This Poet's Corner


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Page 14

This Poet's Corner



Ode to Steve Brannon!


My nation is dying,

Chocking on the excesses

Of a dominance

More Roman than Greek.


The amphitheaters

Are bursting at their seams.

The universities are full of

Denizens foreign.


They take what they need

And leave the rest

Which is nothing

Less than deserving.


Sooner not later

Here is the inevitable 

Tyrant upending the

Sacred writs and principles-


The Senate’s plan

Is like unto a whore

Scribbled pages spread-eagled

On the marbled, Senate’s floor.


Oh come can you see

My heart breaking

At the absence 

Of so little fidelity!


Lay me gently down,

Then leave me

For pedestrian


          E.D. Ridgell 2017


The Handgun One Saturday Afternoon 

I was headed for The Drinkery,
A smart but small, downtown, watering hole
Where gay men of all ages and persuasions 
Of my tribe frequented to imbibe
Usually just a beer or two,
Or three
And to feel safe and comfortably queer
In the environs of Baltimore City. 
I remember it was a seventies Saturday  
Free of the normal weekday bustle
On even that small, side street.

I hadn’t reached the safety of the door
When suddenly a nimble, young man rushed 
Between two parked cars just missing me narrowly
As he made haste to escape from two other men
In a zig zag, hot pursuit.

All at once, there it fell, right before me,
A spic and span, shiny, black, metal gun
Bouncing clickety clack on the walk
No farther than a few feet away.
It mesmerized me as it was disarmingly beautiful.
The handgun discharged nothing and was quickly 
Retrieved by the clumsy one of the chasers.

The ensemble of men vanished 
As quickly as they had appeared, and
I, as was my quiet custom and demeanor,
Entered the bar with a perfect equanimity 
Only to betray the slightest unease as I 
Promptly ordered the first of several stingers that day-
I had lost just a little more of my innocence.
                                                                  E.D. Ridgell, 2017
                                                                     Revised 2018

Woodstock Rising!

I feel like the oldest damn hippie in the world!
I've come all this way to do it all o’er again-
The enemy is in the same neighborhood, 
But the game’s a shell game this time.
Oh the arms makers are in the house,
But they’re disguised,
Tucked behind bankers.

It was for the daughter last time,
And for myself and-
And there were so many others.
We had moxie.
We had a pair!
Now if you want to get laid,
You have to Grindr-
Pinch, Pinch, Wink Wink, Nudge Nudge!

I don’t know?
At least J. Edgar Hoover was Gay!
These scary cats is crazy!!!

It's for the kids-
Not just my grandkids-
All the kids in the world-
Side by side, gassed and 
Lain in trenched graves-
For the little baby,
Washed up out of the 

Fuck it!
I didn’t want a retirement anyway-
I feel like the oldest hippie in the world!

The shock of each moment
Of still being alive…
Second, by second, by second…
                                    c. E.D. Ridgell, 2016-
                                      Somewhere in the trenches!

Marlyn Strine

On Facebook,
Mutual friends?
Perusing, find's
Meaning in a new
Day. Everything is
Of Shaker pictures!
New England scenes-
Green bountiful grounds
Everything's recognizable
But atypical? Meeting halls,
And isn't that Massachusetts, 
Is it? Happier days, busier days, 
Traveling days. Tip a swig of sleep 
Aid. These days, I sleep. Just want to 
Sleep awhile. Friends and family go out
Of style. Am I hungry? I can't be bothered, 
Sleep some more. Sleep the sleepiness off. 
You've done it before. Sugar? A donut awaits!

It's bazaar. She's reinventing my narrative, just as
I reinvented someone else's. Are there any of those
Shakers about, or did they shake all the Shaker's out. 
The smells, the round barn. The seed packets-Shaker 
Things, perfect things, commendable things, old things. 
They didn't think it through. For they're great  production-
Don't come across Shaker things, anymore. I'll sleep today, 
Then I'll pick tomorrow. See if I can find a something Shaker.
I salute you Marlyn Strine. One who is about to die salutes you.
May flights of angels carry you on their swift Shaker wings to the
That meeting house in the sky, so high in the sky, so high in the sky.*
*I hope you so not take offense. It's just a poet at play with words.

 The Puppy Dog Syndrome

People who need people,
Are the luckiest people in the world-"
Go ahead, laugh, if you've been unlucky.
I was not. I had the puppy dog syndrome,
Hugging the feet of people, tail wagging.

"We're children, needing other children
And yet letting a grown-up pride
Hide all the need inside
Acting more like children than children."
After the third kick or so my tail stopped wagging,
And I feigned a dumb puppy, tail between its legs
Eyes watering in the end at caring more than they did.

"Lovers are very special people
They're the luckiest people in the world
With one person one very special person"-
I learned to do one person at a time, yet

"A feeling deep in your soul
Says you were half now you're whole"
The Puppy is happy, wetting itself,
"No more hunger and thirst"- alas,
That, too can not last. Nothing lasts.

"But first be a person who needs people
People who need people
Are the luckiest people in the world"-
What is it, 'It is better to love and to...'

"With one person one very special person
No more hunger and thirst", 
That puppy dog syndrome, again. No matter-

"But first be a person who needs people
People who need people
Are the luckiest people in the world..."
Stay the course. 'Begin at the beginning,
Go to the end and stop'. I am almost stopped,
Needing other people.

A Tribute to the Dead Poet
     ( In memorium ... Paul Stevens )

His words would roll
One o'er the other
In such keen tether
As to not stray too far
One o'er the other.

A tall Aussie was he.
No more will the bits rhyme
Or skillfully meander
True to form for you-
No more will the bits rhyme!
                 E.D. Ridgell, 2013


The Dying Bluebird

The nest grown silent
absent the sound of beats
recently grown irregular,
I sensed the pact broken and
flew into freedom
leaving the old drunk dead
the decay already beginning.

Where does a bluebird go
when on the wing?
What song does she sing
when the silence is over;
the pity prison of a beaten boy,
ugly, gloomy and rudely reserved,
his gated heart at last flown open.

I flew high into the sky
in search of that first sweet song
I’d wished to sing all along, but no.
There was no soft song within me.
I and the old poet were both victims
of a lifelong delirium.

The sounds that flew forth
were not soft and sweet on the ear
but hard notes written to even a score,
screeches in search of some meaning.
To that purpose they served the
music of both our souls all the better
and gave the world songs in poems
that sought to be more true than sweet.

‘See my little wing quiver so
as I lie here atop the snow!
Water is surely free I think.
I only wanted a tiny drink.

Something is broke within I know.
I can not lift and rise to go.
So happy was I on the brink
eager at a dawn’s sky of pink;

very frightened left alone,
lamenting others who have flown-
fled they so high into a sky
never more into will I fly’.
© 2008 by E.D. Ridgell
Creative Commons License


She was so busy multitasking

that the task at hand had to be quick

in this case, courtesy. It fell flat!

Twenty seconds into the conversation

I had her pegged; entitled, successful,

one of the beautiful people. Uh oh!


I googled her name promptly,

and sure enough; never known poverty,

and far, far, too busy. Contemporary!

A good woman no doubt,

rather like my daughter, I think.

Time is a remorseless teacher- Ticking!

                        © 2010 by E.D. Ridgell

The Working Lunch Interview


The backside of loose, she sat

Peppering my instilled propensities.

I hadn’t brought salted expectations,

And I would consummate the meal.


From here to eternity, in serving lines,

I sobered enough thought to muse

That I was burned out- an unlit, shape-shifter

Wagering time with this working lunch.


I sensed some headway… but then,

Who could tell, when, suddenly, the bitch bit

Through to the bone- my echo,  perhaps rudely

Bouncing off her ear and yodeling into my heart.

“Who do you most admire, recently, grrrr…?”

Without any pause, with no hesitation,

More for my porridge, I mused, from the red peppers

In her eyes, I replied; “Robert F. Kennedy.”


That table, her banquet, had raisins but no nuts to crack.

Back in the serving lines, I felt reinvigorated,

A transfixed homeboy and I ventured forever forward

Knowing then and now it is blessed meat to supper tired


                            And standing!




Rand’s Salad Years


I mean, I can’t cast stones.

I got stoned in my salad years too.

Hell, I’ve been stoned in some recent years-

But I don’t get his fetish for tying girls up,

And no, I didn’t tie any boys up, Thank you!

A cowboy’s lasso might have made me buck,

Mind you, but no such luck!


That No Zee Brotherhood and

Rand’s supposed membership

In a secret society, pseudo fraternity thingy-

Now that shows comradeship!


I didn’t get chummy in college.

We didn’t have fraternities or sororities

Or even clubs ‘cept for the Pub.

We had our Pub crawlers, I wasn’t drinking

Hard then, anyway, but I’d catch up!


That glory-hole joke poked at Anita Bryant’s mouth-

Now that was risqué of Rand and his gang.

Me? I’d never have done that straight or gay.

I was still confused and closeted any which way-

Straight as an arrow I hoped.

Bryant warranted that at the time, I suppose,

Though it was too rude of me. Anita got

Religion later, and actually apologized,

Not such a bad woman after all.


The bong? Bingo! Can’t get all

High and mighty there!

Well, high, surely. I went straight

Through college with years to go

Before I put the pipe down.

One day, I decided it made me feel paranoid.

Besides, I had discovered the economy of

Carstairs mixed with Tab. I wonder when Rand

Finally put his pipe down and

How he gets his kicks these days?

I Remember Ronnie


I remember Ronald Reagan, real time,

And the copius chatter on the left.

Veteran let out of mental hospitals 

Were too great a burden on his statistics.


I remember the great communicator who busted

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

That could lay families low when their Daddy

Blew his brains out at the foot of the conning tower.


I remember Ronnie’s template that made

Scottie Walker the man he is today; jelly beans and astrologer’s

Coats of Arms on White House China, she commissioned,

As though Mrs. Lincoln was not haunting and taking notes.


I remember him so well, 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”,

Duo did in twenty. Our prisons grew fat and fatter still.


I remember Ronald Reagan as though it was yesterday,

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

Afghanistan will soon be done, the tide is turning,

And, Barack decry that wall shading fast fleeting friends! 

                                                                  © 2014 by E.D. Ridgell

                                                                           Revised 2018

Google Maps!

I gave Janice
Those pants 
The wide legged ones-
Wider than bell-bottoms.
I loved those.

I’d have given myself
To Kenny on a salver
If a broken window had not 
Interrupted his efforts-
That had been Bolton Hill.

I’d come from Bond Street
Fleeing to Rachel-
No surprise there.
Rachel had been 
The wobbly stool leg.

Cisco, dead dog 
From long ago
Had three legs
And a red bandanna 
With white paisley.

All of this, vivid
Half century later,
I’m in awe-
Memory sharp 
In dotage.

Now, biding my time
In Facebook Jail
I saw off memories-
Helped with a hacksaw
Compliments of Google maps!
                          E. D. Ridgell, 2018

The Cut Direct

And so in the midst of my grief 
I had to reckon the reasons for this cut direct. 
It took but a moment‘s reflection to remember that 
Reference to God’s “manly” arms-
Me thinks the pretty priest protests too much!

“Camping” has grown old, 
Customs and languages change- 
Denials are donned in new, clean cloaks of self deception, 
But the crosses we cull are for our bent shoulders alone, 
And so one beloved friend has moved on- 
And another fondly recollecting casts 
A sorely tired and used old  stone-
The weight of one is as unto Calvary. 
The weight of the other 
But the tossing and tussle of these few lines. 
 © 2010 by E.D. Ridgell


Due To Heavy Call Volume

“But, Dad, you might live to be ninety five”…
“Sweetie, I sincerely hope not!”…
“I left a call yesterday but have heard nothing”
“Do to heavy call volume…”
“Yes, I want to cancel your hosting”…
“Dad, can you come sit with me at the hospital?…”
“Well, I thought a simple bleeding would have been covered”…
“Ally says she was pushed. Taylor says she fell”…
“What is the name of your CEO. Is he over there?”…
“Due to the heavy call volume”…
“The breast cancer seems to have been caught early”…
“I’m under a lot of pressure at work. Don’t holler right now!”...
“No, I was painting the porch and your man said nothing about a charge”…
“Yes, I was going to call you. It goes to the underwriters today”…
“Jim, would you bid one hundred dollars on the Lee statue. It needs a push”…
“She just came out of the operating room. Here’s the surgeon now…”
“Well Russ is always throwing a snit…”
“Due to the heavy call volume”…
“Pop Pop loves you…”
“Bette was famous for taking children in. Many feel she was their mother”…
“I’m going to have both breasts removed and play it safe”…
“Meet me at 3:15 in the Wal-mart parking lot like before”…
“I want to see the new Apple Store at Park City. Then have dinner”…
“Can you and Rudy come over and witness our wills?”…
“Honey, something always happens to fix it”…
“Do you ever watch Saturday Night Live?”…
“And here comes the President now”…
“Due to the heavy call volume”…
“Apple hints at a laptop under one thousand next week”…
“What do you think this rifle is worth?”…
“Ally won’t be able to finish the soccer season”…
“Brian and I are going on a vacation before the operation”…
“Please vote for Risk 11and submit"...
“Big Man, I don’t see me getting to you until Wednesday”…
“Jim, that was a cheese cutter”…
“I came home to find two more kittens under the shed”…
“Was that Sammie?” I’m beginning to understand him”…
“I’m in a good place. I think it will be alright”…
“Could I have a wake up call for 2:00”…
“Due to the heavy call volume”…
© 2009 by E.D. Ridgell
Creative Commons License

The Circle Goes Unbroken

“Grandfather, Ernest,

I’d die for a Wetson ‘burger.”

“Good kid, you’re looking as thin

as a self starving starlet.”

“I thought you shot yourself.”

“I wasn’t the first. Ask Anson.”

“Oh, yea, oh, yea, I remember now.”

Knock, knock. Whose there?

No body in decay!

© 2008 by E.D. Ridgell

Creative Commons License

We’re Just Nine Months In-


This Moran exhausts me!

I’ve nicked him Delirium Tremor and

I should feel guilty but I don’t,

None, Nana!

Yesterday he introduced something,

And left forgetting to sign it. Oh My God!

He’s still on Obama Care as if anyone still cares.

The people ache at the weight of both their houses!


We’re just nine months in and low and behold

Even a Tennessee boy stoops to be coy

With the little things like details-

Stoops far lower than those brave players

Who know the value of a well-placed knee

In the larger cause of liberty.

It’s ‘bout more than a rag of a flag-

Symbols and similes at play

On opposite sides of the field.

Steady, hold that line.

The whole world is watching!


We’re just nine months in-

I’m messaging folks on the coast

In hopes they’re not toast,

While I’ve lost track of friends in Florida.

Is Hemingway’s house still there?

Out on the tip of the Keys?

I hope so. God, I hope so!


We’re just nine months in,

And I’m so tired.

I’ll just jot some of the feelings down.

It doesn’t matter. No one’s reading.

I published a poetry book. Thump!

I still should do the eBook thingy-

“Publish and be damned!”

Lord Nelson could give as good as he got.

So can I, soon as I stoop to care.

I don’t right now. I’m so tired.

We’re just nine months in!

                                    E.D. Ridgell, 2017

Love At All Hours, 

Like her savior on the cross.  
We do not need to see her face  
To know she is content 
Under the glow of a full moon.
The room bespeaks order  
In her life. It is uncluttered.
Befitting her control. 
Her hair is neatly braided. 
Nothing and no one is neglected. 
Who has penned the note? 
Is it him? Does she long 
For his return? I think so. 
                   c. E.D. Ridgell, 2016

Why This Need


For show and tell?

You do not solicit any distraction.

It does not diminish my need though

To share the awe I see and feel,

Mud pies of my making.

What germinates showing and telling,

In a needling need I cannot uproot

To share some part of these?


I scratch and claw at the pad,

Balancing the black and white,

Tuning to the ear the sounds from the

Concentrated words that lay here unread-

Even revising, anon, echoes off the secluded

Canyon walls that have been the

Splendid solitude of my own making.

It's a little disingenuous to wonder so

Let alone quiz the empty theatre,

Careful to resonate in the back rows.

© 2011 by E.D. Ridgell


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 started out for Bar Harbor,

Stopped by his digs in Soho.


How he shined fresh from his shower,

With beads of water running down his back,

To vanish into an innocent, perky crack.


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.
Love At All Hours, 

Like her savior on the cross.  
We do not need to see her face  
To know she is content 
Under the glow of a full moon.  
The room bespeaks order  
In her life. It is uncluttered  
Befitting her control. 
Her hair is neatly braided. 
Nothing and no one is neglected. 
Who has penned the note? 
Is it him? Does she long 
For his return? I think so. 
                    C. E.D. Ridgell, 2016





The Night Owl

In the night scurries assail the chamber’s seat,
and fatigue hallows even sleep.
I regress up onto the firm perches of my youth.
I swoop down on things not present or real,
and I'm prone to host a pity party
for one participant only;
the night owl.

Now is the hour to surrender,
muse from memory's lookout, and make no moves.
This is the hooting hour-
one looses so many laughs by not laughing at oneself!
Now is the time to prey on fantasies,
and to hunt happy endings.

If I am not granted that good sleep this night,
the break will break through. The sun will blaze unblinking
on another day, and I will shine on the morn'-
decisions will be decided upon, and beginnings will begin.
Life will be negotiated. The cat will be fed and
the night owl duly banished to the barn-
out of the eye of my day.
© 2008 by E.D. Ridgell

Creative Commons License





 I Put It to You, 


Was not Moriarty, an honest man? 


Light is or is not touch to a blind man,

Ora conversation for others—

“Isn’t it a sunny day, a good day to die?”

The conversations of others are

Waves and waves intermingling on the ether--

Pretty particles dancing in the cesspool of their mind’s eyes.


The heat on my skin burns my skin burns,

Such dirty minds, such filthy intrigues, such bourgeoisie endeavors.

The light goes out again, and again, and again…it is passé.

The conversation of others comes round to nothing

As significant as the case at hand—

Moriarty was an honest man.


More serious than conversant gossip building up the justification to kill,

There is a metaphor of light that is the truth-naked, uncompromising,


Without religious buffoonery-any Spanish poet up Dali’s ass.


Nothing howls like silence;

Nothing gnaws like an honest man holding the mirror up before them.

No, he is an honest man. He can tail you head on.

He is a shadow and a shadow has many, many, colors.

Moriarty is an honest man!

       © 2009 by E.D. Ridgell 


Creative Commons License


Grammy's Bosom!

Everyday, a little more feeble.
I am preparing for death,
Reflecting back on life,
Measuring bits and pieces
Buttoning undone buttons.
Grading art and artist,
A hypocrite in the end.

I pass and so
Purging myself of resentments,
I try to forgive society, and more importantly, God.
Carolers sooth my evenings as I endeavor to learn
As much as I can 'fore oblivion's  sweet embrace.
I try to be kindness itself-
Life best lived.

I can be wrong-
The best chin wagers can be wrong.
God but I hope we're wrong! 
Most of all, I want to fall into deep, 
Big, soft, Grammy breasts of bart cloth!
                        c. E.D. Ridgell, 2016

In Defense Of Writing!




I wanted to type ‘this is a good poem’,


Beg and plead for a little attention


In this fast paced world of war-torn,


Mixed media, where people are forgetting or


Just not bothering to write thoughts down-


But, I just watched it recede into the


Bowels of Facebook.


You probably think this poem is about you.


It’s not.




Do people clap at words anymore?


They send letters don’t they,


Or does it have to be jazzed up or swing danced to?


Are machines on the march?


Is it all hyped and typed cinematography?


Am I a line out of ‘Sex In The City’,


A wrong float in some parade?


What gets more attention, an e-book or hard copy?


This puzzles and perplexes me!




What if somebody pulls a plug,


Bombs the reservoir, or hacks the turbines?


How’s the fat lady ‘gonna sing in the dark?


I remember gazing into the showcase


And being mesmerized by


Ancient Babylonian, cylinder seals,


Bits of round clay tiles used as signatures,


And signaling from down time that


“From dust you came and to dust you shall return.”


                                                                E. D. Ridgell, 2018


We are each and everyone 
Heroes in our own insignificant little lives
Played out on a planet lost among billions-
All hurtling through space colliding and forever 
Shapeshifting others.

Almost all of us have a god in tow,
Some more than one.
Those with none are poor
Negotiators for the little time left.
All the heroes are doomed in the end.

Luck beguiles physics
But throws all the monkeys 
A wrench in the end.
You can not escape death.
It’s a given for all heroes.
                                 E. D. Ridgell 201


All The World Loves A Parade!

The narcissist wants a parade, 

A patriotic show down

Pennsylvania Avenue.

The generals as all generals do

Clamor for weaponry

To keep us out of harm’s way.

The party wants something to show

The nation is stewarded 

By at least a modicum of rule.

There are plans for a big wall

To keep us safe and secure 

From rapists to drug lords.

All the King’s horses

And all the King’s men

Parade as the world looks on.

                               E. D. Ridgell, 2017


Much Ado about Nothing

They come to leave droppings for admirations
to be collected upon their return.
These are well formed, warm, and honed
by a well balanced diet
with more than the usual roughage-
splendid poets, of bunkered and sandbagged posteriors
each with mantels crowded with plastic trophies,


cold as only a critical poet can be;
self absorbed, eager to kick a puppy
with a wagging tale.

With time long after the puppies have fled,
I take what the family doesn’t want; plastic trophies,
and a file cabinet full of much ado about nothing,
to the landfill and pocket the prophets from the overlooked,
rare, fourteen karat, gold-tipped, fountain pen.
© 2008 by E.D. Ridgell

Creative Commons License

Buy! Buy! Buy!


Greece, the cradle of democracy, is rioting in the streets,

Spain is in debt up to its sweet meats;

In Russia the President is actually rumored to be sober-

The old world wobbles on the weight of entitled miscreants.


In Washington the Senators suffer the smell of their underarms,

And representatives chase their own tails, tongues wagging wobbly.

The President is hated for reasons rational men can not discern,

And the people read rags while focusing on a wily Fox!


The gods shake the floors selectively, reckoning past sins,

And the stars come out at night, but briefly.

Gallop polls prove their never has been any warming,

And quitters in tight leather still chant, “Drill baby drill”!


Broad and Wall will have their bonuses,

Thumbing their noses at poorer mere common shareholders.

Blood runs in the streets. The hour glass gives up a final grain.

History’s indicators could not be clearer. Buy! Buy! Buy!

© 2010 by E.D. Ridgell


Plaster Memories

I'd kneel and gaze up at her-
These were my innocent years.
I'd go the rote routine, but when
Transfixed by that loving smile,
I spoke from the heart, asking her,
If she'd look after me, and
Act as a go between. I just
Knelt and stared and felt 
Comforted. As a little boy,
This was Madonna Mia.

Now stripped of both our false
Fronts, I feel like I have plaster dust 
All over me, and I'd hock you in a minute-
And yet, tucked deep inside there's still that
Wanting of lost innocence, and a
Kneading, needling, needing for motherly whispers,
Mumbling gibbering of secretive gibberish-
Oh, where's gone idolatry carried
On the strong shoulders of childlike fidelity.
                                             c. E. D. Ridgell, 2014

The pic appears to be in the public domain.


In A Last Gasp Potter's Prayer


I can't be all that!

I can't do all that!

It's geeked me too high, Lord.

All I see are Mama's eyes.


The alleys spew us.

We scurry in the, cold, moonlit night,

Till we nudge up ‘gainst strangers

O'er a sagging, rusting, iron grate,

Warming any old, bold, brassy-polished bank,  

To await a fate, ice pick-like sharp and chilling;

A last stab into a waiting, already rotting carcass

Of the vast namelessness' of coming Potter's dust!


© 2012 by E.D. Ridgell

A Word From Herald

I can’t piece the bits 
Enunciate-the tongues swill.
My mind’s eye?
Keen and tuning
To my wheezing breathing-
Oxogen wedded, waiting on God.
I don’t know!
God? Michael?
Go ahead swill some narrative,
Hopes to resurrect her.

I’ve meandered through 
Her many monuments,
Rich communion ‘fore this curtain call.
I have no nesting ambition. 
All is ruin falling down, round me-
‘Tis, comfortable, restful, peaceful.
Lay me gently down.
Free of liability,
Late to the play-
Too late for many words.

She is O’er ninety and soon flies
Across the sky with the celestial dragon.
Where flies the eagle,
Up, up, up into the sun, or
Down, down, down into the quagmire?
Listen. Listen to me- We are in disorder. 
The covenant is broken. 
Where is the true, blue Cincinnati,
To right the ship of state 
And calm the turbulent sea?
                                          E. D. Ridgell, 2017


Giving out one last wag-word whimper-
Cold remembrance of muddy kisses,
‘He dies’-
I awaken from the night-flush,
Sweating tears-
Shabbily clad and disheveled,
I paw on swift, light footsteps,
Down the flour, dusted stairs-
Needing kneading.
At Aurora’s rise,
I sigh
With a mourning breath
Too deep for words-
            © 2008 by E.D. Ridgell
Creative Commons License

*Carlos was the beloved pet of Emily Dickenson. Dickenson did the baking in the home and could take a back stairway directly to the kitchen without waking the rest of her family. Lord Byron also had a Newfoundland breed as a pet...EDR



Pacing With a Sure Footed Attitude, ‘Round and ‘Round,


As if pacing inside a caged tiger's nightmare,

My passions are involuntary self delusions-

I don’t know the rules of the game.

I don’t know the end game.

I don’t know the goal.

I don’t care!


Two choices: one, self imposed or accepted

Premises of rites and rituals-for the thrills-

No guarantees and many, many, crutches

With self affirmations-going, going;

“Have I played my part well….?”

The Farce is all that matters.

Stay the course. Your on,

But not forever. For all,

The curtain falls.

Live to die.


The second, a boring upstaging of our play,

Young peckers waging old men’s wars,

Then complaining about it all-

It’s all, all, so bloody old.

Downhearted, placards

Left on the pavement-

Magic Markers but

Far, far worse of all,

Are the innocents,

Their crayoning

Fading into



There never will be another like the godhead,

Alexander the Great. Nothing impossible-

No fear of death, indisputable beauty,

Married to a love of life, and felled

Only for the rigors of it all and

The natural causes, of loving

And the mosquito’s bite.

Pessimism is a poor

Proponent for


At all.


© 2010 by E.D. Ridgell