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 _______________________________________________   In The Heat Of This Pandemic    For o’er seventy years  I’ve tap-danced, hopscotched-  Pole-vaulted o’er this Ouija Board,  Only to find I could be corona kindling  In the heat of this pandemic.    I’ve tippy toed through ordinary,  And weary as I am,  I’ll chance another time  To cast this sink-box decoy  O’er board for  “I will not bend to the marriage.”*                                                  E D Ridgell 2020      *…A Man For All Seasons. _________________________________________________                Distance And Death    I only met them together once  When they flew East to visit the daughter,  My mom, Marmion.  I liked her best. I remember  She took me to see Oklahoma  And we talked. She had a way with me  Even though I was a child.    Rena had been a teacher  Which is where the name ‘Marmion’  Must have come to her mind  When naming my mother.  She was educated,  A high bar for her childhood time.  She must have read Scott and liked it.    I didn’t like him on this visit  But that was because he  Hadn’t appreciated my drunken Dad.  He’d been chatting to her  And I heard so I told him to stuff it.  O’er ten years later I met him in Frisco again.  He was sporting a woman’s feather hat. I liked that.    I wasn’t lucky with the grand folk   Which partly explained  A family tree obsession.  I never held flesh and blood much  Until I made my own.  Distance and death played no small part     And that weren’t the half of it.	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.    Meanwhile,  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 Tombstones. 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 Threatening    Heavy is the Head Heavier still  Dreamers and the undaunted   Brace! 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 ****************************************************************************************** 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
At Me! At Me! Toxic, 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 Nothing? 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 Vigilance 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? 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? None! 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 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 _________________________________________________  Al Is there any wound  That cuts so deep As the stab in the back? Is there anything So empty as  Infidelity? 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 Disapprovals, Leavened with slurs, So loud it’s got ‘a hurt. Good! 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 "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
Boom! 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. Ridgell   __________________________________________________________________  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   ______________________________________________             Eliza Wins The Battle of Jericho     I suddenly realized no one was on the other side of the table needing lifting.  Worse still no one was in the bed alongside me.   I was alone in my grief as well as in my fears.  People I thought to be friends had been no more than false fronts.  My loneliness was palpable.    The body longs for company. Even as the heart pines it seeks renewal.  The task of reinventing oneself must be taken up wholeheartedly,  If you mean to have a future, suicide is not possible  Death leaves a void that cannot be filled. The good thing about a bottom  Is the only was is up. Successful people don’t give up, and I mean to be successful.                                                                                                                      E D Ridgell  __________________________________________________________________	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! ________________________                    Faith We occupy A little bit of geography  In a blink of time Before crossing over. No one knows what If anything follows. The price of knowing Is universal. Most Conjure God uncertain  Who created who. It’s a mystery. Whether there is a God  Or not is irrelevant. The need for one is not. I need one. Whenever science sits grounded, Faith takes flight  Alas on fairy tales More often than not.                        E. D. Ridgell