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Allyson
Greer
I love you, too, my little Aquitaine, the first born, the bridge over the grief these five years, now, when
then, your other grandfather, the better half my soul, left barely missing you; and I the other side of bereft beyond any
need but wasting away; and she presented you to me to see there nestled in my arms the hint of another morning to beacon hope,
and suggest a 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 and time, you were there to say; “I 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 to remind you that Pop-Pop loves you, too, past all
distance through all change beyond the silly seeming confines of time
© 2005 E.D.Ridgell
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Missin’ Billy Jim
They lifted the little box
and it seemed to weigh them down
out
of all portion to the weight
they might have borned.
It seemed strange to me seein’
that it should
take four men
to carry such a little thing
no bigger then our toy chest.
No one seemed happy
or
wantin’ to play
and I didn’t understand
the necessaries of lines than.
My mother held my
hand so tight
I thought I’d done somethin’ wrong,
plus Billy Jim still wasn’t back
from
wherever they’d said he’d gone.
The parlor was usually off base
‘cept on Sunday after the
grownups
had finished in the big white buildin’
and my brother and I had snucked a swim.
This
was a long time ago
and I’m already in the first grade,
linin’ up every mornin’ at the bell
a’wonderin’ when Billy Jims’ comin’ home.
© 2007 by E.D. Ridgell
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I Think Back on Black
I think back on black
in this immediacy of my grief;
that black one piece swim suit that so suited you.
It
was another meet won
but it was not so much the triumph as the swim
and your whooping at it.
Just once
I saw your breast stroke,
practiced and particular, your pride.
I observed the beauty of a crane,
its wings
waking the water,
just before the tranquil stillness
that signals its sinking into a settled rest.
Vividly,
etched now in my memory,
I remember that day
when you sent the others away
after the normal morning swim.
With reassuring words you conveyed
this was my day of baptism;
for the first time, I must duck my
sandy,sun-bleached
hair underwater.
How patiently you urged me on;
that little boy so hesitant and frightened,
anxious to never
let you down.
We struggled through the morning,
and with both of us triumphant
you took me up to the
summer house;
you put me before the others for only the day;
for favorites were not your way. Tonight, even in my
grieving,
I can still taste the salt-lick, salty Chesapeake as
I think back on black.
© 2007 by E.D.Ridgell
___________________________________________________________ Incidere Nos in Risus [Cut Us in Laughter] January 1,2008 “Well, what family doesn't have its ups and downs?”…an actor’s
cliché or the spirit that is your bloodline?- like Bacchus’s wine, hackneyed humor dulls our
pain. I know no line of the family, and it is my business to know the lines, that does not weave its
history with weft lighter than it’s warp. I have watched you, Trissa Tatiana, this last year, mirror
those reflections- our ancestors salve; practiced generation upon generation down through time, no less
the generation that is mine. We’ve weathered many misfortune’s whims marred too much in woe than blessed
in fortune with continuous deadpans of feigned wit, until in the end even we thought better of it than it really
seemed. Christ, we’re good! “Christus vincit, Christus regnat, Christus triumphat” We survive
it all and leave it in our dust for our children’s children to stroll upon under the shade of the Catalpa
trees, and when that day comes when you spread me on the Palace Green recite my motto, if you please: “Licentia
lemma in vos pulvis”. You make a father proud. You have done no wrong, and for that you win even
in the losing of harmonious time to the tempest. Like Einhard, Eleanor, and William, that is in truth but the
continuum of merging lines, you cut us in laughter. I, Edward, your father, have noted it here; with all the
good humor and irony that makes a farce of our serious play. © 2008 by E.D. Ridgell
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TOM 1944-1999
Lamenting
Minds mingling
Thoughts
emerging
Together
wounded hearts
seek sustenance
in vigil waiting.
Unraveling
time keeps company
death
impending until
sundering silence
ushers in grief
Intruding
Going on not caring where
into tedious rituals
of living
I lamenting
mimic a beginning
deftly masking no ending
to loving you.
© 2005 E.D.Ridgell
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The Last Lie
In the last hours alone
just you and I,
finally,
it was here,
the
rattle.
I knew you were beyond pain.
I hoped you could hear
a last loving lie;
“It’s alright to die
I’ll be OK”
E.D. Ridgell
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Here After
The other side of an instant
Nothing
Anything not witnessed
Lost
Never
was
And so
We paint rocks
Tattoo trees
Kodak moments
Chisel monuments
Dig and
sift
And pray
© 2005 E.D.Ridgell
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Anonymous
I have known six generations now,
and it is unlikely I will see
many more.
That is a long line with many to know-
too many to meet.
I am the scribe. I unravel lines while
plaiting
patterns. I hit walls.
There are secrets to uncover;
then scatter under the Catalpa trees
left untold in the ashes
of me.
I know of heroes. I know of fools.
I know many folk make family,
all with stories that beget more.
The
spiders never cease spinning
and their webs grow and grow. I am
destined 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, fair, future kinsman
will
never tie the ends together.
“Remember me”. Do not leave me
hanging here, anonymous.
© 2009 by E.D. Ridgell
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Sunshine on My Shoulders
My Sunshine, my little Leo,
always
sounding with laughter,
shore your heart and follow your bliss
to wherever you may wander
and, should you ever suspect,
you
are abandoned and alone
at one of life’s little hiccups,
know this: it is not so.
The circumjacent lights
of
all that came before,
swirl about you, guardians and
stewards moving through time, ties ever constant,
lighting
the way and mending any broken toys.
Some are of that long shoe string that runs matrilineal
through Lygon, 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 to Poseidon
with
islands of strange names like Smith and Tangier,
now mostly ghostly and no more. Add to these more threads
woven of
the Green Isle, patrilineal, and yet another
of a greatly grandmother at the foot of the Alhauer Alps,
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,
whispers on the air, brush your wispy hair.
We, descended of forerunners,
entwined in lines that bind us all
in wakes 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 your heritage
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,
many years since when with these few love laced lines,
branching from the heart, I penned this little
poem for you,
my Sunshine, my little Leo.
© 2007 E. D. Ridgell
So Many Hams, So Many Hams
The
salt cured ham has been ordered.
Lillian, has agreed to come and cook it, after boring it and
stuffing it with kale
as is a southern Maryland tradition.
Lillian is Missus Sophie’s daughter, that kindly black woman
who had worked
for my grandmother,
and while at her many labors kept us boys in hand, and out of trouble,
or at best as much as it
is possible to keep
bold young rascals out of mischief.
Many a raid on her pantry she thwarted with her broom
in
that way that is firmly felt to the bottom but nevertheless loving.
Sophie stuffed a ham for my grandfather
and, just
ten days later, for my grandmother.
It was those old hands also who prepared the tribute
for my mother some ten years
later.
When Dad died over a decade thereafter, it was Miss Lillian who performed the ritual.
Sophie had passed on
and it was my Aunt Bette who had bored the holes for the kale
that seasoned the meat for this good woman’s wake.
That
was almost thirty years ago and Miss Lillian had now grown old.
I was shocked to see just how much so when last year we
laid my Uncle Bud,
dubbed “The Judge” to a final rest beside the St. Mary’s River.
I’m waiting on the call that
will summon me yet again down that road
to where the Chesapeake and Potomac collide.
Aunt Bette that is to me like
a second mother is slowly but surely slipping away.
The salt cured ham has been ordered.
Lillian has agreed to come
and cook it;
so many kale stuffed, salt cured hams,
so many hams,
so many hams.
© 2007 by
E.D. Ridgell
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Rudy
Cowardly lion
Kindly needy
Sleepy
head
Echoing songs
Soldier Hero
Easy shot
A Sahaab
Sharing Autumn
© 2005 E.D.Ridgell
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Dry Goods
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-
soldiering hats hanging on my heart. I fear
hallowed eyes of a prized bisque so
dear
spying trembling hands once wrapped around
threadbare dry goods. In a pine desk here
dungarees in the
bottom drawer tease a tear
worn from 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
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In Medias Res
Of our many musings in medias res
I 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
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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 of strangers
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.
I don’t 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. Ridgell
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Lurking © 2005 E.D.Ridgell [Conti on Paper]
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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,
gotten geese.
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
their haunting and wistful chorus,
"Where is Lorraine?"
© 2009 by E.D. Ridgell
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Landscape in Conte © 2005 E.D.R.
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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
can’t!
Daddy won’t mimic a child’s hero!
Art is more important you see
Than some false front of me.
I hope
that you will weigh my “to be”
With what some falsely see.
I must 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
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A Sulpician
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
and 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
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