A Love That Will Not Die!
Cupped in his hand was a new born fledgling
Recently pushed from the nest by
“Nature is not sentimental”, he said.
He nestled it in his lap and sat there patiently waiting.
I asked him, “Is
there nothing we can do”?
“No”, he said. “We can only keep it
I sat there next to him and watched the little bird die.
In that death love was born.
the first of many things that clipped my wings.
There was no need. I never was tempted
to fly away.
He had kept doves as a young boy,
we kept all breeds of ducks, the symbols of fidelity.
There was that time we stopped to watch
The farmer plow his field in the company
of hundreds of swans
Who fed upon the upturned seed, and
was that mountain drive parallel to two swans in flight.
We watched their necks wobbling
to the beating of their wings.
There are still ducks in that pond at Williamsburg-
In those last few hours I nestled
him in my arms and waited patiently
Listening to his last rattle song.
I whispered to him,
"It’s alright Precious. You can let go. I will
Now, every time I drive by the
I look for them in the pond, the swan couple.
I’m upset if one is missing, and I’m impatient to eye it, next time.
is always there. I’ve done this for eight years, now.
It is not my turn, and I
I’m not afraid of anything, and
only hope that when my time comes,
Someone will nestle me and wait patiently.
Look to the skies and listen. You can hear them, birds on the wing,
speaking in their many different tongues.
I particularly like the sounds of the ducks
and geese, don’t you?
c. E.D. Ridgell, 2009
In Search Of The Missing Lighthouse
Bill Whitelock slowed the boat
So that we might
see at low tide
The tombstones that lay just a foot below
With eyes strained and necks bent like the egrets
Gracing the wetlands nearby,
We could just glean the names, dates,
epitaphs on the eroded stones
Of a Holland Island graveyard
By waters of a relentless Chesapeake Bay.
gave up on the second day.
James Somers our missing lighthouse
Of Somers Cove Light was nowhere to be found.
It was fitting this ancestor was not fixed
To this little left of Holland isle. It was an outside chance
For James more than likely belonged elsewhere
On one of those islands out of time, Smiths and Tangiers.
I confess, I wonder why I care, for only
a few of we folk
Comb and carefully record what for some
might seem a
Strange safe guarding of lines some would wriggle
Like Jimmy, here, reported to have been the lighthouse
For Solomon’s Cove now fallen into an
Perhaps I’m seeking some place in history,
Some link with those to come. I do not know.
know I care, and that I feel this need
To record those who
have followed on the water
To those who will come to follow,
On and on, into the eye of time,
Like waves breaking and caressing the sandy shore,
Billow on billow to the sounds of an everlasting, blue bay
Whispering, “Remember me! Remember me!”
|GENERAL ROBERT E LEE ON HIS HORSE TRAVELER !
Memories That Will Not Die!
If they could not speak,
They just ran their hands
In a despairing goodbye.
The old man,
Hat in hand,
Did not avert
His blazing eyes.
Of a woman
Eyes that beheld
Too many dead.
The boxwoods at Stratford Hall,
Elephant eye-high a decade ago,
slowly die of root rot.
The memory of them does not!
I walked down the faintly lit lawn
Under the catalpa trees
Your ashes and crumbs as I went
them slip through my fingers,
Our final parting and the end of the
Happiest years of my life.
I had no direction,
I knew that every page in that chapter
now been turned.
Everything to come was a new chapter.
comes in chapters, most not of our
Making, the longer the life, the more chapters.
Suddenly there had come a new chapter-
grandchildren and a newly minted soul mate,
And so, it was good I had not steered
The drunken van into the midnight tree,
But groped on through
the tedious rituals of living-
Punctuated by an occasional highlighted rite.
I did the the best that I could.
queer nobody, really respects you,
Takes you seriously, thinks God didn't slip up.
You're not even sure yourself, God loves you.
is tweaked, every decision,
A lonely one. You're damned if you do and damned
If you don't. If your lucky a few people love you.
so damned scared, it's monumental!
You find the courage to come out of the closet,
Only to wish you could cloak something safe around you.
when you think you can't bear one more day
Of this cattywampus, long-assed, backwards
She ups and calls you, "Daddy", again!
c. E.D. Ridgell, 2013
Time not measured
Little boy napp’d
Atop pompoms of white chenille
Hot windy St. Mary’s afternoon
lights of sun
On tall green grass
Whispered secrets outside
again so safely slept
In a harbor my sole kingdom
matriarchs black and white
Moored to men
Others sweetly smelling of Rye
Grandmother’s bosom cuddly and massive
Drowned me in a smell of starched cotton ancestry
a kitchen of black and white enameled stoves
N’r ladies chattered
Lowly ladies with high values
sass these sorceresses of cakes and pies
They whipped ass
of stacks of soft shell crabs
And fried chicken secrets their own
They cooked ham stuffed with kale
To bury us with
Grammy ran a nursing home
Where war weary
seamen came to rest
Well fed their names and medals known
they were good for one last test
Escape duty free
you didn’t go too far up the road
in middle of the yard
Sat a ghost captain free
Pigs in sties
‘hind rough hewn slats
From their trough splattered
of the chickens
Peck’n here there everywhere
the house in all sorts and sizes
Lived the wild cats in their world apart
That white house on cinder blocks
Once a silly
one room school
Kept grow’n one closet at a time
rooms were stuffed with that decade’s census
A cozy place not up to code
Uncle Bud flew stars and bars o’er stars and stripes
No one thought that uncivil
He being judge and play’n in the Klan
damned place a garden
I picked her pretty flowers
said not to and expected it
She’d long hair never shorn brushed and braided with pride
I often snitched her snap’n turtles using Dick’s net
From muddy waters
ditched side the house
Their soupy purpose my own
made it safely back
With no harm done
On Sundays Billy Jim my cousin hero and I
Dutifully dressed for church
Aunt Bettie whizzed by
Studebakering the girls
Late we’d walked
To end of path
Turned left for the crick
Fished or swam butt naked
In the Free State sun
Men in bars
I never napp’d so well
As in that kingdom long ago
Nestled close to two shores
too many wars
Down home in the Land of Pleasant Living
© 2005 by E.D.Ridgell
When Unto My Jesu I Come!
Like a billowing, wave unto shore,
I broke with a zeal and zest for life
As good as ‘fore or since.
My God bestowed on me thrice
What nary I deserved and more,
not to mark my sins.
I come ‘fore my Lord
I must right the score
And grateful beyond all measure.
me unto Thy grace,
Your penitent petitioner
When Unto my Jesu I come!
The Speckled Palace Green In Fare Williamsburg
I read your journal again
And I realized its time to close
At least until I follow. I’ve completed
That long journey this side of grief.
I love you now as I loved you then.
Wait. I linger here for now.
was lucky and my mind’s eye
As well as my patchwork
Found love yet again. The kids
Up and had three children.
Vital is a grandfather three times o’er.
too Vital is a mountain of a man!
Another chapter or two,
denied you. God does not
Corrugate folds of our design.
It is a mystery and always shall be-
We love. We abide awhile. We die.
Precious. It is a mystery
As to when I will follow to rest
with you on
The speckled palace green in fare Williamsburg.
Thank You Tank Man!
I wanted you to know
We have not forgotten you.
What became of you
Remains a mystery.
Are you imprisoned somewhere,
A worker bee with
one less kidney?
There is no statue in the square,
the news is out there.
Accept these words as a small tribute
To your bravery and courage.
They have not erased you from history.
hidden newsreel of the tank got through
Though you may have
never known it.
The world heralded you as news
Even as your comrades fled, pushing pedals,
Cycling fast to be free from tyranny.
Are you in a grave somewhere,
Or are you the manager of a KFC?
your ashes reside somewhere
In a lacquered box hidden from
Waiting to be spread on Tiananmen Square?
Perhaps you were spared, married,
And had the prescribed one baby-
fat son? I hope so.
You did your country honor
I wanted you to know
Your ancestors smiled as
Your message, delivered before
That tank’s, turreted, red star
the world over-
Echoing yet again,
‘One man can make a difference!
Many men can make a Veteran’s Day.
My country sets aside one day to remember
Its known and unknown heroes.
Come linger with us.
You are not forgotten.
Let us play taps to your memory
As well as to our own sons for
There are no boundaries
cause of freedom.
Thank you Tank Man!
c. E.D. Ridgell, 2007
It Is Not Easy To Be You!
She is not paid to be emphatic,
Unless she uncovers something,
Chases my scent,
Smokes me out-
As I can not help but evade,
Even as I struggle to be caught
through the hedgerows of this hunt.
And so when she looks at me and says:
“I do not think it is easy to be you”,
She garners my attention.
She has me and with such
a simple thing
To have never sunk in.
It is not meant to be easy.
it was meant to be easy.
It is not!
I play the herald to the
For the sake of others, shielding myself.
Never coming into the limelight,
But always the dresser to the star,
king’s man, a ear to his exact word:
“I wish I had your gift for words.
It’s stunning in it’s classical restraint!
Hold out your hand!”
With a pat as with a
fan, I sought to mimic
A queen’s words and thereby
Together into me;
Laertes behind the curtain!
Despite my best efforts though
To test and risk the anger of many kings,
The dagger has never run me through,
No matter how
I tempted it behind the curtain.
The princes have all failed
All the while I was absorbed adding to that
Foundation that was there from the beginning,
And for which she is paid to find the core.
I find myself like Delacroix’s father,
An astute arbiter who guesses the answers
Before the questions have even entered their minds.
I wish I were not right so often. I usually am.
is too easy. It is not meant to be easy.
I thought it was
meant to be easy. It is not.
It is not easy to be me. I find
nothing hard enough
To justify this mimicry and hiding.
“You will never more hear from Herald.”
“If I have played my part well,
your hands and dismiss me
With applause from the stage.”
Like Echoes Off The Canyon Walls
So long as I have a voice,
It will resonate
Like echoes off the canyon walls-
The hopes and dreams
Of the hundreds and hundreds
Of young black children
I was so blessed to teach
In the hopes it would show them that
lives, like all lives, do matter,
And no matter the race or creed
We all are equal in this,
Our beloved country!
c. E.D. Ridgell, 2016
A Lonely, Last Bud to Fall
In a spell that seems so long
tend one after another garden
In a lifetime of gardening.
The precious buds fall one at
burn and decay away.
They are in my memory
And missed each for a passion its own.
tend the garden now aging and failing,
But still I till on, one season at a time.
I am not sure why I garden still.
the lovely buds must Wither and fall.
I do confess I fear I’ll be
A lonely, last
bud to fall!
© 2011 by E.D. Ridgell
Boxing Day, 2015
Every year, I think to myself,
This is your last.
Keep a good Christmas.
Then pops around another,
And I start all over.
I used to say to Russell,
I won't make thirty,
Not with this epidemic
Weighing on my conscience.
Truth is, it is a miracle,
And one to give me pause-
Not in my license, I
But in His intentions.
Why was I spared-
To bury so many others?
Surely He requires nothing of me,
Except perhaps a sincere confession.
Was it to champion
So much cancer? If so,
Swing open those pearly gates.
I've a ticket- first
class, plus luggage!
so old, now,
I sometimes fancy myself wise,
Though no one seems interested in
The meanderings of another naked
was a splendid Christmas,
Though, mark me, it was my last.
I've short goals and with pluck
And a little luck,
I'll soon bid you adieu.
E.D. Ridgell, 2015
Times Have Changed!
I remember my Dad swinging a chicken
Round and round with one arm.
Then laying its head on the end of a block of wood
And chop-pin it off with a sharp hatchet....
I swear that chicken got right up and ran
Round and round with no head at all!
I must have been no more than five.
I was play-in out back, one day,
When I saw a long, slicked-back
worm, it's back raised up
As if taking aim to spit right in my eye.
I ran in and told Mommy and she
out, took a garden how, chopped that big worm up,
Then draped it o'er the garden fence,
Went back in the kitchen
and that was that.
Life and death had little meaning
To a kid so young. I had no real fear of mortality.
One day, me and my friends walked out o'er
Cracking ice jumping up and down at the thrill of it.
walking o'er a long railroad bridge,
With nary a worry of an oncoming train.
I was immortal then but only then.
Times have changed!
c. E.D. Ridgell, 2014
I'm not buying that smile, again.
You're not too big to fail.
I don't need you're next Cold War.
I've got to save an Island;
The Muslim Brotherhood
Is only a threat to McCarthyism.
Have you no shame!
Monica is multi-orgiastic. Have you no
Put your blond bombshell
to bed! The fat lady's not through singing!
© 2012 by E.D. Ridgell
The Grave Yard Rave
All the ghosts are dancing,
All the dead are frolicking,
All the swing
kids are in attendance.
The ghouls are out.
The kings and emperors play civil
While the tyrants trade jibes.
There is a price to pay
When seals go broken and slime seeps in.
Singapore wears a sling
picks out a tie.
Moscow mocks them all in a tux.
All the dead soldiers
The yard’s jumping.
his best military fatigue
Lends Counsel behind a tombstone.
Oh where is the sun to banish
The grave robbers? “Will the
one out please turn off the”...night?
E. D. Ridgell 2018
Pills In White Boxes
all left now, finally.
I’ve only ever wanted to die alone
from the eyes and hands of anybody.
This is a home in which I am not at home.
The doors swing silently and there are no locks save one.
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 that white box gotten to, my pills and pictures?
There it is over there. I’ll open it later, if I decide to play with my pills today.
Maybe I’ll cut one or two in two or take two or more...
don’t want to look at pictures today, desperate attempts to recapture
events slowly fading away. Someone just came in and left
Without saying a word.
That’s OK. I’m feeling tired today
What with disappearing and all, fading,
E. D. Ridgell. 2018
Render Unto Caesar
I am sorry you
are not here
To see the oldest set sail,
To bask at the middle’s
To see the tyke kick a soccer ball!
Death leaves a void,
And your’s a cavern-
Time moves on
Even as we dally.
Old age is both harried
You marvel at
And watch your eaglets fly.
The sand drowns down,
The hour nears it’s close and like
My would-be grandfather long ago
I will see Caesar’s taxes done!
D. Ridgell 2017
The Cocksucker Blues
A lonesome boy
With a fine head of hair,
himself inside out-
Hell bent on coming out.
round Wyman Park
Racking up three of four a night,
He was mad as hell at the irony-
One after another notched up to spite.
His straight friends had made a beeline.
No one could abide him.
up and died and
His Mom was long dead!
a cold cement lion
‘Fore the Museum of Art.
He had no place to sleep.
No hole to crawl into.
“Oh where can I get my cock sucked?
Where can I get my ass fucked?
I may have no money
But I know where to put it every time.
Well, I asked a young policeman
If he’d only lock me up for the night.
Well, I’ve had pigs in the farmyard-
Some of them, some of them, they’re alright,
Well, he fucked me with his truncheon,
And his helmet was way too tight.
daybreak and I feel lost and lonely.
I got the cocksucker
Oh where can I get my cock sucked?
Where can I get
my ass fucked?
I ain’t got no money
But I know where to put it every time.**
**Sir Michael Phillip Jagger
She died before the questions.
Where did the popery come from
one of Wesley’s children
Carried to her catholic grave
In St. Mathew’s graveyard?
She told the grandchildren
she was Irish-
Laid it on me from the back steps.
God knows we were catholic,
But how and when, and more importantly,
I didn’t learn she lost a baby to a fire
I had become an old man, an elder,
And, as usual, the last
to hear anything!
Of a dozen babies only two survived,
And these secrets are buried now.
No matter, if I am half
It is the English root I naw upon!
Keep your dirty potatoes. No Irishman
Ever loved me as a kid!
They moved me from the country,
Into the sooty city, and gave me to the penguins,
Just to diagram sentences, serve at an altar,
march me to a late communion!
Truth is, I loved and hated it. You do, you know.
The statuary, a rough and tumble,
Game of stick
on a huge, dirt hill,
The incense, the masochism of the confessional-
All that lovely,
Icing On A Fruitcake!
And of all things
I would have thought
No one could
have ever said to me,
She tells me you are dying of
And like Grammy’s favorite,
Red, Christmas ornament,
Imprinted on my mind,
That Billy Jim and I shot
With our wicked pea-shooters
So long ago, I turn these things
that the holes do not show,
And their glow feigns to grace
Sight until someone else
Might grieve their loss, and
me gently down even with these
Tears at such sad loss.
did not take that last call to me,
Saying, yet again, that
you forgave me,
Yet one more time. If it lifted your
Spirit up, in truth, that’s all
I ever wished between us.
For my part,
I was always so much more
In my mind’s eye,
And never just icing on a fruitcake.
I think my life well hung.
it hang as it will,
The best tokens of it to shine
Long after I am gone.
Somewhere In The Trenches
feel I won't be long, now.
We'll be mingling again,
Dust and bone under the footfalls
Of the next in
I haven't heard.
Have you had snow,
And does the drum and fifes
Pass the green? Who won best door?
I hope all worry and fear
For those loved and leave behind
Falls away with the sweet embrace
I hope too you are spared news-
Precious patriot that you
are or were-
Of the tedious rise and fall of caliphates,
Here, there, everywhere the din of protest of war!
Remember, you refused to bayonet
Their silly straw man?
They could not understand a heroism
That refused to shoot the dove!
You wore them down in the end-
Hit the bulls-eye
on the range so often
They just pushed you on,
Never knowing another faggot got his orders.
Rudy who will follow had to go over-
Won the distinguished
service medal under fire.
All my best queers are heroes. I've done the best
To temper an ecstasy for 'Mad Dog' saviors.
I feel I won't be long, now.
We'll be mingling again,
Dust and bone under the
Of the next in line.
c. E.D. Ridgell,
in the trenches of America.
So you drag ass yourself through a lifetime
Of interminable tests
and high-wire risks
Only Spider-Man or Wonder Woman
Could survive only to have some
Cripple of a theoretical
One of the countless Sagan cosmologists,
Tell you there is no proof of or, worse yet,
need of a God, let alone a trinity!
And you ask yourself, for Christ Sakes,
Well who in the hell is
that inside my head,
And who have I been entreating all these
Dog-eared years to save my sorry ass!
I mean give
me a God Damed break, will you?
Never did I feel so close to anyone
As I did before that plaster
Of our Sacred Lady some half a century ago-
Staring up pouring my child’s heart out
the only person I felt could hear
My confusion and bewilderment
At things I just couldn’t unwrap
how I tried. As an altar boy
I felt chosen not to be better
But to serve something clear and unsullied.
I have always been the kindest person I know,
Indeed this world with its strange inhabitants
Still feels alien
to me. I’ve given up ever
Feeling anything like what they call normal.
I dared not say anything in the confessional
fear of God knows what, and the thing was,
I didn’t know what was and
I just worked off of their templates.
I clearly saw Michael. I’ve never
To apparitions. He sat there on the pompom,
White, chenille bedspread until poof, like that,
was gone. To this day, I believe this,
And so to this day I refuse to give
The memory of him, of My Lady,
Or my much maligned faith in God Almighty!
c. E.D. Ridgell, 2016
I feel like God sprinkled me
Bell's pixie dust-
Poof, your Queer!
Poof the magic Cock Sucker-
One of His chosen ones!
Everybody likes me! Somebody loves me!
Well, I'm still crazy! It's still heavy,
not buying nothing-
Never did, and never will!
Their gestures side peripheral notations-
Catch them up and I feel the shame of their
Punch and Judy shows-
Somebody including the lesbo is mimic'n me!
Hush! Hush! Now, don't you cry.
He'll screw her - then he'll fuck you-
William to comply-
Grease everybody up just a little!
Is that a noose round their Persian necks?
Is that them pushed off to fly?
am not worthy
To receive you". I'm preoccupied!
Well do a little blow-
Drink a shit load!
Nothing's gonna wash that
Sweet pixie dust off you're ass!
Shocked are you?
Well then, do us a favor
will ya 'n
Get out of the confessional!
c. E.D. Ridgell, 2016
|RUDY, JE T'AIME MON AMOUR !
Lord, Lay Me Down, Gently Now
drank and drank and drank for months I think
Trying to just find that place, that place for me;
That resting place where I could be invisible-
Where I could just lay flat and still, out of their way.
I lay me down in a corn field and let out a
I cut dead
any shame with another laugh and came to rest.
I reckoned back, when last a pretty boy, I lay on the lawn of Clifton Park
And looked and looked and looked for that four leaf clover, that myth.
lay me down, gently now, on that field of catalpa pods and ash.
Oh, Lordy, Lordy, Lordy but I’m worn down. I’m all used up, ya’ hear?
Let Virginia showers mingle me with my true
Let all the elements do what
they will do for a final metaphor of it.
And what of our souls, Lord? Are they myths, too?
Is there a special place for your chosen ones,
Has this been some
kind of carnival show? Were we their freaks?
"You Could Smell the Whiskey Burnin'
Down Copperhead Road",
So too, we weren't no folk that
so when they went
To land their chopper
On Camp Ground, Churchyard-
Well, we just started stonin' em
Like they do in Syria.
Now Parson Thomas couldn't
Put it clearer. You'll
Set sail. Get out'a here!
We ain't had no call on these Islands
For government or policin'
For four hundred years.
Whether plantin' up a Tennessee Holler,
traps down a Maryland line.
We'll suffer no interferin' or layin' up taxes
We ain't reckon' on payin' no how!
E.D. Ridgell, 2013
Edward Ridgell, Poet
( A true event in Smith Island History,
both Smith and Tangier Island
Have never had any need for policing
All the time
At every move
Whoever they are.
Who watches the watchers?
Are they spying on me
Or are they mere algorithms
Programed, caged and boxed
box me in?
Should I be frightened,
Tread more gently,
Wrap the wad in toilet tissue
For a dirty deal?
Will they supply
To buy the foodstuffs,
Summaries of my food
Will there be eyes
on and in everything?
How long before they put their cameras
On and in me? Should I have
Operations filmed for my security?
Can the dentist be trusted?
What party does he belong to?
The older I become
The more questions I have.
I’ve given up hoping there will be
Anything like the world promised me.
Could it be I was lied to, or worse yet,
Am I to be some sort of bounty?
I suddenly want to kiss the man,
The man whose
lips are deadly cold and frozen shut now.
Out of custom with the day, he'd always kiss me this way,
my breath away and with it holding ransom a heart
I was at no liberty to open up to him except in these teasing
Taunts of his. I only desired him more for that audacity
That made him so drop dead gorgeous to one as sensitive as
His widower hems and haws as the
honey bees fly round his head,
Protests he is not ready yet, not ready for the sting on his lips that
his whistle for yet another go at it. As usual, I've shown him
The possibilities. What a friend he has in unrequited
I suddenly want to kiss the man,
The man whose lips are deadly cold and frozen shut now.
A Brother Samuel
Fair lips our Haven tailors so
To softly shape
The sounds, choruses on high, to echo,
Tiny treads of the timorous doe,
unison to Allyson dubbed Aquitaine,
Fair lips our Haven tailors so!
Sojourns through this season we go-
To be sure, heaven rains down
choruses on high, to echo.
Coupling songs amidst the snow
Ferry the holiday gleefully o’er
our Haven tailors so!
Stately bundled in each hair a bow,
Singing carols low to usher
The sounds, choruses
on high, to echo
This season’s greetings glad refrains
To proclaim a brother, Samuel-
our Haven tailors so,
The sounds, choruses on high, to echo!
© E.D. Ridgell, 2005
A Jack In The Box, That's Me!
We could not have been more different.
Me downing my first screw drivers.
How did we end up
Chasing girls with Frank-
Plowing into the cement stop at Gino's.
Did I know I was gay?
If so, it was screwed on so tight,
I needed screwing
to find out!
Stained the bedsheets with blood.
I remember, now.
Mom was dying of cancer.
You were walking behind me,
The precise minute, I decided to marry.
I didn't know it but,
I was filling an eminent
With the best thing I knew how.
Oh, I wasn't malicious.
I didn't know who, and I didn't know when,
And love was always the
the joke was on me.
She didn't fit. It didn't work.
She blamed me but hid an ace.
She died forgiving me.
I arranged it, a mercy
For her wretched soul.
Yea, I was a Homo,
A bittersweet toy-
A jack in the box, that's me!
Richard, you were the first person
To betray me.
You dropped the assassin's dagger
At the foot of Pompey's statue, remember?
No matter. Deeper thrusts were in the circle.
My bosom friend's thrusts, particular and personal
made to, how did he put it, loosen me up?
c. E.D. Ridgell, 2016
The Road Too Often Taken
I find myself sinking again into
That kind of depression
That comes on for no reason,
And then you fill in the empty spaces....
I know it will pass,
But not before exacting its toll,
A toll for a road
I've been down
Too many times before.
One says it's bipolar,
Another says that's ridiculous.
I just feel their lack of any concern,
One way or the other.
One thing good will most likely
of another trip down this road,
And that is a piece of art more likely better
For the trek taken down it, than
c. E.D. Ridgell, 2014 See More
Just Another Bay Ghost
Some days I feel like
be just another Bay ghost-
A washed up, washed out
Of a once proud,
Bright, white schooner
Skipping o'er frothy, topped waves.
Everybody serves somebody
For good or not. I've tried to be
The best skipper that my Lord
the service of
Family, friends and country-
And I am content and ready
Whenever the tide washes
E.D. Ridgell, 2013