DAD'S GERMAN SHEPPERD, GEOGIA GAL !  ———————————————————————————     Emergency Exit Only! Again, a long hallway with many doors, All leading into empty rooms without windows. The naked lights of inexpensive fluorescence  Hang down like yellow nooses. It was just another alley in a moonlit night, So long ago in search of the mother Who flew the coop. You've encountered Abandonment before. You've walked with the rats. A decade later it was an alley in Bolton Hill, The lit liquor store, a beacon in the night. How did I ever find the strength? From where  Down there in the gut did I pull up hope?  I'd muster up and out, flee that hallway, Only to wander down another, always with Those empty rooms under the shabby, yellow lights. There never was a room with a window and a way out! The wallpaper seems to be fading, And those lights, not out altogether, flicker. The air is heavy and it's harder and harder to breath, There's always that door at the end of the hallway. The one marked "Emergency Exit Only"!                                                  c. E. D, Ridgell, 2014 ******************** If Truth Be known! My mother, God rest her soul, Taught me well how to worry. That’s why, exist or not, I need God. Somebody must shoulder my burden. It’s still hard for me to turn it over- The control. I want to steer with my many resentments. That would neither be fair Or, if truth be known, Very good for my soul. I’m a sweetheart of a man, But no stranger to sin- Just your everyday sort of a man!                               c. E.D. Ridgell, 2016  ________________________________________   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-r 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 of a liberal bleeding heart!                                                                        E.D. Ridgell, 2017	Taylor Haven   You feign much bravado, Seemingly independent, Sure and strong willed. You mask some hurt, Inherent to the middle, A cicatrix of a breach in our bastion. . It is of no matter. Such sweetness cannot be sequestered Behind guises of chagrined affectations. You are not camouflaged from Pop-Pop Who sees and notes these cloaked balusters  Fortifications against seemingly, shaming sorties. Life will not be half as hard as you fear, And all of us with the x-ray eyes Will stand guard in the wings till your fears subside.                                                                                      E D Ridgell  _______________________________________   It Isn’t Death I Fear!   It is its lynchpin, grief, That I disdain, deriding That void that cannot be filled.   Memories- His warm embrace as he bit my cheek- That playful way he had of embellishing The most normal act with that physiognomy All his own, that roped and tied My reluctant heart down.   That way she had of tilting her head just so, The one eye stepped forward so slightly before the other, All above a beguiling smile, that every so often Broke out into that charming laugh That pursued and wooed me.   The way she arranged her baby dolls all in a row, So that she could pick which next to hold, And rock in her sweet little arms While mimicking her mommy.   I have not forgotten the gravestone I came upon, With all the little plastic, play trucks, tanks, and planes Some grieving parent must have strewn about the stone So that their sandy haired, little boy could play Like any other pharaoh.   It isn’t death I fear. Death is simple. It is the wake Left behind that would engulf any who love me as much as I them. Would that I could not leave you so, but in my selfish way, I would have just a few espouse me. I am too much the coward, now, To live completely alone. Would that I could have you unfettered, I swear I would. It isn’t death that I fear. It isn’t death…                                                                                                      E. D Ridgell ________________________________________________________________  Footfalls O’er Hallowed Ground   Our footfalls Marched us a foot or so Atop the topsoil of buried ruins of the  Prisoner of War Camp at Point Lookout, As we’d hopscotch the tick grass Down to the Potomac side the peninsula For one of several swims each day. A small contingent of Barking, bumping, colliding collies  Flanked our wood-be Sherman’s march to the sea. Barefooted with large trailing towels, Our singular necessity the morning’s swim. We only had a vaguely planted idea We marched on footfalls o’er hallowed ground.   Little did we know one day The Feds would return to push us off What before they sought to cover up- All ‘cept the beacon of a stalwart light house- Our home, suddenly theirs by  Some eminent, domain, Yankee travesty! Down came the stately white washed Victorian Hotel That wined and dined, white uniformed Naval officers, Who paraded their bejeweled ladies o’er deep, plush carpeting- All our simple but much loved homes, cabins, and cottages Were forfeited by these aforesaid Northern rights. Decades later now, the state has it’s tourist site And the rich revenues it makes on what to some  Are footfalls on hollowed ground.   Ah, but rock me in the ages, It’s all blue and gray history now, Nothing is so clear as defeat, And what with the wars of our forebears Finished and done, We’re all as one again; north, south, Black, white, and parts native foreign and in between!                                                               c. E.D. Ridgell, 2015 ______________________________________________________________________________  Elizabeth, Why? Every so often I remember And comes the question, Elizabeth, why? I think I’ve answers These decades later, But they trigger quizzing- When Larry told me, I asked why. He implied abuse. He told me that When you’ve a gun The thing is a given. Our shrink would know, But he was obtuse- I saw Larry cry only once. There had been an attempt- With the results of the Minnesota, You two huddled in whispers. My test lies folded somewhere. It painted me perfectly- You were right to be frightened. There is the image of you Standing in the tub offering Your temple to the decision. Your father walking dead Suggested that Randy join you- Even Larry needed help with that! Randy remarried. I fell in love and Lost him to natural causes. A lifetime has gone by And I still quiz- Elizabeth, why?                        E. D. Ridgell _____________________________________  Sweet Virginia We had come to that place A farm where you could  Wipe the shit right off your boots Looking for pot or hashish I don’t remember which. In my malaise of denial I knew nothing of your deceit Ignorant of changes to come- Karma well earned But no less unkind. Your sin is yours. My sin is mine. We were nothing if we did not risk. We wore abandonment like  Come hither talisman fitted suits.  There were many warnings. You ignored mine. I ignored yours and so We both cop’d the shit!                            E. D. Ridgell 2018
Walton’s Mountain                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           All through this long life all I wanted was for Walton’s Mountain to be real- A real place, a real family- Some semblance of normalcy.    I tried. I searched and searched, But to no avail. There is no mountaintop With that cozy house with the long kitchen table. Those places are Hollywood false fronts.   My grandfather wanted nothing to do with me. The old man just sat in a chair with the other Nursing home residents, oblivious to my gestures. The old boozer might as well have been thin air!   My grandmother whose bosom I remember As so warm and cuddly was wrenched from me early- My first but not my last robbery at the hands of Cancer.   I remember her crying out in pain, asking why, oh why? My Daddy, he was a sailorman and like so many Sailor-men he liked to wet his whistle. All the men in the family including me   Were far too good the whistle players! My Mommy was loving and a little To close for comfort…they call it silent seduction! I asked God not to take her away, and so she promptly, Was carried away to Cancer!   I swore off women, altogether, And married a good man and as soon as I fell into his deep embrace, Sure enough in came riding one of the Horsemen. He died of pancreatic cancer!   My daughter up and tells me one day, My first and last wife is dying, and with trepidation I ask what of?   “Pancreatic Cancer”! Now surely, you would never have heard that on Walton’s Mountain!                                                                                              c.  E.D. Ridgell, 2014 __________________________________________________________________________________      Lorraine    Toronto is Reggie,  Did you know that?  A real beat-  A sweet rhythm!  Shake your hips,  Be Hawaiian!    I remember now,  She took hula lessons.  Everyone talked behind her back!  That kitchenette was a roundtable  Of backstabbing gossip.  Her hubby supplied the firewood.  His mother stoked it!                  c. E. D. Ridgell, 2014    ______________________________________________________________________    Cowy Tweet and Sowzy Tweet and Liddle Sharksy Doisters!   I remember sinking into the first deep depression, in the sixties On a transit bus on the way home after fleeing the scene to see Richard Burton in "A Spy Came in From the Cold". I knew I was unhappy and I knew it was right to be so, But sad, oh so sad, because I didn't want it to be so.   I paid attention as life ran along and along, And I noticed I'd go in and out of depression As regularly as was fitting- and then some, For I'd fallen into knowing it was natural to do so, But sad, oh so sad, because I didn't want It to be so.   With time, I learned to temper these depressing times, With snacks, with scotch, with sex, with smoke, with anything To take me off the never ending coaster ride, I couldn't jump from; brainwashed into thinking it was a sin to do so, But sad, oh so sad, because I didn't want it to be so.   Now here I am older, but no wiser, and, yep, depressed again, Despite all of their pills, and any thrills I might conjure up To avoid the pain and confusion at life's ups and downs- And, yes, again, such a long ride latter, I'm right to be so, But sad, oh so sad, because I don't want it to be so.   Around and around we go, and where we'll land I do not know but, "Mairzy doats and dozy doats And liddle lamzy divey, a kiddley divey too, wouldn't you?" Again, I am here, inverted and low with every right to be so, But sad, oh so sad, because I don't want it to be so. © 2012 by E.D. Ridgell ___________________________________________________________      Like Sebastian, I Am Only Ever Wounded! It is a pain Second only to one so far worse. I only ever held on anyway, And so now I am again Serving people who I am only ever Of secondary purpose. I keep going on and on And on and on, While all, the others drop away. I am so afraid I will be the  Last one standing. I would You lay me gently down, please. I am not blind to  Your sufferance and I am most Humble and grateful, But bid me one last plea, I am as always on thin ice, Skating much too boldly. I was always The risk taker and You That unpredictable Director. Somehow, I keep the faith, But You know The depths of me. Holy Mary,  Mother of God, Intercede for me, a sinner, While I am as repentant As I am. Maria, Look down upon me.  I would I could Find some Tunisian monastery, Or some such place of Flyte, But mine is a dissimilar  Final field of battle. I lay me gently down, here.                   c. E.D. Ridgell, 2015  __________________________________  Bless Me But I’ve …this deep empathy  And with it a peace- Awakening on forgiveness Of everything and everyone. To that degree perhaps I approach that elusive force That I hope is He Who changeth not It is as crippling as it is sustaining. I feel so fragile I might break and  Fear besets me even as I feel a peace  In an acceptance echoing Wilde On musings of a peaceful repose in death.   Impatience tugs at me  To see the thing through ‘fore I might endure so much As the whiskers of loss. I beg leave  To be so selfish as to Plead to please Lay me gently down. Abide with me, I am as afraid to stay As I am to leave- Fickle weak in my dotage. Bless me but I’ve…                                 E. D. Ridgell 2017 ___________________________________________________  No Title Necessary! I didn’t used to vote all the time. Lately, it’s at the top of the agenda- It needs motivating.  No! It needs passion,  A bit of anger. An act of treason!  I’m no slouch in my patriotism.  It’s as corny and as old as is my  Aging constitution. I love my country;  It’s mixed up mythology, it’s rebellion, it’s distrust   Of outside intervention. I condone every  Rationalization. I echo every war cry of  Refutation off of it’s bloodied, canyon walls.     For every action there is a reaction.  The force is forever forward marching.  The revolution burns and brands every true citizen,   No matter his misdirections. It is about spirit.   It is the flight and fight of the eagle,  Each feather storm tossed from out some other nation.  There are some votes that come from the gut of me!  No reasoning is necessary. It is primary to my roots,  Vomited up from the blood and guts of my forefathers.  Don’t lecture me or mine on freedom,  Ancestors of Hershey Bar totting, well meaning boys Who dot this earth under the white crosses of a faith   And conviction to match any you might catch out   Of some Norman Rockwell painting!                                             © 2010 by E.D. Ridgell	---------------------------------------------- I Long to Arise Your April Fool Every year I slip a little more, Gain another year. I am gradually dying. Is this unnatural? Since your death, I've been down so many hallways All leading to a locked door. I am tired of turning doorknobs. Is it not alright to tire? I need papers to assure I do not become a vegetable in someone else's garden. So many people use me I can no longer discern their motives. I am a pawn, the least important piece on their chessboard. I bristle at the interference. Everyone is loosing. Is loss not the key to eternity? I only yearn to tinker with words, Putter in my garden, watch my eaglets fly- To die, and then to join you. Many people choose to love me. I am grateful. I can not define love. It comes in many forms. I still love you. I try to do no harm to anyone. I comfort in an uncomforting world. I peruse old magazines in doctors offices and Try to be creative at avoiding as many funerals as possible. I hide away your hats and jeans stuffing them in drawers. Memories have a way though of opening out in everyway. I look in the mirror to see an aging man. I am not afraid of the darkness of no reflections. I loved you more than I could explain to anyone. My business is words and words still fail me. In the end it is all the same. I'm talking to ashes. With luck I will soon intermingle with your Settled ash and crumbled bone. I long to lie with you On the Palace Green where once we walked so often In love's greatest denial, that it can never be interrupted. I'm tired of hopping to this hard, hopscotch game Played on chalked lines fading ever so slow. You called me an angel. Well, My wings are clipped. If life was fair-- It isn't. Every last day of every March is so long and hard. I am tired and whiny-- to my bed. Sleep is the best part of this day, And in truth I long to arise your April Fool.  © 2008 by E.D. Ridgell Creative Commons License   ________________________________________________  The Lawn Grows Green   Under catalpa tees. How long have you lain waiting? I am just a little ways away.   I’m so tired. I’ve lived a whole other life Since you’ve been gone- Grandchildren three, a newly minted lover, A host of would-be friends mostly dead or dying.   The Song Of Bernadette fell flat, And a poem penned for a private scoffed o’er- Al Snyder’s boy dead in Iraq- Lindell dead and buried in Johnstown.   Two President’s and a traitor later I’m spent and dog sick of the lot. The nation grieves even as the lawn grows green- And I? I come to you a broken-hearted patriot.                                                              E. D. Ridgell, 2018    _________________________________________________   Crow Crows At Plath After reading the poem about Hawk, I reckoned you my favorite. I still do. I used it as a template for 'The Eagle', And I didn't do badly, not by half. They've unearthed your privated poem, About that final night, when Sylvia would Have the last word, sending everything toppling. That's done though, and the fumes floated away. This work, of yours, is like the way I whittle,  When carving up tedious shoves and tows, And I'm pleased and smug, that a man's man, Matches my prosy parsing of an adam's apple. The empathy and pain echo throughout, And I marvel at you're mind, even as I feel The depth of your struggle to wrestle The anguish, hurl it down, and pin her! E.D. Ridgell, 2012    _____________________________________   Plaster Memories I'd kneel and gaze up at her- These were my innocent years. I'd go the rote routine, but when Transfixed by that loving smile, I spoke from the heart, asking her, If she'd look after me, and Act as a go between. I just Knelt and stared and felt  Comforted. As a little boy, This was Madonna Mia. Now stripped of both our false Fronts, I feel like I have plaster dust  All over me, and I'd hock you in a minute- And yet, tucked deep inside there's still that Wanting of lost innocence, and a Kneading, needling, needing for motherly whispers, Mumbling gibbering of secretive needs. Oh, where's gone idolatry? Some still parade you On strong shoulders of childlike fidelity. Not me.                                           c. E. D. Ridgell, 2014   ———————————————————————————————————  The Last Train To Bronxville! That September night when the last train to Bronxville, That he might  have, just could have; should have, been on, Had come and gone, she just stood there Like a statue gone cold as stone marble. Thirteen years later, now, in some twisted sense,  She's still there, standing there, a silent ghost Staring in vain; that former self, that woman, Herself, that self who is nevermore.  The girls just started college, all expenses paid. She just saw the last one off on the last mornings Train from Bronxviile into Grand Central, that train, The train she refuses to ride anymore.                                               c. E. D, Ridgell, 2014  —————————————————————————-   A Christmas Prayer! And suddenly it's splendid to be old, See the crop of your seeds set, so. Christmases fall away each in turn, Cross over and whittle the tree, just so- The newer ornaments, their turns to Twirl, aglow, from limb-tip to deep bough. Worries wax thin, fears lesson- Each day dawns anew to savor what remains. Things age, fade; comes the twilight, Look there into the distant night; Patient Reaper, crooked finger, cocked, Begs me make hast a delayed confession. Gentle Lord, I beg Thy grace, Commend my soul, as I surrender all pride- Soon to dismount the carousel of life; Pay the priest to anoint a wrinkled brow, With penitent heart, take the last rites, and Trust to bring me home to you, my God!                                    c. E. D. Ridgell, 2014  ————————————————————————   A South Dakota Kodak Moment! Dirty money's pumping dirty oil- Spills of pipes never inspected. It's crack, a petroleum distillate. All Koch's money and all  Koch's horsemen can't patch Humpty Dumpty back together, again! He's fallen down, but never you mind. The Senate's passed another pipeline- Moved it closer to a Presidential veto. My mother was born in South Dakota. The faded photographs sure look pretty, In one she's caught in a Kodak moment, Smiling out from a fresh water river. They want to lay this pipeline right Through South Dakota. I don't think so!                                 c. E. D. Ridgell, 2015   —————————————————————   When Unto My Jesu, Like a billowing, wave unto shore, I broke with a zeal and zest for life As good as any 'fore or since. My God bestowed on me thrice What I deserved and more, Feigning not to mark my sins. I come before my Lord, Knowing I must right the score And grateful beyond all measure. Receive me into Your embrace, A penetrant petitioner Entirely at Your bountiful mercy.                         c. E.D. Ridgell, 2015
Democracy I hate it when bad things happen to good people. I do a lot of hating. Nobody ever said it would be fair, And it has not been fair, not by a long shot. Democracy is the pursuit of truth. It is the search for fairness though that should  Drive social and political discourse, even if  They can never be fully attained. Democracy is pliable. Democracy is the pursuit of truth. Compromise is baked into Democracy. Democracy  Should safeguard the rights of all, especially the  Right of a minority to one day become the majority. Democracy is the pursuit of truth. Democracy too, is fragile. It needs the majority’s  Tacit approval if it is to survive. Power is needed only when  Democracy fails or is threatened by interests inside and out. Democracy is the pursuit of truth.                                                                         E. D, Ridgell 2019   [There Always Will Be An England]- from the newsletter of the Jane Austen Society-  Sir, - There have been three occasions recently when human ashes have been left inthe garden of Jane Austin's House Museum.They have been left without permission and in secret. While we understand the many admirers of Jane Austin would love to have their ashes here, it is something we do not allow. It is distressing for visitors to see these mounds of human ash and particularly so for our gardener. Also, it is of no benefit to the garden!We would be grateful if you could notify members-that if they know anyone who might be thinking of doing this, it is not permissible. Any ashes that are found will be disposed of. -  -  One Last Thing, If You Please -  "By and by they fetched the niggers in and had prayers,"- And when those that came; family, friends, fagots, Romans, Had finished what meager rites they figured on me, That was done, and I thanked them, here in this writ of mind.   Then my loved ones, you must conspire one last time, One last thing, if you please, for me, for us, for what is fitting. Here! There are these ashes, fresh ashes mixed with bone, That I charge you scatter, quickly, on the run, fast Before they contrive to stop you. One run up the field, and Another, down that Green from the other end. Broadcast me far and wide. Have some fun with me. Be merry, For merry I'll be feeling through the rotting catalpa pods And green grass in hopes of coupling once again. God grant it!   Bless you and keep you and remember what's mortal stays there. I am with you, circumjacent, hovering around you, the whisper on wind, The breeze on your cheek, the memory come and gone, waiting.                                                                                                                                            © 2010 by E.D. Ridgell   ______________________________________________    Daddy Said So! I was promised ice cream And so it would be alright- Daddy said so! I remember falling down, twirling, Round and round into A candy cane, striped tunnel Just like Alice in Wonderland. In the hospital- Franklin Square as I recall I traded ice cream for something called tonsils. This was OK though ‘cause Daddy said so. Beside the road, pouring out of the Studebaker, Each was in a tug of war, Trying to pull me to them At the expense of the other. My childhood moved on in this way, Mommy devoting the time while he plied the sea. I trusted instinctively it was going to be alright ‘cause Daddy said so.                                                                E.D. Ridgell, 2017	He Lay Atop a Stainless Steel Table waiting to be boxed and sent to a crematorium. In living he is much loved but not too liked. Much about him is an enigma for he closely coddles his inner sanctum, and no one understands the core of him. He is forever carding his contradistinctions, and he comprehends this passage well enough to not take it too seriously, or to dismiss too lightly that solemn progress that senses the unveiling of what is righteous from what is not. “Luctor et emergo.” This is a spiritual man who does not argue or debate creeds. He senses the more empathic the being the closer that being is to the Source of all that is good. He is humble enough to know that in living he can know nothing of the Mystery, and when if ever can he die? “Hypotheses non fingo”. The shedding shell upon the table is now silent before the secret. Its dry remarks and humorous innuendos to lighten the solemnity of life are stalled somewhere in-between. “Hoc est enim corpus meum.” Not missing the awe and wonder that is, and unable to grieve this transition nor fear the transmutation of it, it does not fall into a black hole. A gentle essence in a cataclysmic cosmos, it is sometimes misunderstood, but this imperfect being passing by has malice for nothing, and carries its secrets into the purifying fire for the metamorphosis anon. “Imprimatur!” © 2008 by E.D. Ridgell _______________________________________ I Have The Honor Of Telling You     Pop-Pop might be going to jail- I don't have to tell you he’s innocent.  He coasted into a bumper at one mile an hour  Tried to reason with emotion but  Emotion called the police  Who lowered the Catch-twenty two. So be it! Pop-Pop will go lock-lock  Before he'll spend one penny  Of your education.      Too much of this world  Is a sea of selfish scheming.  Take my example and always rise above it. Always walk the walk. Always show up.  The law and justice are not the same thing.  Honor can and should be constant-  Know that your grandfather loves you and  Never will fail to champion your side.  In end the only thing that matters is kindness.                                                         E. D. Ridgell 2020
Another Chucky Cheese Birthday Bash It is another Chucky Cheese birthday bash- this one for our Taylor Haven; too soon aged five, and I am overwhelmed at so much packaged into a celebration. Her grandmother is there with a new husband in tow. In a hug I know she is happy, and I like the man in question- depth of feeling, generosity, and intelligence are always good conversation and convivial company. Taylor is excited and happy. It is not often she can laud if over her sister with all the panache welled up within a middle child. It is her day and she uses it well. Her sister, my little Aquitaine, is as unruffled as the folds of marble that cover the effigy of the original. The birthday girl’s little brother is at home, unwell. For the first time I realize the depth of my love by the measure of the missing. “Sunshine” is shining somewhere regardless of any strep throat. Daddy is given the poem I have written for Taylor Haven. The bait is taken. Lawyers amuse me. In law silence is construed as innocence. Holding degrees in the fine arts, I know the value of the painterly stroke of the well placed lie. How often have I lied out of love, and how many more lies will I be blessed to tell? Heaven is full of liars and hell houses many an honest man. And the afternoon sailed on like this banked by parties on either side each with their own stories to tell. At one point the din was so loud I was adrift in sound and panicked thinking, “Silence is golden”. A wise man once said: “Begin at the beginning, go the end, and stop”. Just before the stop I had succeeded in getting Taylor alone atop the house on the token fed, great, riding horse that towered over this Chucky Cheese realm, where with her wrapped in my arm I unwrapped an “I love you” to my birthday girl. At the stop of the horse near the stop of our play, high in the sky of Chucky Cheese’s, I suddenly was overwhelmed at one more thing. Below us were a hundred or more people of so diverse origins, Exhibited by there decorum, demeanor, and dress so as to light the candle of my patriotic heart. Here, Taylor is the future of you and your country. It is damaged but not broken. You take the reigns now and you and they go forward. You are at the beginning. Pop Pop is very near the stop. Can you smell the many pizzas baking in the big ovens, with all that wonderful cheese melting atop the lot? © 2008 by E.D. Ridgell _____________________________________	Sourthern Maryland Traditional Stuffed Ham 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 Betty 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  —————————————————————————   That Ice Cream Cone in Salisbury   It was the seventies, And we were heading back up the road. I was anxious, driven, and still reeling From days coping with Dad.   I looked at you napping In the passenger seat, Checked out our sleeping baby in the car seat; And I sighed and thought how much I loved you both, And how sorry I was at refusing to stop for an ice cream cone, Instead, pushing up through, and past Salisbury.   I thought of how mean that was And what I'd do if I ever lost you.   I lost you just a year or so later, Shocking the shit out of you when With angry tears, I asked you if you wanted me to leave. You said yes, but I don't think you really meant me To go- to break vows, To leave you. I had to. I loved you.   Now, you're gone for good, Without any bitter last words- But I know you never really understood, And although I tried and I tried You never really could.   Some forty years later and I'm still so sorry I didn't stop for that ice cream cone in Salisbury.                                                 © 2012 by E.D. Ridgell
DADDY'S LITTLE GIRL ! “…And Kissed the Wild Waves Whist” You text me from Paris in broken French, And I can tell you are so soon mended. Another passage for you, begins- Another go at love; And I am gladdened to my heart, You deserve it. I conceal my sadness for your sake For life is hard. We keep taking turns. My progresses are fraught of late And I feel as though I’m the fading fool, Whose courtly laughs grow fainter. Our child, sown so long ago- Her seeds grow so quickly higher. And now, now, I feel so outrun. I’m burning out Lyndell and no one, not one, Can tell me the flame does not flicker. Burn on bright and do not look back on me unkindly. I have navigated rough seas of troubles as best I could With never a thought to hurt anyone, Least of all my first love. Believe that! We were but a wave that broke upon the shore And then receded leaving the next to break And leave her pretty shells in a line Upon that beach that is so private. Those years in the blush and innocence of youth Were not misspent. The young make early sortees- I left you with pirate’s bounty Worth far more than any gold: A cove from out sprung, Allyson, my Aquitaine; Twenty three waves broken to the far shore- Taylor, my Haven; Thirty two ripples of Excalibur; And finally, that diamond not rough- Sunshine on my Shoulders; A billowing wave from William, That bent Conqueror- A joke on all of you; Queer As Folk, Let if go untold to outlive me And all the laughter I have cut- The joker in the deck, The joking, jockeying, jester. One more laugh for me? Come on! I remember most of all The laughter. Bury all bitter strife. Fair thee well. Comb the beach, carefully, Lest anyone tread on any of our favors, Or in anyway tempt back The Ghost of me From my contented place in purgatory- For I swear by my God I’ll not need use Of any Prince of Denmark! “Remember me” © 2009 by E.D. Ridgell ________________________  Juror ‘53' A sticker labeled ‘JUROR', Marking my breast pocket, I try to convince myself, I'm no worse for wear, Though the blush hasn't cleared yet And residues of shame still Rouge corners of my mouth line, After spewing out over the Judge's bench, Please, excuse me. I can't promise it won't matter anymore. Came out again, did ya? Roped justice at least for someone, did ya? You couldn't honestly be impartial. And so you melt a little more, Dissipate to dissemble One more time, knowing there will be more. It doesn't stop, ya see? After two bloody years of blood tests, And hard solicited hope, they discharged him! No problems we can find. Live with it. Everything will be fine. We spent the last day of open enrollment To get him on my health insurance. We had put our hearts and our heads together, Like so many times before. Skipped the movie, Took the light rail in. We had the right, now, Thanks to funny names like Mfume, Mikulski, and other allies. Good notes to tone deaf ears. On a bum's hunch, we went to one more doctor For one more test! What's a pancreas? He was dead in three months. Had to come out again did ya? Had to? Yea, ya had to. It doesn't stop, ya see? It isn't fair, but I can at least shed That much of them, Knowing there's no healing The shame that binds me. It doesn't stop, ya see?- Not for Juror 53. Not for me. © 2012 by E.D. Ridgell	Wanda    Tom dubbed you Gloria Swanson, Seeing you carry away gladiolas From the Syrian Mosque. That you were an act of grace was always evident.   You started sorting lines before I did. You stopped at the DAR; Grand-mothered your loved ones in, All between bridge games.   I shoveled just a little deeper; Found that link, followed the yellow brick road. I delved into the blue veins. I rattled bones under armor. I took it beyond the pale. It was the least I could do.   Now it hangs around our necks A long necklace of names and personalities, Divers and sundry histories, Not to be worn as adornment but to firmly ground us.   You go to rest, at last, with him- The young artist, the husband and father Taken too soon-his lineage Fairmount, Oriole, Deal Island-fair, fair, faraway England.   I started my line, my lineage, when suddenly, Our ancestral graves were bumping up against one another. Coincidences- too many, don’t you feel- One of those meaningless miracles with meaning?   He was Maryland, the sandy gritty, high tide smell Of marshy Maryland. I am Maryland. Your only daughter’s only daughter is Maryland. The great-grandchildren are washed-way sediment of Maryland.   But you were so much a link in a longer line of history, Henrico County- Williamsburg Virginia. How came you to be born in Texas? What in the hell were you doing in Elizabeth, New Jersey?   What of Delmarva? What of the Governor's Palace? There are so many questions we leave unanswered, By right, by neglect, by our tightly held secrets; Those secrets that would explain so much.   Tom lays within the green, cut, Green, waiting. I could not help shared roots dug into my ground or was it vice versa? Did I trigger memories of your heart’s deadening? So many troubled years before-did I trigger secret sorrows?   Two artists from the same school, one a husband, Another a fast fleeting son-in-law? It was eerie. It was awe. We may have been more entangled than we know. I have my secrets. I am the lonelier for them.   I’m grieving a whole bloody peninsula On the other side of the Bay, That he with the sudden, broken, beating heart, May have shared veins to that now closed artery.   Remember Exmore? You and Dad could not have been more different, And yet there was a connection. Well, one obvious thing, But it was more than that. You were of the same generation.   I have a photograph of you at Exmore walking back from the Bay. You were happy, but you were lonely. I realize now that Dad was lonely. Everyone is lonely at the core.   It all means less and less, I know. Even to me, I no longer need. I just wanted to say farewell. Now, there is one less scribe. We will carry on. We will root out and record some of those secrets. You now are privy to the greatest secret of all.   Unless the dead do read, you will never see this, I did not want to burden you. I have never wished to be a sink box decoy. I write this for time to come, a reflection of time gone by. I scribe. It is meant to honor you. The long journey of life is over.   Have no fear for those left behind. Pray for us. Your worldly pain is over. Thank God, hey? Anyway, Well done, Wanda! Well done, indeed!                                      © 2010 by E.D. Ridgell
Unsettled Again,   I find myself talking to you as though you are here Even now, ten long, drag-assed years later. I keep going. It’s thirty two years now Since we drove South like Sherman to Savannah.   We bought cased glass with no idea what we were doing And made plans. I don’t think we ever knew how Wonderful it would all be, partners in all things.   You once said, things last longer than people. Did you have to prove it? I know now how things are Imbedded with stories, imprints left by finger touches long gone; Spirit and mystery, the lost and forgotten-the haunting souls of things.   Your dungarees with the hole in the knee In the bottom drawer of the desk there Mean more to me than any of the things left dwelling in this house. I still march things down their long, long, roads of existence; Things that will last longer than me- Things that lasted longer than you. © 2009 by E.D. Ridgell   _________________________________________  Abide With Me   Sometimes the way seems impossible. Then be indomitable and Rise to your greatest potential.   Take the negative and cast it aside. This world is drowning in hero’s  Mostly Unrecognized but there.   Most tribes believe in God or gods Some force to help them through- Some greater power.   If you cannot find one just Reach down and pick up a rock and  Label it God. It’ll do.    Whether there is a God is irrelevant.  The need for one is not. I need one!   My God claims no rights over you. It is only when He does, We have troubles.    Look to history. It is written and well documented Time and time again.   Beware of Voodoo doctors, Pushing their fake Elixirs, potions and ointments.   Practice your faith in whispers. Be not a witch or a warlock and  Ignore any you encounter.     In all matters religious Live and let live and what is more  Do it quietly.                                                    E. D. Ridgell.                               What? What made me do that? Look for your obit? It's been, how many years? I think of you everyday,  In little patches and pieces, the way one does. I don't even know how much you liked me, Not that I ever pretended much. You never let anyone in, For fear of being hurt. I understood. You said you loved Thom, And I believe you believed that, Although I never saw any evidence of it. Who was it that told me you and  Edward had a falling out? For the life of me, I don't know who it was. I don't think it was Thom. We didn't share very much, and I was shy He tried for some such to-do, afterward,  But I wasn't up to it. What was her name, Edie Never reached me, and I only learned of your death, Second hand- a second hand rose as always, As my Tom would have said, it just would have  Bummed the mourners out, you know? I didn't move in your circles, whatever was still  Circling. I should have thought Randy would have  Come into play, but he never ever  Had anything to do with me, you know? Why? I don't know, Larry, I honestly don't know.                                                   E.D. Ridgell, 2013 ______________________________________________________  When All Is Said And Done I finally found the  Strength to tap my finger down One last time to stir again Memories too personal To share with any but the dead. Like Tom, cancer left you Emaciated but still like  Him you forced a smile. Indeed, I was loosing My mother to the killer, When I met you beside  The football field of Overlie High School. Later you Felt, I fear, that it would have Been better if we'd never  Met at all. Like most things Between us, when all is said And done, I couldn't disagree  With anyone more, and I think In your heart you would agree When all is said and done. E.D. Ridgell, 2013	Life's Celebration I knew today the disease means to kill me? It wants me to fight it, to fiddle with it. I am an old man with better memories than bad. Things are good today. Better to go soon, While life is good than to let death Catch me in one of life's inevitable valleys. I know nothing of God, except that I've Struggled to stay on the side of His angels. What others said of me were never of great concern. The bigoted were always in the wings, but Never in His wings. They get their fetters ruffled And fly with the wicked birds. Bigots never soar.  My friends were few but usually aged and of the best vintage. Most of them went on the wings of the angels long ago. Today I have my love and my family and a feline friend. I need no more, but a quick end with as little pain  As He will grant me. I die a happy and contented man, A man who celebrated life and did not settle!                                                      c. E.D. Ridgell, 2014 Oh Shite! But How I Love You! She says: “Dad, you’re in that stage of life.” She’s right but it does not close or sooth this strike ripping into my shaken quiddity. Oh Shite! But how I love you! I knew as soon as I heard your sage, sapient voice caressing wire. No one has taught acceptance to me more than you; my marker, my messenger, my compos mentis, mentor. “Begin at the beginning go to the end and stop”, were a repeated long time reminder of how many of your quipped quotes picked from out this orb of fools, I carry in my head and bandy on in my own turn on this sphere. Oh Shite! But how I love you! You found me on the corner of North Calvert and 31st looking for what I did not know; the real me, lost hope, a broken spirit. Poitier had fled to the rooftops. I fled to the alleys. And so, as in ancient times, the older took a younger under arms, instaurated his soul, and initiated him into the orders of Apollo. “Often the test of courage is not to die but to live”. We both were bewailing lovers we were not meant to keep. You tell me Tom visited recently and that he is painting again. You lament that he is sixty. Did he father? I can’t recall. I tell you Lynn is still searching for that Daddy I could not be. We cut it all in laughter. Oh Shite! But how I love you! Edie Johns is clucking over you, a mother hen of crows. Randy is handling the will. Elizabet rots, and Randy has yet another queen with the seeds of two. The doctors will know what you now know already. Your heart the best beating of you is too weak to bear their miracles. We are at the beginning of the rituals reserved for those ordained. I hint at a Sulpician. You’ll have your Jesuit, though. “That would be scann’d”-not by me! Oh Shite! But how I love you! I tease you as my mind multitasks at lightning speed, chiding you as my Lord Marchmain and trying like Ryder to manipulate predestination. You, gone back to the see of Rome! Jesu! Decades before you took me to the seminary where you were to be ordained before you chucked it all, knowing it could not be. You are one of a few I condescend to call Christian. Your matching pair of sister nuns are dead and you are the last of your line standing. Peripherals of no matter mingle around. We are of that flock that are born black sheep, the chosen, history’s whipping boys. No matter. Oh Shite! But how I love you! I ask of Mount Calvary, moving my pawn into play. You block me with a bishop. I am no match for you! You’ve never asked for anything. You’ve always served what others merely mimic, and what I have too little depth to fathom. Pray for me. I will come as soon as I can bear to; this confusion she calls “that stage of life”, hangs over me, incapacitates me, numbs me. I am so angry! I come bearing poems too often written with a sink-box heart. I come bearing that heavy cross older than the Mount. I come bearing Christ or some such guise. The effigies of man cast shadows over my garden altar, but you know that. You know me better than myself. Oh Shite! But how I love you! © 2009 by E.D. Ridgell "Remember upon the conduct of each depends the fate of all.” - Alexander the Great "I am for those who believe in loose delights, I share the midnight orgies of young men,   I dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers." – Walt Whitman