading including me.
                                                                                 E. D. Ridgell 2019

A Baby Boomer’s Plight

What is it you want from me?
Can’t you see this is virgin territory?
I never thought to reach for centenarian
struggling not to go out a damnable burden.

Stop pushing your pills at me!
It’s disorienting enough, thank you.
Give me one more form to fill out,
and I’ll resurrect the ghost of my father
complete with his social security number!

Stop hurrying to replace my body parts-
I’ve no inclination to be a titanium robot;
hurriedly pushed to boost the earnings report
of a company’s stock, I’ve never heard of.

Cut me some slack, while I sit down.
I’m tired of shuttling from jamboree to jamboree.
I don’t mind babysitting once in awhile but
I’d hate to be remembered as just another nanny.
Grant me timeouts in overtime for cuddly huddles.

And why doesn’t anybody listen to me?
Why don’t you weigh my opinion?
I’m tired of retakes of my mistakes,
encores by you of me to witness yet again.

What is it you want from me?
Can’t you see this is virgin territory?
I never thought to reach for centenarian
struggling not to go out a damnable burden.
© 2008 by E.D. Ridgell

Creative Commons License

At Me! At Me!

Classic garden variety.
At me, at me, he’s always in the lead
Driving his pack
Of wild ones.

My country, my poor country,
What can I do
Speak up, speak out if only a muffled echo
From off the bullet-scarred, canyon walls!

The codes,
The dreaded possibility.
My fears grounded in worry-
I tire of the this toxicity walking
My puppy dog syndrome.

What pain is greater,
The physical or the assaulted heart?
My country tis of thee
And mine
And milk, and weed, and crack, and meth…

I’m tired,
Exhausted by my overgrown
And its never ending need
To fix the unfixable.
                             E. D. Ridgell 2018

The Merry Month of March!

No merry month, March-
I have sent doves of farewells
On kites of heartbreak!
                    c. E.D. Ridgell, 2017




Driving South To Savannah!


He held two Georgia peaches in his hands

Chosen carefully from his roadside stand,

Cupping them both proudly for me to see,

Hoping for a purchase bagged with a rebel’s smile.

I was cruising through the South

In search of just such fruits of hospitality.


I felt ticklish and lickerish,

And something stirred below,  

Wanting the downy round and fallen orbs;

I desired him for his ripened peaches,

The cream on the cusp though.


Driving deeper into Georgia

My mind musing on sapid treats to come,

Everything grew hotter wanting for a cool beer.

I stripped to the waist,

Pulled off for a tall one;

Stopping at the little roadside bar and inn

That looked a little low-down and inviting,

My kind of dive, one more pause in my long drive.  


Somewhere in his teens and oh so

tightly squeezed into his hole-poked, blue jeans,

He met my gaze with predatory eyes to match my own.

There was an agreement that would come in awhile,

no words needing wasting on the understood.

He chatted excitedly about a watermelon

In a cool and clean running stream out back of the bar,

Waiting for him at the tail of his day.

At closing we fished his melon out and he relaxed,

lying back, laughing and spitting his seeds out all over me,

a sweet, well packaged, Georgia boy, laughing,

young and free. No harm meant. No offense taken. Understood.


I felt ticklish and lickerish

And something stirred below.

I desired him for his melon cheeks,

Watermelon buttocks teetered somewhere on a cusp though.


Right through Atlanta I drove

Hard and bold on a long haul.

Running low on gas, halfway there,

I took an exit, stalled into a station,

And a tall drink of water;

He was drunk as hell

And had more than gas to sell.


I felt ticklish and lickerish

And something stirred below.

I desired him for his pump handle,

At the end of that long hose of his.

An un-carded fill-up, and nicely near that cusp too.


Into Savannah; a sauna

For water snakes, I came searching for

Mementos and wampum. I shopped the antique shops

Until in one I stumbled on him, young and collected,

Passed around town; now a menial

Of a prominent and stately Southern homo.

He posed, twirling terrestrial globes provocatively,

He bartered more than history for a fair fee from me.


I felt ticklish and lickerish

And something stirred below,  

I desired him for the quickie,

Brashness banishing boredom,

Toyed and rubbed with dangerous geography,

Spinning confidently, leaning and leering

On that precarious cusp

Between my desires and his toiling round.


In Greenwich cemetery, Chatham County,

There’s cold, incised marble

Decorated with little toys--

The mark the memory of Billy

Killed meanly by Jimmy,

Bill, used and tagged ‘as is’,

Just on the behind of his cusp;

Victim to a midlife crisis just when he was ripening;

A hot picked, red-necked pepper, now  

Left dead on the carpet floor--

Another Savannah cocktail party’s

Passed around wittle whore.


I felt ticklish and lickerish,

And something stirred below;

A cusp in the pit pot of my bowels

Turned by recollections of my victim past;

Childhood ill begotten memories

Of someone’s driving through and over me,

Robbing me of my sweet innocence and bending me to time and

Sending me on the long journey in search of the unanswerable.


The journey at an end, I turned around and  headed up the

Road again, no wiser, and no more satisfied. I never am.

I leave you with this now, arising from the read words of that poet.

Merrill wrote in “The Broken Home”;

'I see those two hearts, I’m afraid,

Still. Cool here in the graveyard of good and evil'.

                                                        © 2011 by E.D. Ridgell



Spring? Is it spring again,
So soon? The seasons fly.
I can not feign
Some fainthearted interest.

These breaking buds
Belie your mourning.
Make no move to
Stir the mulch
That mothers me
with a warmer warmth
than the ever absent sun.

Let the rain rein
Above it all.
Let me linger in this
middling realm ‘neath
This newly chiseled monument
Of marble so white and cold.
What need have I for rising
From another winter’s rest?

This grave is hard won.
Enjoy your springtime musings.
Think I thank you for these
planted bulbs of fall,
that for but a bit of time
will run their course,
fore rotting down and down,
digging into the ground around me?
I have no further need for offerings.
Leave your wreath if you must,
But be gone, won’t you?-
Fade away into the unmoving
Springtime’s mist.
My allotted springs are done.
© 2009 by E.D. Ridgell

Creative Commons License

Expectations [dedicated to the stroke of a pen]

If just this one promise met, with its expectations,
blossoms. If these tests you sanction, today,
bear fruit to half their hope,
your name will be honored
for all time to come.
You will be dubbed, ‘Doctor’.

Swiftly your beacon-hand
moves confidently across the recto,
too long unattended. Praise day,
that your script stems age old
crippling and disease.
Succeed or not you shine
that torch on risk again,
an aging beacon’s symbol.

Pull aside the curtains. Beware of walls.
Open wide the cell doors and
let us breathe free again.
Flip open the registrars,
shut for fear and let them in.
Fill the pot to the brim.

We expect to be tested again,
as surly as we know we’ll win,
braced for the storms to come;
a folk risen from discordant winds;
yes, even if from one mistaken,
mushroom cloud of our own devising-
we’ll rise firm and stand again
in those expectations
of freedom’s never ending promises.
Though we be tempest-tost,
tired with many pushed poorer still,
you throw open that golden door again,
and say; “Yes we can!”
© 2009 by E.D. Ridgell

Creative Commons License


Is there any wound 
That cuts so deep
As the stab in the back?

Is there anything
So empty as 

Where went 
That accord
I mistook for friendship?

The better adversary
Than ever a man could
Ever wish for.

Perhaps I 
Surrendered the intended
To easily to your wiles.

It was indeed
A very very
Splendid funeral.

"Indeed, my lord, 
It is a most absolute 
And excellent horse."
              c. E.D. Ridgell

Do Ya?

A living breathing
Abandonment case,
Whatcha gonna do
When they kill God?

Where you gonna
Handoff the anxieties 
When they
Run outta pills?

When ya gonna
Lighten the load-
Discard one and
Pick up another?

Whose gotcha 
One last time
Too many
To remember?

No God, 
No peace of mind?
Got no answer
Do ya?
                 E. D. Ridgell

Equestrian Reflections

I revolutionized the world.
War and work were both allotted to me.
Boys followed me gathering my waste,
Even today I'm fuel for fire and flowers alike.

I was 'Traveler' on one side a civil war
And 'Old Bob' on the other.
As 'Nelson' the Duke banished a tyrant from atop me,
And as 'Bucephalus', I conquered the known world.

Fortunes are won and lost 
On the fleetness of my foot.
In Austria I still dance as to a waltz,
In London I'm still a mount for royalty.

Then and now, I'm venerated and loved,
Even though like the man of today,
I gave more ground to machines
Than I ever I thought I would.

© E. D. Ridgell, 2014, All rights reserved

The Rape of Detroit
Detroit's being raped as I ...
Speak, banking on you're
Uninterested, as usual. Rick Snyder
And his hooligans want a
Private Island all their own,
And they're willing to pay hard
Cash at depressed prices,
They've conveniently arranged,
Just for their greedy largesse.
It's done with a trick they deploy
Called bankruptcy, banking on that
You're uninterested, as usual.
E.D. Ridgell, 2013

White Lighting!

So, I'm not sure 
But I think that fat
Assed white man's
Gone and call'd her
A liar! Damn'd Virgil,
Come see Mrs. 
Robert E. Lee!
I think we're about to see
The South rise again
On the wings of that 'thar
Far, Yellow, Big Bird! 
            E.D. Ridgell, 2013


You Irreverent Little Queer
[ Dedicated to Harvey Milk and Sean Penn ]

You irreverent little queer;
So near to the line,
Always testing boundaries,
Stepping on toes.

Who knows what motivates
Your mouthed views,
Bent and unsacred
Psalms echoing from atop
A Castro soapbox,
Preludes to another march
To and up the marble steps
Of the Temple in
Hilly San Frisco.

You rarely lie,
And are seldom believed;
Too near the mark,
A black sheep,
Never dipped,
Yearly sheered.
Just you wait,
You irreverent little queer!

Winking doll,
So lickerish and ticklish,
You shock and stir
Leavened with slurs,
So loud it’s got ‘a hurt.

Sundry laws spew
From the divers camps
Of kings and bishops
Concerning you.
States legislate
Words white on dark slate
To silence you.

Cement your diseased orifices
And here’s another in lead-
You irreverent little queer,
With your reminders of
Things better forgot;
Gardens of good and evil.

Jesus hangs
From recycled crosses,
Among the markdowns
In the sanctified aisles
Of a mighty nation’s
Many splendid Walmarts-
Misgotten and easily forgotten
Are the pink stars
Ploughed under in graves
Unhonored and unmarked.
Die Faggot, die!
Anita loves you!

And there’s the straight shooter
Out in five and
Self-done in two.
That’s your doing, too.
Serve but don’t you tell-
You irreverent little queer!
Just disappear, just disappear!

© 2009 by E.D. Ridgell

Creative Commons License

"Remember upon the conduct of each depends the fate of all.” - Alexander the Great

"I am for those who believe in loose delights, I share the midnight orgies of young men,
I dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers." – Walt Whitman


I look about me-
My immediate geography;
Out unto the darkest reaches,
And all is foreboding.
Everything living feeds 
On something else living,
And the universe, backdropped twinkling,
Is violence expanding ever outward; no end-
"Boom! The shock of each moment of still being alive!"                                             
                                                       c. E. D. Ridgell, 2014

An Ending to Mulberry!

Cut the next "season", 
So sorely wanted, 
But there'll be an ending to "Mulberry" for all of us; 
A calm aura and a friendly handing o'er! 
You'll see, just trust! That's all-
Trust in a well crafted ending-
Begin the beginning of no ending;
At the very least, An end to futurity.  
                                                 c. E. D. Ridgell, 2012

Like a Pendulum it Swings Back

The death of this enemy brings no solace.
Like a pendulum it swings back,
homing into the eye plucking it
with the consequence of words and deeds
of those clockwork oranges
marking time to self fulfilled prophecies.

The clock face has hands enough to pace polarities.
The politics of Zionists free and unadorned of patches,
yet bejeweled within the grip of a crescent moon,
that harries a starry pentagon, ally themselves
to an amnesic. Downing down a street; their echoing words
penetrate chambers’ walls to proselytize and portend further strife.

Internecine tongues, loose keys of muezzins
high in minarets, break the spring
wound of a facile but possible opportunity;
the knell to pause the heavy weights of war
ringing in a ticking start that stops the watch at peace.
© 2008 E.D. Ridgel

Creative Commons License

Crossing The Line

The Breeder ordained that I be the less dazzling jumper
Rather than the speedy racer, but I'd forget this,
And I'd take a fall, by my own misbegotten misfortune.
The tenacity in me made me get back up, 
And continue that race, nevertheless.

We all cross to the wave of the flag, eventually,
But more, many more, much more maimed than the others. 
Some were just jumpers, others prized racers.
I'll cross just a mere jumper,
But I'll cross it with my mane in the wind!
                                            c. E.D. Ridgell, 2014


They Got Family Values!


They cannot agree

To disagree amiably.

Resentments weigh the words down.

They digest the poems personally,

Reconnoiter and circle round.

Like vultures spying a last gasp

They circle round intent

On diving down.


Rationalizations abound

Sprouting incivilities to come.

You cannot appease them.

You prefer to leave them,

Suffer their silences,

Poisoned absences of the mind.

You suffer these invisible arrows

As your patron Saint Sebastian

Suffered surer tipped arrows!


They are always there

Waiting to shoot the dove,

Taking aim with rusty tenants

Like ‘welfare queen’

And ‘bleeding liberal’!

They foist words about

Behind the curtains

Only to go white on the page

When opposites surface

To peer at them from eventide-

Divers, sundry, and

Queer sorts of kinships.


They would protect the people

With propositions on high,

Taking a cattywampus aim

They drown down

Everyone and everything around them

With a Westboro Baptist fervor

All their own,

They got family values!