Thispoetscorner.com [This Poet's Corner]
A Last Lie!
We were walking side by
In a high-tide, wetland of the hot Somerset sun,
And I had warned Tom not to trust the stones,
When, all of a sudden, down goes Tom.
I spy him stalled there,
Implacable with spoon and melon
still in hand
Standing upright in a grave, unfazed as always,
And bent upon finishing his melon.
He just loved Somerset cantaloupe.
How am I to forgive God this transgression?
What does Tom do to suffer such horror for which now
I funnel teaspoon after teaspoon down parsed lips.
hospice worker lets me know the end is near,
And I am free
to handle the dosage as I see fit.
Do I read significance
in his gaze? Is this some message?
No, I cannot put out the
light I have worked this hard
To keep lit even for a little
We share that same religion that belies an independent
I bend down for one last kiss and whisper a last
“It’s alright to die. I’ll be okay.”
Old Man Won't You Look At Me Now!
I just spied a mirror,
I do believe Im still here!
How did I contrive to
get this old?
There are a few comrades
All of us caught in the headlights!
politics are nasty, downright uncivil!
a tired old hippie
holding out a wilted
Do you think that was easy?
Is a man three score plus not a marvel to behold?
c. E.D. Ridgell, 2016
I Think Back On Black
In the immediacy of grief
Of that black, one, piece swimsuit
That so suited you.
It was another
But it was not so much
The triumph, but your stroke
the whooping of it.
Just once before
Practiced and particular pride-
The beauty of a crane,
Its wings waking the water
Just before the tranquil
That signals its sinking into a settled rest.
etched in my memory,
I remember that day
When you sent the others away.
the morning swim,
With reassuring words you conveyed
This was my day of baptism-
For the first time I must duck
My sandy, sun bleached
Under the bay, green water.
How patiently you urged
That little boy, so hesitant, and frightened,
So anxious not to let you down.
We struggled on and through,
with both of us triumphant,
You took me up to the cottage
You put me before the others that day only,
For favorites were not your way.
Tonight in my grief
I can still taste
The saltlick Chesapeake as
I think back on black!
|Twain's House in Hartford Connecticutt
A Jewel In Hartford's Crown
She still bespeaks a commission for ingenuity.
is fancy and whimsical, dressed in Victorian Gothic,
A rarity so like his
imagination. Were the ceilings
Mark twain high? I didn't think to ask.
The docent was intent on time,
A metaphor himself, for the harried
Wrought by death and time to this house gone homeless.
She's long since fallen out of mode, her
Replaced by things more recent and pressing to Hartford.
He loved to gaze from her eyes but found this too distracting,
When his pen raced its way across page after page.
He mused instead
in a windowless corner near a sunlit desk
Overlooking a beautiful, felt covered,
Sporting his gentlemanly manor.
The girls were dear in those early years
And they liked to play with cherubs
from atop the bed's headboard.
Many years later he'd die,
His head wrong way round, so that he might gaze
these angels with their sad reflections.
Invention placed ambition before caution,
And the house was lost.
He was to lose so much more.
Almost the last one standing, he bore on and
While she fell into disrepair and he into despair.
"...a time when one's spirit
Is subdued and
sad, one knows not why;
When the past seems a storm-swept desolation,
Life a vanity and a burden, and the
a way to death."
so, first with Suzy, then Olivia, and finally with Jean
He hung on,
waiting. Tenacious to the end
He did precisely what he said he would.
He came in with Haley's comet
And he flew
out on her fiery tail,
Seventy four years later,
One of his nation's most beloved writers.
and whimsical on the outside, serious within,
He so complimented that beloved
home that restored still stands today;
Waiting and warmly welcoming all,
including me to
A jewel in Hartford's crown.
© 2008 by E.D. Ridgell, all rights reserved
I love you,
too, my Little Aquitaine,
The first born,
bridge over the grief
These five years, now, when then,
Your other grandfather,
The better half my soul,
Left just missing you, and I
The other side of bereft,
Beyond any need but wasting away-
And she presented you
To see there nestled in my arms
hint of another morning
To beacon hope,
suggest some purpose
For not just falling away.
And yesterday, in the midst of a family
So recently blessed,
Yet again in such confusion
At the tandem of change
You were there to say;
love you Pop-Pop. I miss you.
When will you be back?”
And, oh my precious Aquitaine,
Know that I will never leave you,
But will always be with you
Even if but a whisper
To caress your pretty cheek
With a gentle touch,
The soft wind on the brow to remind you,
Past the distance through all change
the silly seeming confines of time.
I wish that I could tell you
The world is a happier place.
I wish that
Could have a greener earth.
Walks on stilts
O'er sodden ground, down drowning in apathy.
down on Wall Street protesters
Waving martini's sporting twists of lemon
And somehow nowhere.
sore festers to beget two.
It's have or have not,
me, sweet Jesu,
As the full flower moon salutes the night.
"I follow on the water."
I climbed up onto the big feather bed under the windows of
Grammy's front parlor with a cool gentle breeze blowing wistfully
In from the acres of cornfields outside,
And I soon fell into a
deep, innocent sleep.
I remember the air smelled sweat
And I was toying with the pompoms on the white chenille bedspread.
It was a lazy, Somerset County's, summer afternoon designed for just such a nap.
When I awoke, it was to a voice speaking my name, a man's
voice telling me that
I must be a good boy and to just say his name, Michael
if ever I was afraid,
And so I soon did just that, when, that afternoon,
I encountered a black water snake from out the creek.
Dick came running and hacked the snake up,
it from the wire to the chicken coop, and
So I figured Michael had somehow
made this happen.
I've called on Michael hundreds of times since.
c. E. D. Ridgell 2015
The King’s Closed Door
This side the door- wild abasement,
Degradation to demean,
Forges the fostered
Into obsessive, chance excitements.
Beyond the door- mother’s snakes,
Father’s whores, drunken
Numbed to the gut
He is unmerciful to resistance.
This side the door-
Minority by God’s grace,
from modeled norm.
Truth is transfixed upon a cross
The body once down tattooed in lies.
Beyond the door,
truck stop whore.
Blue, bruised, beaten breasts,
Do not seduce a son to pity.
This side the door- highly resolved;
attempt no rescue.
Take revenge in one too many
And prick out an identity.
Beyond the door- elsewhere eyes
Peer past the
Once intent to steal some notice,
He waits no more in forlorn hope.
This side the door- la recette,
The fault not
in Achilles but in all mortals.
Oedipal seed sown of queer deed
And straight rape,
Seeks Macedonians to meet
© 2005 E. D. Ridgell
|Pic is the copyright of another....
Reactions of a Black Sheep to The Black
In emotive ejaculations-
To the snap crackle pop
Of some secondary addiction.
My cherry broke
To the first stroke
And I never looked back-
knew I was not normal,
But in some
Where escape would
Never be wanted.
I came so close to
To not taking the bit
And riding naked into the night
On Equus in that search for Parnassus.
I am indebted to their abuse
Each and everyone,
And for the kindness and empathy
“BOOM. BOOM. BOOM —
The shock of every second
Of still being alive!”
still here. I still live.
Those waves breaking
In emotive ejaculations-
To the snap crackle and pop
Of some secondary addiction.
© 2011 by E.D. Ridgell
Suddenly Like Somebody!
I feel that curtain
Of disabling depression
in on me,
Dims the stage lights
That I need
Different and special
In some small way-
In the first grade
Sixty years ago
She gave me crayons.
I drew a happy house
Under a disarming
Hold it up, for all to see,
And I felt
Suddenly, like somebody!
Hephaestion was the childhood friend of
the Great, fellow student of
Aristotle, and his principle confident as well
as one of his generals for life. Labels before
Christian era regarding "straight" or "homosexual"
just not able to convey the entirely different
sexual mores and attitudes
preference and practices between the two distinct
times. Hephaestion was Alexander the Great's principle
lover and only trusted confident throughout his life yet
wives and begat children.
Hephaestion's death shortly before Alexander's
possible influences on Alexander afterwards is
interesting enough to Google if history is your thing.
form of the poem is a ghazal.
Broken, Bucephalus took the bit-
no docile ass onward to switch hit.
Salutations of twilling
dare never a shrilly chord switch hit.
The many intrigues and treasons thwarted-
no other allegiances
to accords switch hit.
In years of endearment, heralding
sentiments with sudden fell switch hit;
the subject, poor in degree, switch hit.
And come the summons-genuflecting,
passion’s plea no switch hit.
True loyalty on one knee, head bowed;
supplicant portending the switch hit.
He kills in His cups, but not this time.
Not Hephaestion! Lay down switch hit!
© 2008 by E.D. Ridgell
They still say a mass for Larry
Every All Souls Day,
Edward passed away, two years ago
gone also, told me that
and Lar had a falling out
disturbed me considering
was a decades long affair.
It’s just as Cindy says. Russell
Disappeared from the face
of the earth,
And I feel my
neglect of him bores skin deep.
hope he did not pour himself into a potter’s field,
For that marble, stepped city, with the screen-door paintings.
He’d grown far too cockeyed, a liquor-free fundamentalist!
Everybody’s so cocksure, nowadays.
They haven’t a clue, and I’m right behind
I know there is and never
will be any proof of an Almighty-
this, it’s faith alone, unless like me you’ve an angel.
Once upon a time, a little boy napped on a
White chenille bedspread of pom-poms,
Only to awaken and find an older boy on the foot of the bed
With a simile broad enough to last a lifetime.
c. E.D. Ridgell, 2015
On my mattress,
With its fresh sheets
All about me,
Tell me she is oh so softly
Stepping, my tiny,
only a kitten;
She curls to sleep,
Not to the right of,
Not to the left of,
But right on top of my feet.
It anchors the affection
Rolling to and fro,
On her slick and sleek,
Back of fur,
Shows how much
She trusts me.
Politely she just sits there,
No matter how long, waiting
For me to give her exactly two treats,
It's a ritual.
We teasingly call her our Van Dyck Kitty-
A tribute to her sheeny,
and light markings,
As if rendered by that artist.
Her name is Meka, as in
"Take me kause I'm pretty!"
Nobody Can Explain To Me
How this tiny feline friend of mine
Can climb and hang from me,
I'm a favored limb
She drapes herself over,
Without me taking the slightest notice-
She having become so common
Nobody can explain to me
How I know she's my last little companion.
I just know.
c. E.D. Ridgell, 2014
Together- two mortally
Seek shoring up,
'Fore breaking in two
At the parting.
Time ticks company,
death saunters forward,
Sundering up and o'er our stonewall,
in that grief-
Intruding with thundering hooves
Into my life's sanctuary.
Going on, not caring where,
Into tedious rituals of living,
I, lamenting your departing,
Deftly mimic anything at hand
At losing you.
© 2005 E.D.Ridgell
all rights reserved
In the last hours alone
Just you and I,
It was here-
knew you were beyond pain.
I hoped you could hear
A last, loving lie;
“It’s OK to die
I’ll be alright!”
c. E.D. Ridgell
The other side of an instant
Anything not witnessed
We paint rocks
Dig and sift
© 2005 E.D.Ridgell
I have known six generations now,
And it is unlikely I see many more.
That is a long line with many to know-
Too many to meet!
I am a scribe. I
unravel lines while
I hit walls.
There are secrets to
Then scatter under the
Left untold in ashes
I know of heroes. I know of fools.
I know many folk make family
And some stories beget more.
spiders never cease spinning
their webs grow and grow. I am
to lie in one, sticky melding.
Who the next weaver may be
I do not know. I will cast the net
Far and wide in hopes to snag
A curious currycomb to groom the
Never shedding coat of shame and fame.
I hope it makes the silver threads
Glow for you as they did for me.
I was neither the first nor the last
To reckon the snare of time,
And you, faire future kinsman
never tie the ends together.
me!” Do not leave me
c. E.D. Ridgell
The Last Supper Of Aunt Bea
Andy finds her half in and half out of the oven,
anything but askew. Her feet strew the floor
One pointed left and the other right
In a perfect perpendicular.
A paisley dress of floral barkcloth
Testifies it is a Sunday and that
She keeps the faith.
Still resonates from her mornings touch.
violet water perfume caresses the air,
Rising with the odorless gas.
Atop a Maytag is dinner’s faire, half prepared.
The table is
covered with worn, linen cloth
Patterned in her favorite roses,
on gossamer buds.
Beatrice is finished
all the tedious rituals
Of sewing bees and church suppers.
reasons are similes to that
Perfectly folded towel falling
With sides precisely parallel
Hanging from the horizontal bar
Screwed to the scrappily, scrubbed wall-
The wall Just
above her impeccably clean oven
With that turned knob, its vertical, white line
Ignoring the insistence of the horizontal lines
the remaining three and marking
The last supper of Aunt Bea.
1<object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NkOoZDK7Rz8?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed
When she died, I realized everything
I did not know
about her was gone with her,
The intimate private things;
Thoughts, passions, hurts, secrets- the pride she took
In a polka dot dress still lingering
there in a closeted box,
Touches and scents meant for her alone, that excruciating
Painful mess of it all at the end of
both our bitter trials.
It struck me, that baleful event
Estranging me from you,
Did not help to acquaint me with
the real you.
reason forgave you but my heart was left hollow.
They say death leaves a hole that can not be filled.
Did that hole have to be in me? Why? Was I your
only winking doll
To stick those pins into. Seduced to be stabbed in the end-
or was it the pain? It must have been so painful!
When he died it was that time of passage,
When I wanted to have some answers.
No longer your
pensioner and still divided from him
I had become an island unto myself. I was island bound.
I learned more about him after he was gone
Than ever I
had known when he was alive,
But I dug deep this time. I searched his secrets out,
Secrets you had known all the time. Did you
use these as weapons-
No, I know you did not.
He would not be laid to rest next to you. Why?
Was it that
other old man,
that would be, could be, father of his that didn't quite jive.
Even in death, the both of you taunt me.
That family as far West as they can be, still remembers you,
Idolizing your beauty. Over a half a century later
still a knockout in the browning photos and
Hand-me-down memories. One sister still lives.
Perhaps it’s no mistake
that I’ve kept this single link unbroken.
Perhaps yet, I can find the energy to dig deep again,
Learn more about you now
Than I ever
knew when you were still alive,
and thereby reckon the hurt more to one you loved
most, I think, than not. Pain
strikes out at what it can most still reach.
I came to love and miss him.
I’d like to go out loving and missing you, just a little more, Marmion-
2010 by E.D. Ridgell
I find more and more
Ways to fill the days.
I surf for possibilities-
My interests are waning. I understand.
The specialist cancels-
Fails to get back to me.
I’m supposed to make an appointment.
fox trotted enough! I understand.
She checks me out on Facebook,
a thing or two,
But never ever comments.
She’s protecting her identity. I understand.
There is just enough oxygen
To glean in casual conversation,
The laziness of any real interest.
of another tribe. I understand.
I saw the child in him just once
he collided with a brother.
It lay to rest any fear
He might be a dullard. I understand.
I glean, always the last
They dig a hole in the backyard-
My mind journeys to that field
Where you grow impatient. I understand.
I recall we touched
On her, a little, and laughed, but
I did not miss
the sadness in her voice.
We were smothering. I understand.
love us but at a safe distance.
It’s not uncommon or
Never one to push pedal to medal,
I wait patiently at the crossing. I understand.
Much as I love them
I observe them build
Their own castles of sand
Too close to the incoming
tide. I understand.
E.D. Ridgell, 2015
"Who are you?"-
The only thing to muse over,
I wait for time,
Too fast, too fast, to catch-
Late, again? Always.
smiles and dies away.
The date is set in memory
Of a bright, near moon
Casting a shadow over the awe of it.
I ache in codeine cups,
Spewing tears out ducts
Down runways, well worn lines-
Aging speedways to the high teas
Of my long,
Today, bunnies graze in the lawn
Beyond the windowpane,
While the Mad Hatter in my brain,
Runs in and
out, up and down-
A black hole, no rabbit hole,
But another chit out my
Patch quilted heart,
While musing the
Cheshire cat's having
© 2012 by E.D. Ridgell
My Liberal Bleeding Heart!
you would not shoot the dove
…and you would not stick the straw dummy
With your soldier bayonet. The ‘Sarge’
Kicked your sorry ass all the
way back to the barracks
…and still you would not comply, my gentle brave heart!
You were so gentle with birds; pigeons, downy ducks, and geese-
All these were a part of my time with you, dead but never lost.
I have it here
locked in my heart, my liberal bleeding heart!
of you a little every ensuing day, and the last day of March
Still marches o’er
this broken heart, my liberal bleeding heart
...and you would not shoot the dove, no, not
you, my gentle man.
You were the bravest of the brave and the gentlest of men
... and you would not stick the straw dummy, but you would
Stab my heart, my sorry
ass liberal bleeding heart!
E.D. Ridgell, 2017
Sunshine on My Shoulders
My Sunshine, my little Leo,
always sounding with laughter,
heart and follow your bliss
to wherever you may wander
and, should you ever suspect,
you are abandoned and
at one of life’s little hiccups,
know this: it is not so.
The circumjacent lights
all that came before,
swirl about you, guardians and
stewards moving through time, ties ever constant,
the way and mending any broken toys.
Some are of that long shoe string that runs matrilineal
a Major for a fair Mary, a Harris
heralding from Crixee, lying in Henrico; then journeying still
farther back in
a same train to meander through
Coeur de Lions and their forebears;
and with still another string, my tie, moored
with islands of strange names like Smith and Tangier,
now mostly ghostly and no more. Add to these
woven of the Green Isle, patrilineal, and yet another
of a greatly grandmother at the foot of the
all the diverging, divers, and sundry regions of an Old World
entangling your spirit and soul,
and, then, emulate the best and noblest of each.
Be free of any fear of death knowing it is but a passing back
into arms that are always waiting,
reflections longing to enfold you once again,
not the least and brightest
mirrored in mine.
I am Edward, son of the same,
one of many watching wards who with gentle reminders,
on the air, brush your wispy hair.
We, descended of forerunners,
entwined in lines that bind us all
parting in that honor and fidelity to family,
are all of one accord in espousing all you do.
Be a gentle man
even if the times are not.
Forsake all temptations that might temper what is noblest in you.
Champion the less fortunate,
succor the needy,
and preserve what’s righteous and true.
Stand up to tyranny, safeguard justice, and by
be as a color blue; primary, mixed of no other colors that might
lessen the beautiful attributes
of your hue.
Blue does not excuse you from the many responsibilities due,
I am your grandfather. Know me and
hear me in these words I ensue,
though still here, child, circumfluent around you
in a misty love stuffed in a toy
box of temperate reminders to sue,
and, although you can not see and touch it, encircles you still,
since when with these few love laced lines,
branching from the heart, I penned this little poem for you,
my little Leo.
© 2007 E. D. Ridgell
A Farewell To Arms
The children visited today,
And I touched
on you a couple of times,
Gently, just lightly grazing on your memory.
Showing Ally a picture of Tom,
I spoke of pancreatic
cancer and my own loss.
took this much as a sweetheart would,
But then all three of them are sweethearts,
Trying to make sense out of this rum world.
you softened, any? I hope so, and
I think you know, I'll do the best
I can. Rest.
is as cut and dry as we sometimes
Reckon it to be. Each chapter turns, as
A turnstile, and we turn every which way it turns.
All I ever did was tumble like a tumbleweed through storms
that inevitably followed one on another, one after the other.
I'll be riding the carousel a little while
Longer. I'll do the best I can, I promise you.
sad I missed your last call the night you died,
But as I listened to
your last words to me,
I could not but take to heart, those not spoken.
E.D. Ridgell, 2013
*Rudy served in Nam and
is decorated for action
fire. So much for
Ask. Don't Tell!"
In Medias Res
Of our many musings in medias res
miss those most at end of day
When we nestled side by side
With Kitty atop my lap
Purring dreams of prey
Would settle into silent unspoken close of day
Now silence screams at me in such a way
To harshly herald
a costly price to pay
For those innocent lost musings in medias res
© 2005 E.D.Ridgell
A Picture Perfect Day, Today.
They’ve all left now, finally.
I’ve only ever wanted to die alone
free from the eyes and hands
This is a home in which I am not at home.
The doors swing silently and there are no locks save one.
It is my last move, I know. I doubt I’ll need most things
in those brown boxes they packed and labeled for me.
Where has the white box gotten to, my pills and pictures?
There it is over there. I’ll get it later, if
I decide to play with my pills
today, or maybe I’ll cut one or two in half to save for the future.
want to look at pictures today, desperate attempts to recapture
summary events slowly fading away. Someone just came
in and left without
saying a word to me. That’s OK. I’m feeling tired today, so busy disappearing. E. D.
Threadbare dry goods in a pine desk here
bruised and folded in a blue mound,
soldiering hats hanging on my heart I fear,
like the camouflage cap
in the shed at the rear,
'side dry hemlocks fainting pale flowers down.
Threadbare dry goods in a pine desk here
lie with dog tags cold to the touch and queer;
these taps in a hewn box you found-
hanging on my heart. I fear
hallowed eyes of a prized bisque so dear
spying trembling hands once wrapped
threadbare dry goods. In a pine desk here
dungarees in the bottom drawer tease a tear
the company of years lying ‘round
soldiering hats hanging on my heart I fear.
Oh were it not so and
love’s fate less clear,
and I had nary a need for these to abound;
threadbare dry goods in a pine box here
soldiering hats hanging on my heart I fear.
© 2006 E.D.Ridgell
|Conti is a masculine form of pastel one of my favorite mediums
Lurking © 2005 E.D.Ridgell [Conti on Paper] |
Come the Mating Season,
the winds of autumn egg on,
spice among the dried, standing stalks
of jealous husks;
vaporous fingers beaconing,
come deeper into the wood.
Dewy eyed does,
innocent and alluring,
perfuming the air,
briefly taunt at the meadow’s edge,
gesturing with their white flags-
eager, atypically bold.
Stags snort the stages of the rut
in the chilly, pre-dawn-
eyes, blood shot circles with bulls-eyes, stalk
even as they scrape and mark with glandular
fiercely, guarded territory;
wood, corn field, secluded meadowland-
fields of battle to shame and tame the bucks.
the mounted delivery-
eager, so eager for the seed.
The instinct to breed-
the chaotic performing of rites;
natural prescriptions of some source?
There is that encumbrance
on all that is born.
living feeds off of something else living-
one dying for the needs of the other, or just for being gotten
caught out in the cycles that must turn just so.
Death is prescribed and constant.
And so, that lowered guard,
so uncharacteristic, becomes a hole
spewing and spurting the life blood of any
caught in the centered sites of the adamant.
He dies, carcass flung, hung,
and pieced per need or want,
the morality of it dismissed as nothing more than
the feigned, feminine mask of Eve.
the first season, if the last be not lethal,
the, once again, cautious and retiring does
deliver with a mystery as old as their lines,
running back to the beginnings of time,
their evolutionary results
of some Big Bang,
simply the birthing of the little fawns of spring.
© 2008 by E.D. Ridgell
On The Queen’s Seventieth Wedding Anniversary
I was all of three maybe four
the place like the grazing chickens,
When I encountered him, one of dozens of old men,
Lounging around on the rustic, lawn furniture
Of Grammy’s self-style nursing
I suppose I expected him to be welcoming
With that all encompassing and sure hug of hers-
Grammy hug that to this day I can still feel, smell, and fall into-
A mixture of floral, bart
cloth, talcum powder, and eu de cologne.
He let it be known that, no, I was not his grandchild
and I took his point to heart.
There would be mingling
enough but never, ever, any softness.
He seemed to me the oldest and coldest man in my tiny
I’m not even sure where they planted him. I am sure I don’t care.
He died quickly of a stroke as she lay wasting away into the cancer cavern.
remember his funeral and that my mother’s tears shocked others.
No, grandparents were not fulsome things to me-
An aunt and some cousins filled in
I hadn’t had all that good a recollection of my West Coast grandfather,
Although the last time I did see him he got silly and donned a woman’s feathered hat-
I liked that! She and I had gone to see “Oklahoma” together. She is all good memory.
I’ve tried to be the best grandfather I could be given the circumstances.
Each has at least one poem penned to each and I’ve always been a particular gift giver.
I like to give gifts, more so than to receive them, really. I think that’s a self affirmation,
Although every poet has one ear to his reader, that’s just common sense.
pen is mightier than the sword and wielded just so an “ I love you” for the ages!
E. D. Ridgell, The Queen’s Seventieth Wedding Anniversary
|I'm the only one left in the group
A Lonely Raker
What will I do with these raked,
pine needles this fall,
that have been for
some twenty years
warm bedding for your geese through winter?
How should I feel at this lonely raking,
with its lumbering, one-handed bagging,
as the shedding pines wag whispers;
"Where is Lorraine?’\"
Do I sense a gloating at left-lain bounty?
Years ago with six rakes raking,
we all were gleeful at the newly,
There were needles enough bagged away,
leaving overheard gloating rooting
under our poaching
of their acidic expectations.
I remember a cold autumn’s day,
when here we raked in the knowing fear
of a premonitory, winter’s wake
for our cancerous and chilliest raker.
He offered small piles muddled with fallen colors,
auspices to usher in the winning season;
four rakes raking
under pines reckoning.
Amidst sounds of raven’s caws
in a stand of snotty pines,
I am a lonely raker raking,
amongst the taunting pines needling
haunting and wistful chorus,
"Where is Lorraine?"
2009 by E.D. Ridgell
|I did this sometime in the Seventies...Conti on Paper
|Again, Conti which is pretty much limited to these colors- Earthen Colors
Landscape in Conte © 2005 E.D.R.
|The Artist Sturgis an ancestor of mine on my Mom's side.
Daddy’s a Real Live Artist
And she just all of a sudden said,
“Daddy, you’re a
real live artist, aren’t you?”
I just nodded yes.
I didn’t know then it would be a test.
Daddy won’t mimic a child’s hero!
Art is more important you see
false front of me.
I hope that you will weigh my “to be”
With what some falsely see.
be free and I’ll risk the fee-
For Daddy is a real live artist, you see.
Sown of Plantagenets
And rough men of the sea
You need no better pedigree.
I hope you’ll still love me
© 2005 E.D.Ridgell
Why was it you wanted a Sulpician, you, a Pole?
But, then, you did not have time to
explain this last rite,
before falling into that antechamber dispassionate and in-between.
I swear there was
smoothness to it like Chivez Regal,
that comradery at our meeting so immediate it needed no chaser.
It was not some
barroom, blood-brotherhood sealed with a boilermaker.
I stood at the broken post of the four poster bed
pondered a scene as from Brideshead Revisited,
trying to suppress tears deemed unmanly.
Grief, the wood-walk
on stilts through a mad void,
was, with time, tempered folding in the feeling-stalks
that grabbed at the sky just
after your dirge.
I was so bruised and burned, seared and scorched,
at the cremation of that broad racked,
well tined friendship,
I forgot the bliss and history of it. Forgive a friend!
When, You Thick-headed Pollack,
my time comes,
if time allows, I’ll call for a Sulpician to bestow
forgiveness upon him before crossing over
to box those Golabki ears.
© 2007 by E.D. Ridgell