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 Lourie 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!   © 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 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
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 I Put It to You, was not Moriarty, an honest man? Light is or is not touch to a blind man, or a 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	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, BUT 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   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
Carlo Giving out one last wag-word whimper- cold remembrance of muddy kisses, ‘He dies’- I awaken from the night-flush, sweating tears- shaggily 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 *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