One last War It was a new kind of war- Wave after wave of cyber attacks Commanded by artificial intelligences and Led by legends of robots. Mercy was programmed out- Everything was methodically mathematic. The living things were prizes behind curtains, Calculated aphids. It was the last war Decided before it was begun. It’s history was ready for publication  Before the first attack. Nobody won and  Everybody lost. It was The war to end all wars.                            E.D. Ridgell 2018 _______________________________________________  The Judas Jewess   As I recall she just appeared from nowhere  Dressed in a black and white chiffon thingy? Was she playing with balloons And did she hopscotch- Step on a line to break her mother’s back? My mother would die across that street Though I didn’t know that then.   Rachel was fat, very fat. She had a sweet tooth, A high-top woman, Tightly wrapped in a tent I probably loved her- I bedded her just once. That was enough!                                                  E. D. Ridgell, 2018 _____________________________________________________________  Old Man Won't You Look At Me Now! I just spied a mirror, And I do believe Im still here! How did I contrive to get this old? There are a few comrades Holding on- All of us caught in the headlights! The politics are nasty, downright  uncivil! I'm a tired old hippie  holding out a wilted flower! I'm alive! Do you think that was easy? Is a man three score plus not a marvel to behold?                                                  c. E.D. Ridgell, 2016     Twain's House in Hartford Connecticutt A Jewel In Hartford's Crown   She still bespeaks ingenuity. She 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 change  Wrought by death and time To this house gone homeless.   She's fallen out of mode, her vistas ruined, Replaced by things more pressing to Hartford. He loved to gaze from her eyes  But found this distracting. When his pen raced its way across page after page. He mused instead in a windowless corner Overlooking a beautiful, felt covered, cue table, Sporting his gentlemanly manor.   The girls were dear in those early years And they liked to play with cherubs  Pawned from atop the bed's headboard. Many years later he'd die,  His head wrong way round, so that he might gaze  At 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 on, 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 Future but a way to death."   And 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. Humorous 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.                                                                        E.D. Ridgell Aquitaine and Pop Pop 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 just 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 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 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 on the brow to remind you, Pop-Pop loves you, too, Past the distance through all change  Beyond the silly seeming confines of time.                                                       2005- Pop-Pop __________________________________________________________  Down Drowning Old, now, I wish that I could tell you The world is a happier place. I wish that My grandchildren Could have a greener earth. The weather  Walks on stilts O'er sodden ground, down drowning in apathy.  The rich  Stare down on Wall Street protesters Waving martini's sporting twists of lemon peel. Cameras are everywhere And somehow nowhere. A sore festers to beget two. It's have or have not, As I Beget havers! Cull me, sweet Jesu, As the full flower moon salutes the night. "I follow on the water."   _________________________________________________                              Pic is the copyright of another.... A White Swan   Billowing o’er Waves fingering Emotive ejections, Bump, bumpity bump To the snap crackle and pop, Swan songs Feathered white on white.   After a first toke Eager for icing I never looked back- Escaping completely Coming close to failing- Not taking the bit and Riding naked into the night On Equus in search of Parnassus, An empathy of opposites.   “BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!   The shock of every second Of being alive!” I still feel them- Billowing o’er  waves fingering Emotive ejections- Snap, crackle and pop- Swan songs Feathered white on white.                                   E. D. Ridgell   Suddenly Like Somebody!   I feel that curtain Of disabling depression Closing in on me, That periodically Dims the stage lights That I need to feel Different and special In some small way- Different, that’s all!   In the first grade Sixty years ago She gave me crayons. I drew a happy house Under a disarming Sunlight. She had me, Hold it up, for all to see, And I felt Suddenly, like somebody! Hephaestion was the childhood friend of Alexander the Great, fellow student of Aristotle, and his principle confident as well as one of his generals for life. Labels before the Christian era regarding "straight" or "homosexual" are just not able to convey the entirely different sexual mores and attitudes towards sexual preference and practices between the two distinct times. Hephaestion was Alexander the Great's principle lover and only trusted confident throughout his life yet both took wives and begat children. Hephaestion's death shortly before Alexander's and the possible influences on Alexander afterwards is interesting enough to Google if history is your thing. The form of the poem is a ghazal.                                    E. D. Ridgell _____________________________________________     Switch hit! Broken, Bucephalus took the bit- no docile ass onward to switch hit. Salutations of twilling pages 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; fore contemplation so carefully, the subject, poor in degree, switch hit. And come the summons-genuflecting, a subject’s 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 __________________________________________  Pinch Me! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph But he’s crazy- Bat shit crazy!  Treasonous Trump, but no. Play it close to the chest. Sticks and stones… Words do hurt. Wars follow on fools words, Or worse, tyranny. There are  Tyrants about- Presidents For Life, Tzars For The Foreseeable. Your grieving your country you know? Pull yourself together. It’s not you or yours That’s really hurt’n. There’s so much hurt, naked suffering- Insufferable, oppressive abuse of power. No, worse, physical and mental abuse! Pinch me!                                            E. D. Ridgell, 2019 _____________________________________________________________  A Peculiar Mind   He occupies a peculiar mind. Everything he opines is perfect And he’s under appreciated  Even persecuted,  At least in his peculiar mind.   He’s influenced most  By the last person he meets But it doesn’t always stick. His opinions are pliable, Down right malleable.   He’d sweep the forests of Finland, Plant his standard in Greenland, And have the tsar to din-din If he could have his way. He’s a gift for getting his way.   It’s his way or the highway and  Many find his way Is an expressway to prison. He prides himself on firing people And when not firing people he pardons them.   He occupies a peculiar mind. Everything he opines is perfect And he’s under appreciated  Even persecuted,  At least in his peculiar mind.                                                             E. D. Ridgell __________________________________________________________________  A Last Lie   We were walking side by side In a high-tide, wetland under the hot Somerset sun, And I had warned Tom not to trust the stones, When, all of a sudden, down goes Tom. Turning, 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 did Tom do to suffer such horror for which now I funnel teaspoon after teaspoon down parsed lips? The 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 while. We share that same religion that belies an independent course. I bend down for one last kiss and whisper a last lie- “It’s alright to die. I’ll be okay.”                                                                                                   E D Ridgell	_______________________________________________________   Guardian   They still say a mass for Larry Every All Souls Day, And Edward passed two years now Edie, gone also, told me that Edward and Larry had a falling out Which saddens me.  Theirs was a decades long affair.   It’s just as Cindy says. Russell has Disappeared from the face of the earth, And I feel my neglect of him bores deep. I hope he did not pour himself into a potter’s field, For Charm City. He’d grown far too cockeyed,  A liquor-free fundamentalist.   Everybody’s so cocksure, nowadays. They haven’t a clue,   And you can count be in. I know there is and never will be  Any proof of an Almighty- On this, it’s faith alone,  Unless like me you’ve an angel.   Once upon a time,  A sandy haired, little boy napped atop a  White, chenille bedspread of pom-poms,  Only to awaken and find an older boy  Seated at the foot of the bed With a reassurance and a Smile broad enough to last a lifetime.                                              c. E.D. Ridgell, 2015                                                 revised 2018 ______________________________________________________________  TOM 1944-1999 - - - - - - - - - -    Lamenting   Minds mingling, Thoughts entwining- Two wounded hearts Seek shoring up At an ensuing  Parting to come As sand measures Time slipping away.   Unraveling needs Tick company, As death saunters forth Sundering up and o'er Our last defenses 'Fore ushering in grief- Intruding on thundering hooves Jumping a final fence.   Going on, not caring where, Into tedious rituals of living, Slowly wasting away, I  Lamenting your departing, Deftly mimic anything And everything To mask the pain Of losing you.           © 2005 E. D. Ridgell                 revised 2018  TOM 1944-1999 - - - - - - - - -  ____________________ 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 OK to die I’ll be alright!”             c. E.D. Ridgell _________________________________ 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 _________________________   Anonymous   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 Plaiting patterns. I hit walls. There are secrets to uncover, Then scatter under the catalpa trees Left untold in ashes of me.   I know of heroes. I know of fools. I know many folk make family And some stories 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, faire future kinsman Will never tie the ends together. “Remember me!” Do not leave me Hanging here, anonymous!                                             c. E.D. Ridgell   ___________________________    Sylvia The Last Supper Of Aunt Bea Andy finds her half in and half out of the oven, Pantyhose 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. The organ Still resonates from her mornings touch. Her 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, Opening on gossamer buds. Beatrice is finished With all the tedious rituals Of sewing bees and church suppers. Her 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  In the remaining three and marking  The last supper of Aunt Bea.                                                         E.D. Ridgell ___________________________________________________________________  1<object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NkOoZDK7Rz8?fs=1&amp;hl=en_US&amp;rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed Marmion 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. My mind’s 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 You’re 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- Mommy!                                                           © 2010 by E.D. Ridgell     New York New York  Grand Central and the grand staircase  The train bays, the hustle the bustle, Stock-still people at magazine stands. New York New York  Central Park West 67th and the walk through the green grass Every morning past the Dakota to the MET. New York New York That taxi that took me through a tunnel. None of a thousand cabs ever has an accident Or knows where it’s going. New York New York  Trinity Church and Alexander Hamilton  New York our city, Rudy and me, Middle aged lovers discovering that city-  New York New York  Christopher Street and walking with Trissa  Shopping an alarm system  At that sore with the steps. New York New York  Sporting a pair of Mia Mia’s and  Having the guts to take them back.  I love New York, with it’s tread- worn, sidewalks. New York New York Liberty at Church  USA, One O O O Seven E. D. Ridgell 2018 _______________________________  I Understand.   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. I’ve fox trotted enough! I understand.   She checks me out on Facebook, Likes 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. He’s of another tribe. I understand.   I saw the child in him just once When he collided with a brother. It lay to rest any fear He might be a dullard. I understand.   I glean, always the last to hear, 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.   They love us but at a safe distance. It’s not uncommon or unloving. 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.                                         c. E.D. Ridgell, 2015 _______________________________________________
The Closed Door This side the door abasement, Degradation to demean, Forges the fostered shame Into cruel excitement. Beyond the door-  Mother’s  snakes, Numb the gut to Unmerciful resistance. This side the door Barred from the norm. Truth transfixed upon an arm’s Tattoos. Beyond the door, Sopping tears- Blue, bruised, beaten breasts, Do not seduce a son’s pity. This side the door  Acceptance resolved To revenge and Prick out identity. Beyond the door eyes Peer past the boy. Once intent to steal some notice, He waits no more in hope. This side the door- la recette, The fault not in Achilles but mortal Oedipal seed sown  Of queer deed and masochism.                                © 2005 E. D. Ridgell                                     Revised 2018 ____________________________________________________  Teddy Has moved out of harm’s way, Into arms o’er there, on the far metaphor, Under the cool shade and fluttering wings. Cleansed clean as when anointed  In fine, Irish linen, swaddling clothes- He came into this world, Full of unshaded, primary things. Tempered with trials and troubles, The hot blood of a Wastrel and wealthy kinfolk, America’s sacrificial Kennedy clan. No matter. In these last decades He found his calling. Teddy rose high in the legislative annals Of this Great Republic. The sod is not set and yet Men behind curtains Slide a cosmopolitan, pretty boy  Centerfold into his place.    He is stalwart history now, Left leaving that dream Parading on in its long, long,  March to equality.   “For all those whose cares   have been our concern, the work goes on,   the cause endures, the hope still lives,   and the dream shall never die. ...”                                               © 2018 by E.D. Ridgell     _______________________________________    I Think Back On Black   In the immediacy of grief  Of that black, one-piece swimsuit That so suited you. It was another meet won, But it was not so much  The triumph, as your stroke And the whooping of it.   Just once before I’d seen your breaststroke, Practiced with particular pride- 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 in my memory, I remember that day When you sent the others away. After 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 hair  Under the, green, Bay water.   How patiently you urged me on, That little boy, so hesitant, and frightened- So anxious not to let you down. We struggled on and through, And with both of us triumphant, You took me up to the cottage house- 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!                         E. D. Ridgell ____________________________________    Cheshire Cat "Who are you?"- The only thing to muse over, While I wait for time, Too fast, too fast, to catch- Late, again? Always. Time smiles and dies away. The date is set in memory Of a bright, near moon Casting a shadow over the awe of it. Oh, but I ache in codeine cups, Spewing tears out ducts Down runways, well worn lines- Aging speedways to the high teas Of my long, long, journey. 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 Stopped purring Altogether.               © 2012 by E.D. Ridgell __________________________________________  My Liberal Bleeding Heart! …and 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! I think 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 aka Little Sam ______________________________________    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 Stewarts 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 faire 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 add More threads woven of that Green Isle,  Patrilinial 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 these. Be free of any fear of death  Knowing it is but a passing back Into arms that are always waiting,  Reflextions 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 is 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  Lesson 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                                                             Revised 2018 __________________________________________________________________________  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. Ally took this much as a sweetheart would, But then all three of them are sweethearts, Trying to make sense out of this rum world. Have you softened, any? I hope so, and  I think you know, I'll do the best I can. Rest. Nothing is as cut and dry as we sometimes Reckon it to be. Each chapter turns, as on  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. I'm 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	Down Skyline Either side the Beatle Miles and miles of  Green, washed beauty Stretched out  Backing up to a Long, long ridge of Blue, hazed mountains. These it seemed had no end A range of valley  Needing filling- Forrests teaming  With wildlife, And speckled  With the occasional farm. I was young  In this salad country  Mesmerized by its beauty Seduced to a lifetime Of fidelity to that land, The test in a struggle  For democracy. It was as to a wall The vista of which Some as I lived out  Their brief patches of life In harmony to principles Coupled to secular Loyalties for that country.                            E. D. Ridgell _____________________________ Stonewall Riding a bucking bronchial Side saddled, her purring Comforting to the ear. Cashmere companion She weighs heavily On my brewing brow. I’m always somewhere  In a future fearing the  Stewing of my mind’s eye. It is an anchor Bouncing the bottom Of my sandy floor. I can no more aweigh In a turbulent sea than any My forefathers before me. I would cross o’er and  “Rest under the shade of the trees” If I were not so cowardly. Praise be then and  Pray for me as I  Ride out yet another storm. Moreover I am as ready  To cross o’er the water As by my God I ere be.                E. D. Ridgell, 2019 ________________________________________  Meka Little footfalls, On sheets Around me Tell me she is softy Stepping, my tiny, furry, White-booted companion still just a kitten. She curls to sleep,  Of a night Not to the right of,  Not to the left of, But right on top of my feet. It anchors the affection Between us. Rolling to and fro, Back and forth  On her slick and sleek, Coal-black,  Back of fur, Shows how much  She trusts me. Her name is Meka, as in  "Take me kause I'm pretty!" Politely she sits waiting For me to give her  Exactly two treats,  No more, no less.  It's a ritual. No one can explain to me How my feline friend  Can hang from me  An appendage unnoticed. Nobody can explain how I know She's my last little companion. I just do.                                     c. E.D. Ridgell, 2014                                        Revised 2018 _______________________________________________________  The Archangel   I climbed the big feather bed As a cool breeze whistled  Through cornfields outside, And I fell into a innocent sleep.  The air smelled sweat as I toyed With white chenille pompoms.  It was a summer’s nap.   I awoke to a soft voice  Whispering, Safe, soothing, then gone. That afternoon a black snake out the creek-  I knew no fear as though the boy were near.   Dick hacked and hung it from the fence and  I've trusted Michael ever since.                                        c. E. D. Ridgell 2015                                            Revised 2018 Rudy Cowardly lion Kindly needy Sleepy head Echoing songs Soldier Hero Easy shot A Sahaab Sharing Autumn © 2005 E.D.Ridgell   *Rudy served in Nam and is decorated for action under fire. So much for "Dont Ask. Don't Tell!" ____________________ 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 ___________________________________________________________ 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 ___________________________________________________________                Threadbare Goods  Threadbare goods in a pine desk here  Bruised and folded a blue mound  Soldier hats hanging on my heart I fear  Like your cap in the shed at the rear  Side drying hemlocks fainting flowers down  Threadbare goods in a pine desk here  Side dog tags cold to the touch and queer  These taps in that hewn box you found  Soldier hats hanging on my heart I fear  Hallowed eyes of that bisque so dear  Spying trembling hands once wrapped round  Threadbare dry goods In a pine desk here Dungarees in the bottom drawer tease a tear Worn from the company of years lying around Soldier hats hanging on my heart I fear Oh if it were not so and fate unclear  And I had nary a need for these to abound  Threadbare dry goods in a pine box here  Soldier hats hanging on my heart I fear                                                  E D Ridgell   ________________________________  Young Man! What is this,  I’m too old? What did I do, grow up? I’m not Peter Pan. If not forward, Where would I go? This life doesn’t run In reverse. Go forward Young man!                          E. D. Ridgell 2018 ________________________________________
Conti is a masculine form of pastel one of my favorite mediums Lurking © 2005 E.D.Ridgell [Conti on Paper]	I’ve Fallen Down and…   Suddenly the blacktop and I were on intimate terms. The oxygen unit was in one hand: I'd locked The driver’s door with the other- There was a mound of frozen, sooty, snow in my path. It was my undoing.   I dove in temple first, hit my mark, as my tennis shoes  continued on their way leaving me unshod.  It was a Cattywhompus undertaking that failed. Winter had beaten me up. I could not pull myself up.  A passing car stopped, collected me, and set me aright.   It’s the next morning after a terrible night  But I’m still here. The Virgo in me is sifting more good than bad. I’m licking my wounds, licking my chapped lips, nursing my ratcheted ribs, Juggling muscles in my lower back,  And thanking my lucky stars it was not worse.   In my salad years, My father told me  “Son, if you fall down, pick yourself up, and don’t quit.”  That man was indomitable.  I am that man’s son.   E. D. Ridgell, 2020       Contact me at: er21120@msn.com
Come the Mating Season,   the winds of autumn egg on, scents, smells: 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 warnings their fiercely, guarded territory; wood, corn field, secluded meadowland- fields of battle to shame and tame the bucks.   Caution, no consideration; only the mounted delivery- estruses serviced, 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. Everything 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.   Come 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, or 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 Just roaming 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 home.  I suppose I expected him to be welcoming like her, With that all encompassing and sure hug of hers- That 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 world. 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. I do 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 those holes. 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. The 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, 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             Revised 2018    _________________________________________________
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 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 ___________________________________________________________	Tom and I early on 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 ___________________________________________________________