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The Missing Lighthouse Keeper
.
Bill
Whitelock idled the boat
So that we might see at low
tide
The tombstones that lay just a foot below the water.
.
With
eyes strained and necks bent like the egrets
Gracing
the wetlands nearby,
We could just glean the names, dates,
And epitaphs on the eroded stones
Of a Holland Island graveyard reclaimed now
By waters of a relentless Chesapeake Bay.
.
We gave up on the second day.
James Somers our missing lighthouse keeper
Of Somers Cove Light was nowhere to be found.
It
was fitting this ancestor was not fixed
To this lost
Holland island. It was an outside chance.
James likely
belonged elsewhere on one of those islands
Out
of time, Smith’s or Tangier’s.
.
I confess, I wonder why I care, for only a few folk
Comb and carefully record what might seem a
Strange safe guarding of lines some would wriggle out of
Like Jimmy, here reported to have been the lighthouse keeper
For Solomon’s Cove now lost to the incessant Bay.
.
Perhaps I’m seeking some place
in history,
Some link with those who came before.
I do not know. I only know I care, and that I feel this need
To record those who have followed on the water
And to those who will 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!”
E.D.Ridgell
Revised 2018
________________________________________________________
Napped Time, not measured, A little boy napped Atop pompoms of white chenille Ages ago on a Hot, windy, St. Mary’s afternoon. Spotlights of sun On
tall green grass Whispered
secrets outside windows Propped
up. Never again so safely slept I In a harbor my sole kingdom Ruled by matriarchs black and white Moored to men Some tattooed- Others smelling sweetly of Rye Grammy’s big bosom cuddly deep Drowned me in a smell of Bart cloth ancestry. From a kitchen of black and white enameled stoves Nigger ladies chattered Lowly ladies with high values- Rock beds. Protectors of stacks of soft shell crabs And fried chicken secrets all their own. Much respected 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 Certain they were good for one last test- An escape duty free So long’s you didn’t go too far up the road Sunken
smack in middle of the yard Sat
a captain free ghost. Pigs
in sties ‘hind rough hewn slats From their trough splattered Some of the chickens Pecking
here there and everywhere, While
beneath 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 schoolhouse Kept
growing one closet at a time Till
rooms were stuffed with decade’s censuses- 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 a judge and playing in the Klan. Whole
damned place a garden, I picked
her pretty flowers Cause she
said not to and expected it. She’d
long hair never shorn brushed and braided with pride I often snitched her snapping turtles using Dick’s net From a muddy ditch side the house- Their soupy purpose my own. Besides, they always 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 Studebakered the girls and Honked off. Deliberately late we walked To the end of path Turned
left for the crick Fished
or swam butt naked Boys worshipped
outside In the Free State
sun. No,I never napped so well As in that kingdom long ago Nestled close to two shores Between too many wars Down home in the Land of Pleasant Living © 2005 by E.D.Ridgell Revised 2018 _____________________________________________________ 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,
Feigning not to mark my sins.
I come ‘fore my Lord
Knowing I must right the score
And grateful beyond all measure.
Receive
me unto Thy grace,
Your penitent petitioner
When Unto my Jesu I come!
E.D. Ridgell, 2018 ____________________________________________
The Prey
With wounded wing
And
one too many
Fallen feathers
Solemnity
Swoops down.
The eagle
screeching
From high up,
It’s
eye fixed
On its prey.
The kingfisher
His peacock in tow
Rails against
Any
and all who dare
Ruffle his regal feathers..
The Swallows
Flock
to
Pluck out
These fisher types
With their feather mites.
There is no land
In sadder disharmony
Than this with the cadged
Swallow wanna-be’s
Seeking the protection of the eagle.
E. D. Ridgell 2019
_______________________________________________________
We’re Open! Everyday there are over fourteen hundred deportees- But for the grace of God. Why? Did we take the welcome sign down? Surely we did not mean to, not seriously! We are a nation of cast offs, cast aways, Cargo holds of throwaways, Unwanted, and fleeing refugees. It is our pedigree. It is our heritage. No one driving a taxi in New York City Knows where in the hell he's going. We like it that way, A one-way ticket to who knows where. Send
us your baggage. Bestow on us your choicest bums. Plus begets of left o'er slaves. We will make citizens of these. Throw a homo or two into the stew. You've got potpourri! But
beware! Take care! Don't spit on the smile of our Shoeshine boys. Don’t come railing at us In hopes we’ll forget or falter. We won’t. We’re open! E.
D. Ridgell ________________________________________________________
Humpty Dumpty Pock marked, Sun burnt, With hair
ablaze, Feverishly Choking on smoke While sweating in cracks, The old ozone holed orb Orders horsemen
attack! Wimbly-wambly winds change. Waves walk high heeled Sending hovels into the seas As homeless forests flies Leave locusts starving. Hordes horde the little left; “All the kings’ horses And all the
kings’ men…” ©
2012 by E.D. Ridgell __________________________________________________________ O’er The Bow!
I can not find anything in
my repertoire To
even compare you to And
I’ve a full quiver.
I’m
old and I’m irritable And I’ve exhausted any patience left Years ago.
I’m ripe for danger The worst kind of patriot The rusted partisan.
Make my old age! Is the pen mightier You fat yankee bloat?
I’ll
naw and naw Until I hit bone And lock your ass up!
You’re
goin down You and you’re uptown
thieves With
their Fox 45 resumes!
E.
D. Ridgell
________________________ Yerushalayim In
life we are in death. Each
second of a heartbeat Is the
only promise. Boom! The sound
of every second you are alive. There is no fixed right or wrong- Just a consensus. Live and let live is the only ‘fair’. In the
end The only thing that
matters is kindness. There is a reason Why Palestine has four quarters And eight gates. We are our brother’s keeper. Keep your brother in your heart. An eye for an eye is only as good as two. “Love one another. As I have loved you, So you must love one another.” E.
D. Ridgell 2020 _________________________________________________________
Pontificating
Give
me one word besides tired
To
tell me how you are feeling.
What
do you gain by feeling this way?
What’s
in it for you?
Do you want to be liked always
By everybody?
Much
luck with that.
It's neither possible
nor commendable.
The narcissist is the hero child unleashed
But that's not you, is it?
You must first see yourself
Before you can recognize another.
Real feelings are powerful.
They can be turned in, out, or inside out-
Worrisome but useful. Use feelings guardedly
Less they hurt somebody.
The narcissist is powerless against empathy.
It Trumps him every time.
Learn
to use real feelings
To shield the
most vulnerable in you.
E. D. Ridgell 2020 ____________________________________________________________________
___________________________________________ Cat Nap In truth, I
haven’t the luxury For breaking
news anymore. Bordering the end I muse and remember it all- So vivid and clear is yesteryear. How did I not break Against
the shore? How come I end this well? I treasure much But much treasure is buried. That’s
the fare. The world is as tilted As ever it was, But I am only half here. It’s not a bad place
to be. If truth be known, I treasure
each day And nap with the cat. ________________________________________________________ Crispin I never ever sought to be anyone But Montjoy a messenger for my liege Francis. Hal thought me more than worthy Except my allegiance was to the wrong king. I
have lain here for six centuries Dead-witness
messenger To that sorrowful
day when The battlefield
lay strewn with many a brave knight. Pity us then
our dead horse poor garnishment For the feast of St. Crispin’s, and poor Hal to live But a short time hither that fate that awaits us all. Dead at Thirty two, a sad and early end to an auspicious reign.
E.
D. Ridgell _________________________________________________________________________________
The Remains
of A Cry Your death Saddens me More than you will ever know I can remember that summer of 76 Touching down in Madrid Hot and a sunlight like no other Somehow You poured me
into A matador’s size 30p There’s no way I was going to sit down We were that kind of happy born of escape Leaving ex-wives
to bitch on the vine I was enamored of the stork nests on the chimneys The bright sun cutting crisp shadows You asked the
man behind the desk to exchange money He turned as crimson as any olive colored can Franco-men dolled fear out even then Many waited for
a fascist funeral Meandering down a street Suddenly a big car emerged From side a building All the pedestrian looked down in fear Careful not to
draw the attention Of the big important Franco-man Then too, just outside the Prado We suddenly found ourselves In a kind of
protest. Leaflets We’re thrown helter-skelter It was sad to see so many young people Struggling to
such little effect I was shocked they spiked the tapestries To the walls of the Alcazar in Toledo Only these could
support the weight The whole palace bespoke of that New World treasure of gold Stained with sweat and blood Your death saddens me More than you
will ever know Every song is the remains of love Every light the remains of time And every sigh the remains of a cry* E.
D. Ridgell *Federica Garcia Lorca ____________________________________
Thunder
and Lightning
The eagle flew into the millennium As if to soar higher and higher Not fearing the crescent moon Let alone the swing of the bear’s
paw..
The bull raged even as the winters grew tame. The lakes bulged as the ice
inched closer. Even as
the shamans warned, Not
all the eaglets heeded.
In the moonlight above
the forests. The tribes
dissected golden calves. And
the gutted entrails were read. The auguries could not agree.
The
winds changed West to East As
it had been foretold In
prior decades and The
Eagles could or would not heed.
The
symbol took flak Maneuvering
as it could Through
arrow then missile Always
in thunder and lightning.
E. D. Ridgell
2019 _________________________________________
Cold
Stone Larkin was no lollygag Bent on filling up time, Opinionated, self-centered And dedicated to the hunt Provided you didn’t catch the fox. One thing and one thing only- The written word Anything his, with poetry Leading the chase. Thing
was he bummed out The mourners
and depressed The party goers, All of whom read him avidly. Too fond of booze he Turned down a laureate, and like Verlaine, Ceased writing poetry, altogether. With nothing better to do, He died of esophageal cancer. E.
D. Ridgell
Eliza Wins The Battle of Jericho I suddenly realized no one was on the other
side of the table needing lifting. Worse still no one was in the bed alongside me. I was alone in my grief as well as in my fears. People I thought
to be friends had been no more than false fronts. My loneliness was palpable. The body longs for company. Even as the heart
pines it seeks renewal. The task of reinventing oneself must be taken up wholeheartedly, If you mean to have a future, suicide is no
possibly. Death leaves a void that cannot be filled. The good thing about a bottom Is the only was is up. Successful people don’t
give up, and I mean to be successful. E
D Ridgell _____________________________________________________________
The Robber Barons First, they felled the poplars, Then the pines, Stripping the hills in one generation. Tempered in greed, They pitched tracks to a tender; The barons of the rails; Robbers with “n” rights. They sent hired men, Loggers and lumberjacks, Hillmen,
underground to Scout Salley’s
Find ‘neath the full-bellied
Appalachians. In dank
passages Shaft-sinkers found seams; Black riches beyond expectations. With industry and speed The company owners, Reps
of the barons back East, Soon had
the seams yielding Loads borne
out on the tracks, Robber baron tracks. Wheels turned; whirling in all directions. Natives, immigrants, even the niggers Were in hock to the company store. The rich and slick had all bound In a kind of slavery inciting The wretched to temporarily shed Soot stained, hard hats, shiny lamps- Symbols of their servitude. Housed In makeshift tents, The
dispossessed struck for something fair, Anything
freer feeling. Strike after strike
failed as they awaited “Big Bill” trailing his “Teddy”
bear. Victory came with an act, It was hoped put an end, To all the injustices hither-too. History though too often is a mere Reflection of the future and Today, many of the great grandchildren Of
the hillmen are again fooled and won over; Run-over,
so to speak, by quick tricksters, A
new breed, so alike those Robber Barons Who first paid to have the tracks laid That proved to be more a burden than a boon To the hill people of Appalachia. E.D. Ridgell
Sylvia Seven Pence a dozen, Pick me two White and yellow strumpets. Supposedly she lost her scissors Open in the garden Among the daffodils. His was a sad reflection On a time gone by- Before the oven ritual. E.
D. Ridgell _________________________________
The Turbulent Sixties
Cisco only had three legs
And a red bandanna.
That was one loved pooch:
Coal black and it never
barked.
Cisco was fine tuned
And probably a little stoned.
I gave Janice my wide bottoms
Hoping
she’d like me just a little.
I finally rented digs
In Charles Village
Away from Fells
Point.
I didn’t want to know anyone.
Kenny came over
Looking for love
In all the wrong
places.
I was busy breaking windows.
I’d love again
But not for awhile/
I was right
all along:
Love was blow’n in the wind.
E D Ridgell _________________________________________
Emergency Exit Only!
A long hallway with many doors,
All leading into empty rooms without windows.
The naked lights of inefficient bulbs
Hang down like yellow nooses.
That
alley one moonlit night,
Searching her abandonment
Her trucker lover tucking you up
Feigning concern.
A
decade later an alley in Bolton Hill,
The lit liquor store, a beacon
in the night
In the company of scurrying rats-
Chivas Regal, Coke, and Camels.
Muster yourself up only to flee
Down another, always with empty rooms
Under
those shabby, yellow lights
Rooms absent a window or a
way out.
Fading wallpaper, lead chipped
paint,
In the flickering light-
Air heavy and hard to breath,
And
always that door at the end of the hallway,
Emergency
Exit Only! E D Ridgell ____________________________________________________________
Paper
Prayers Reincarnation is what happens to you When you’re making other plans. The
stars said I’d be reborn a peacock and I ended up a kingfisher- Oh
well. Somewhere in the bardo Something went askew- The tourists were distracting. Disrespectful:
they Ignored the Pleading priests. Old ways gave way. The
kites flew low and The namske’s skull went empty. Few of the mourners Survived
and The paper prayers were wanting. E
D Ridgell _____________________________________________________
Distance
And Death I only met them together once When they flew East to visit the daughter, My mom, Marmion. I liked her best. I remember She took me to
see Oklahoma And we talked. She had a way with me Even though I was a child. Rena had been a teacher Which is where
the name ‘Marmion’ Must have come to her mind When naming my mother. She was educated, A high bar for her childhood time. She must have
read Scott and liked it. I didn’t like him on this visit But that was because he Hadn’t
appreciated my drunken Dad. He’d been chatting to her And I heard so I told him to stuff it. O’er ten years later I met him in Frisco
again. He was sporting a woman’s feather hat. I liked that. I wasn’t lucky with the grand folk Which partly
explained A family tree obsession. I never held flesh and blood much Until I made my own. Distance and death played no small part And that weren’t
the half of it. E. D. Ridgell
Laureate Birthday Letters I peruse your
recipe Your adjectives, your brazen Obvious inversions, the ingredients Of genius. I imagine what it must have been like To be had by
you, to be bad with you. Your armpit masculinity hangs on you. It drips onto and into every page. Everybody was in awe of you. She adored you,
died for you, Because of you. Life’s not fair but you’re the poet. You had all the badass varmints crow- Lived to write
these letters. Your daughter is the last one standing, Victimized again, left wanting. Nick didn’t have your strength. The void swallowed
him. Cancer swallowed you in the end. I’m spread eagled- Hawk Roosting on your droppings. To off yourself- It’s a waste of a way. He missed you. She misses you.
The world misses you. The birthday letters. It’s their doing. They’re perfect. They are better
than anything I can ever be Not that I could ever be so much as a Scrounger around your woodpile. E.
D. Ridgell
______________________________
Crown And Post
I am heavy as
a sink box decoy I bag nothing but woe. Each year adds to the weight As around and around I go Falling
into the bardo.
Absent any reprieve, Life’s sentence. Loosing value
each ensuing year, A shard of metal here an implant
there My costly burden.
Spent shot, Barrel clean and hollow; Shot wide the mark My
crooked cane Bent to the strain.
I watch the sand run Down and down Each grain through Heartbreak after heartbreak Waiting at my woeful wake.
E. D. Ridgell
Late
Into The Pandemic O’er seventy years I’ve tap-danced, Hopscotched, pole vaulted O’er this
ouija board, and finally Musing on my supposed success, I’m suddenly corona kindling. Is there no rest for their wicked? In my ventures
I’ve learned to risk, And in doing so I’ve tasted life Above and beyond ordinary, And so weary
as I be, presently I’ll roll one more time. Careful I’ll be, but I must cast this sink-box decoy O’er board, anon. Save lt. “I will not bend to the marriage.”* E
D Ridgell 2020 *…A Man For All Seasons. __________________________________________________________
A Pocket Full “You can always count on the Americans To do the right thing After they’ve tried everything else.”* We seem to be
living up to that again. I trust this is because we always lead, Eventually. We are the melting pot, The experimental brew. Far from perfect, We do show up. Perhaps this is the Irish in us. Whatever, we
win- We win, and win, and win again. Is it luck? assuredly, It is not! E D Ridgell 2020
Moby Doc So the doc Switched up my meds And I’m adrift In dreams. I’m
too old to be Set to sea
like this- I’ve no
legs for land Let alone
sea. What knaws at him, The suggestion? The patient must never Presume. Why? Is not the mariner Best judge of the sea? There
is no better experience Than
first hand. E
D Ridgell _______________________________ Over The Moon It isn’t
my first last straw. I’ve drawn ‘em before. No doubt,
I’ll draw many more. It’s been one thing after another and I’m sick and tired. I’m a gentle
man Living in an ungentle time, Where morals seem wanting and Empathy gone missing. It is a dark and heady time. Faith is that belief in something Unproven and Likely
to remain that way. It can be a blessing. It can
be a cow over the moon. For my part I’m
a man of faith- Faith is in the putting, mind you. You’ve
got to put your faith to work. In helping others we rise above ourselves. E.
D. Ridgell 2020 __________________________________________________________
Voting
I don’t always vote.
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
toting, well meaning, young boys
Who dot this earth
under the white crosses of a faith
And conviction
to match any you might catch out
Of a Norman Rockwell
painting.
________________________________________________________________
Don’t Tread On Me
Three grandchildren mind you, three!-
And
everybody wants to fuck with them.
Their world is suddenly masked
And there are bandits everywhere.
Germs are here, there, and nowhere.
If it’s not a virus it’s a missile-
Once again there are fascists
About the business of control.
The world is bent on war and
This time, this time,
It will be
the war to end all wars.
I thought their great grandfather won that.
There are men out there
Who
would kill just to be tsar,
Supreme Leader, or whatever
Gets them a shiny crown.
I am here to tell you
It will not do! It will not do!
If you mean to harm me or mine
I mean to kill you!
E
D Ridgell
________________________________________________
Humpty Dumpty
So many guns And such
poor aim- All the hero’s Were killed in one Of the wars. Everyday There
is a shooting, Not even the children abide The slaves
are in rebellion And the crops are all spoiled. The borders aren’t holding and The wall has been breached. The throne goes to the highest bidder- There’s not a penny in the
coffers To feed anyone. The allies Have switched sides, Ambassadors are recalled and There’s
talk of a secret weapon but It’s been sold. The thousand years Is shortchanged and The histories
closed. All the kings men and All the kings horses… E.
D. Ridgell 2020 ___________________________________________________
Don’t Tread On Me
Three grandchildren mind you, three!-
And everybody wants to fuck with them.
Their
world is suddenly masked
And there are bandits everywhere.
Germs are here, there, and nowhere.
If it’s not a virus it’s a missile-
Once again there are fascists
About the business
of control.
The world is bent on war and
This time, this time,
It will be the war to end all wars.
I thought
their great grandfather won that.
There are men out there
Who would kill just to be tsar,
Supreme Leader, or whatever
Gets them
a shiny crown.
I am here to tell you
It will not do! It will not do!
If you mean to harm me or mine
I am here to
tell you I mean to kill you!
E D Ridgell _____________________________________________________________
Queer Lives Matter
“Queer Eyes for the Straight Guys”-
It’s ridiculous until it’s your son
Who’s blown the top of his head off-
Finger on the trigger of your prized rifle!
We
were so sick of you-
Finally fighting back at another blue-badged
raid,
Tumbling out, en masse onto Christopher Street,
To defend our stonewall retreat.
You’re so vain
You probably
think this poem is about you.
It’s not. It’s about
centuries of martyrs-
Ridiculed, beaten, tortured, and killed.
Look to the streets of St. Petersburg
To gaze on innocents,
On the nose
bled streets of Moscow,
Suffering again centuries old
biases.
Apostles, disciples, monks and more
Carded and bequeathed their interpretations
Combed from teachings empty of any of His condemnations-
Then twisted and turned into biased codices.
Who rests in the Tombs Of The Unknown Soldiers-
All
straight guys, no gay guys, Really?
This shame does dishonor
on so many
Who gave the full measure.
Worms have feasted on eyes, swollen, blackened, and blue,
Or gouged out altogether, leaving empty white skulls
The martyred, murder victims- markers to teach us the
Manifold, multifarious workings of God.
E. D. Ridgell
_______________________________________________________________________________________
Sing A Song
They weigh us in shame-
Their sordid words
Sharp darts aimed at
That worth we can muster.
History bears witness in
Writs on
walls to
Their cruel dictates-
God alone judges the out of ordinary.
“Stony the road we trod
Bitter the chastening
rod”.
I am over life’s hurdles
Grateful and content at the end.
“Lift every voice and sing
Till
earth and heaven ring”,
Now, lay me gently down
In the soil of my ancestors.
E. D. Ridgell 2020
_________________________________________
Let My Freedom Flag Fly
We were out to cop some hashish
On a farmstead up towards Frederick
Everyone
was mellow each on their own trip
She stood in the back
of a pickup-
Watermelon laced with LSD
Gathering others to go pick strawberries
I remember the path was often
Muddy but I had
boots
Of the best leather
It was the sixties
The plugged in
dropped out generation
Idealistic and patriotic as united as
we were divided
We like generations before
Were that odd breed of American
Committed to freedom above all
E D Ridgell 2020 ________________________________________________________________________________
The POTUS With The Most-us! Everything about Him is warped- More warp speed than
the Enterprise! He never wherries of his roll To
be numero-uno. He lives
before a judge Forever suing- Tweetle
this. Tweetle that. I’ll be suing you. He is not weighed down with empathy Only with the crown
he imagines he wears. History waits in the sidelines To
judge him for good or bad He’s
always making news Most of it bad. He’s
one POTUS You can’t help but notice It won’t be easy But some day some way Even He must go away. Tomorrow is always another day! E.
D. Ridgell _____________________________________________________________________ Lock Him Up!
Dubbed little hands,
He
can Ill afford to loose
Though he can weather the litigation-
He has to win. He’s always had to win.
He can not suffer any blow to his ego.
It’s understated to say he lies but the one lie,
The
cherry picked lie, was to Mueller.
A sitting can not be tried,
not while in office.
A loss in this fall, a toppling would
be expensive
Eating away at his Ill gotten gains.
Behind a façade of gold plating
Lies a base metal impure.
When the
false front comes down
There will be a walk down with the law
Right smack down Pennsylvania Avenue.
E. D. Ridgell, 2020 ______________________________________________________________
A Pardon
Of Sorts No one else could cuddle
the empathy, Key to Alan, that chap, like Crisp- Sod-all damp cold to Merrie Olde England!
For o'er half a century, ironic, Enigmatic, and cumbersome to explain- An absent pardon for so long!
Finally, by Her prerogative, Justice
of sorts, far after the deed is done- "Dip the apple
in the brew, let the sleeping death seep through"!
c. E. D. Ridgell, 2014 ________________________________________________________________
Napped Time, not measured, A little boy napped Atop pompoms of white chenille Ages ago
on a Hot, windy, St. Mary’s afternoon. Spotlights of sun On tall
green grass Whispered secrets outside windows Propped
up. Never again so safely slept I In a harbor my sole kingdom Ruled by matriarchs black and white Moored
to men Some tattooed- Others smelling sweetly
of Rye Grammy’s big bosom cuddly deep Drowned
me in a smell of Bart cloth ancestry. From a kitchen of black
and white enameled stoves Nigger ladies chattered Lowly ladies
with high values- Rock beds. Protectors of stacks of soft
shell crabs And fried chicken secrets all their own. Much respected 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 Certain they were good for one last test- An escape
duty free So long’s you didn’t go too far up the road Sunken smack in middle of the yard Sat a captain free ghost. Pigs in
sties ‘hind rough hewn slats From their trough splattered Some of
the chickens Pecking here there and everywhere, While beneath
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 schoolhouse Kept growing one closet at a time Till rooms
were stuffed with decade’s censuses- 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 a judge and playing in the Klan. Whole damned
place a garden, I picked her pretty flowers Cause she
said not to and expected it. She’d long hair never shorn brushed and braided with pride I often snitched her snapping turtles using Dick’s net From a muddy ditch side
the house- Their soupy purpose my own. Besides, they always
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 Studebakered the girls and Honked
off. Deliberately late we walked To the end of path Turned
left for the crick Fished or swam butt naked Boys worshipped
outside In the Free State sun. No,I never napped so well As in that kingdom long ago Nestled
close to two shores Between too many wars Down home in the Land
of Pleasant Living © 2005 by E.D.Ridgell Revised 2018 __________________________________________________________ Go’n Home I will be crossing o’er the water soon, And my mind is meandering back To simpler times and salad years Where miracles happen. It was lightning
on the beach And danger When a knock came to the door- She lost her engagement ring In the sand. My aunt was magic alive- Magic is never far away. She led them to the beach And sifting with a screen- Sure enough there was the ring. Magic is alive. They are there, All of them crouched down In the last row o’ the store Out of sight, waiting for me, All of us in our turn, Waiting
to welcome us home. Magic
is alive. Magic is never far
away, Magic is alive. Magic is alive. E.
D. Ridgell 2020 ____________________________________________
Hand Me Downs
Randy worshipped
the Stones.
I was a Beatles keeper.
The years are all gone
As are some of the people.
He married again.
So did the faggot
He did not visit living
Less than ten miles away.
I have a picture of Larry
Sitting at dinner twiddling his thumbs.
He died less than a year later.
You handled everything.
Thom wanted his paintings.
I wanted a memento, thats all.
We got nothing
Not
so much as a call.
Edie Johns told me of his death.
Like Big Lady
I
always got the news as a hand me down.
I
suppose you just couldn’t be bothered.
E. D. Ridgell 2020 _________________________________________________________________________
Bang Drum Loudly
We were still
in the sweet limerence of love
And you
and I were to Arlington.
I had walking
pneumonia and it was
A hot Memorial
Day.
I walked and I walked and
I swear I was like to fill
One
of those holes myself.
You were
then as you are now, patient.
Unlike an elephant high name
On a cold black wall
You came back from the war
Sporting
a decoration for valor.
I’ve never shared that heartbreak
And I’ll not start now.
I’m just forever grateful
Somehow,
you came home.
E. D. Ridgell
2020. _________________________________________________________________
Confused Real Time
Which chamber
is this?
Reality is taking place in a real
time
Technological pastime present time
and future
To which are added history in past
time,
Speculation and fiction in real time,
Sometimes or possibilities of time travel
time machines,
In the fantasies of
future time-
“And how are you Mr. Wilson?”
Old clips of interviews on any number of platforms:
Dick Cavett, Johnny Carson, This is Your Life,
Lucille Ball,
Being laid down
in the time it takes to write this poem.
What time is it.?
I’m in real time typing on the tablet paused
On a former clip of footage from a long lost era-
A Hollywood sex idle I watched grow old and die
In the time allotted to my lifetime
In which right now I’m taking time
To write to imaginary or real friends
Many of which I’ve never met, did meet,
Or might make the acquaintance of.
I
am, to put it succinctly
Confused
real time!
E. D. Ridgell Sometime _________________________________________________________________
The Eagle Scout
He holds
The
Order Of The Aztec Eagle.
As you might expect
It is shimmering gold.
He isn’t used to
Soft accolades. He is
honored and confused
By
the intangible.
It warrants
No coverage, yet it’s
Valuable to him,
Very.
He’s fathered boys
And one girl.
Touchy and feely, he’s
Affectionate stone.
Trapping through
The Middle East,
He does not tan
Orange
does not suit him.
E. D. Ridgell 2020 ______________________________________________
Dozing Through The Bardo
Abandonment
Another
face of grief
Or vice versa
Unhealed
wounds
Fester memories
Lurking in the recesses
Lingering resentments
Wasteful
dues
The hourglass
Stalks a
Penultimate
clash
Of masked memories
Everything
living feeds
Dines in a
Sky
rite ritual as
Vultures soar dropping
Their
droplets
Into the bardo
E D Ridgell 2020 ___________________________________________________________________
Easter Sunday 2020
Like Mr. Dodd
AKA
Elwood
I’m searching:
Looking for the
Guardian
My confidant-
An
angel,
The archangel,
Michael.
I look in the mirror
Only to spy
A
facsimile
Of what was
My appetizer
For seven throws
I’ve watched it
Grow up only to
Grow old.
Michael is
Forever young,
Never speaks,
But smiles-
A smile that is
As protecting
As it is gentle.
With Michael, I
Fear no death.
E D Ridgell
Easter Sunday 2020
________________________________________________
Misdemeanor 3
So an old man
And his shopping cart
Bump your but
Not once but twice
One for good measure
And you
Life s not been good to you
You re grieving and you re angry
Most of the time
Almost all the time
Me to
Don t have nothing n on you
You boost it up
You call in the law
To chase down that there
cart
If you
could
You d lock the Alta cocker up
And throw away the key
Cut the lead
To his ox e
You re not just
A little crazy
You re bat shit crazy
And you re
Not gonna take one aisle longer
E D Ridgell 2020 -_______________________________________
Class Dismissed!
I’m shocked
at how old I’ve become.
It seems
just yesterday I was fleet on my feet
With
all the stamina of a young buck.
Those
minutes to hours have run down.
One day soon the world will go on
All the better without me.
I waste needed oxygen-
All manner
of things vital to the young.
I have become a poor investment
A waste of resources. My jackpots bore
The young. They are eager for a turn
At
life’s mysteries and complexities.
I crack the mirror and diet for my eyes alone.
Art desires nothing more of me and
All the desks are empty. There’s not
a
Sunflower seed to be found. Class
dismissed!
E. D. Ridgell 2020 ____________________________________________________
Incoming Who hung me a target board The scapegoat dodging poisoned darts? Mommy married me only to divorce me in the end a hospital ward of witnesses. Her replacement, a wife armed with a secret Carrying her quills of misplaced arrows She reserved for the lucky men in her life- First me, then a facsimile of Lincoln Followed by some mean old lawyer Who beat her up with jewelry She did not prize, and finally Big Daddy With the big bucks that everybody did love. And here comes another wheeling her iPhone At some officer on the other end who bites At the chance to be her stalwart yet absent
knight- Just another dart
thrown sideways at me, Ammunition
clouding her anger at a husband Who would die rather than abide her any longer. I am left with the tatters, a bossy bitch with cold angry eyes and a hot burning anger at anyone Who would dare bump her not once but twice. Oh well, bother but definitely she’s
taking aim. There’s
an old Polish saying; “What’s for ya won’t miss ya!” This incoming dart’s for me!
E.
D. Ridgell 2020 _____________________________________________________
On The Shoulders Of Giants Carl Sagan is Planted somewhere Near Ithaca New York Under a comforter of newsprint Anchored with tiny stones Although he was not Jewish. Stephen Hawking Resides in Westminster Abbey Near Sir Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin Having come there from Great St. Mary’s Church Cambridge Although he was a devout atheist. “By denying evidence For climate change and Pulling out of the Paris Climate Agreement, Donald Trump will cause avoidable Environmental damage To our beautiful planet…” The
time for compromise is past- There
is no room for debate For
us and our children, Less
we become another Venus Under
a hot comforter of Raining
sulphuric acid. If there were a God, “We would know the mind of God”- Everything that God would know “If there were a God, Which there isn’t.” “We’re made of star stuff.” “Like butterflies who flutter For a day and think it is forever”, We fly in the face of Science- “Extinction is the rule. Survival is the exception.” The time for compromise is past- E.
D. Ridgell 2018 _________________________________________________________
Like The Corners Of My Mind I’ve been grieving for
days.
I don’t know why. Waves of memories
Meandering back, break o’er me.
Maybe it’s the antibiotics. I’m exhausted!
Grief does that, and it never
Recedes, altogether. It doesn’t do that.
It leaves the shore of the mind reluctantly. I feel wise and as old as the Grand Canyon.
Nobody likes or heeds
My many marbled measures,
Bleaching the canyon walls! Caesar speaks
To bored snores
Rising from
Bart-cloth
pillows.
E. D. Ridgell ___________________________________ |
Tuckered Out Barack hit it out of the park. You could
read it on his face. I’m glad I lived to see universal healthcare- To see the first African American President. We landed a space probe on a meteor, And I thought back on Kennedy- The race for the moon, Winning. Bill’s gotten better with age, Like an aged wine. Hillary’s winding down. The Dem’s got plenty,
though, Whereas they. They got nothing. Immigration reform? I’m tired. The family is moving on. Rudy is happy. I have to hold on, But truth is I’m
tired. I’m plum tuckered out. E
D Ridgell ____________________________________________________________
In The Heat Of This Pandemic For o’er seventy years I’ve tap-danced, hopscotched- Pole-vaulted o’er this Ouija Board, Only to find I could be corona kindling In the heat of this pandemic. I’ve tippy toed through ordinary, And weary as I am, I’ll chance another time To cast this sink-box decoy O’er board for “I will not bend to the marriage.”* E
D Ridgell 2020 *…A Man For All Seasons. ______________________________________________________________ Laureate Birthday Letters I peruse
your recipe Your adjectives, your
brazen Obvious inversions, the ingredients Of genius. I imagine
what it must have been like To be
had by you, to be bad with you. Your
armpit masculinity hangs on you. It
drips onto and into every page. Everybody was in awe of you. She adored you, died for you, Because of you. Life’s not fair but you’re the poet. You had all the badass varmints crow- Lived to write these letters. Your daughter is the last
one standing, Victimized again, left
wanting. Nick didn’t have your
strength. The void swallowed him. Cancer swallowed you in the end. I’m spread eagled- Hawk Roosting on your droppings. To off yourself- It’s
a waste of a way. He missed you. She
misses you. The world misses you. The
birthday letters. It’s their
doing. They’re perfect. They
are better than anything I can ever be Not
that I could ever be so much as a Scrounger
around your woodpile. E.
D. Ridgell ______________________________________________________________
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 mathematical. The living things were prizes behind curtains, Calculated aphids. It was the last war Decided before it was begun. Its history was ready for publication Before the first attack. Nobody won and Everybody lost. It was The war
to end all wars.
_______________________________________
Teach Pain and suffering are universal. In order to attain anything You must first loose everything. Having lost everything you will gain nothing. Enlightenment comes in the knowledge Of embracing everything. Embrace the beauty of everything. Accept empathy Love
everyone and everything. Be
at harmony. Accept enlightenment. Miss
everyone and everything As
they all are deserving. As
everyone and everything are deserving So too are you deserving. Come to trust yourself. Go
to Bodh Gaya. Love yourself As you would love others. Love is now Ever was And ever will be. To love yourself: To love others Is
to attain enlightenment. E
D Ridgell ___________________________________________ Similes and Symbols It was a hot day at The Battery Where we waited to be screened, Bitchy and buckle-less, Before passing over to that island, A simile for another we proudly passed. The Towers were freshly fallen, In both memory and the mind’s eye. Traumatized, we needed buckling up- Some reminder of just who we were And what we symbolized. We waved to her as we paced, Her torch in hand, Mother of Exiles reminding us “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breath
free… Hers was a worldwide welcome, Alike yet unlike the place beside her; Sunset gates held ajar with a doorstop. She had always been firmly rooted, Never tempest tossed was she. With silent lips she seemed to ask, “Who is an immigrant who Does not come to us an alien- Wary, unsure, and frightened? How do we welcome these?” We enfold them into our ranks; Offer them succor, and yes We educate them All to the abundant degree Of our bountiful largesse. We invite them into our ranks, Immigrants every one of us before. They are our lifeblood. They are our soul. They are our folk. Speak not to me of minor things, Forms and regulations- Rather attend to their needs And in time when they can muster, Foster their pledges for citizenship. Let us not seek to stoke Fires of discord, similes of smoke signals- Symbols of mistakes before! “…In as much as ye have done it unto one of these, The least of my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” _____________________________________________________________________
A Last War A new
kind of war- Cyber attacks Commanded by artificial intelligences Led by robots. Emotions irrelevant Everything mathematical. Humans, prizes behind curtains- Numerically
chosen fodder. A last war It’s
decision final. It’s fallen Undocumented. Nobody won, Everybody lost- A last
war Digitally determined. E.D.
Ridgell 2020 ________________________________________________________
Vote
At the risk of
sounding Hopelessly codependent Which I am, unashamedly, I need to vent. Rudy stormed out awhile ago Thoroughly angry, uncommonly furious. He isn’t one to brag Or
don ribbons, medals or bows. He’s a simple ex-Vietnam veteran, A decorated one at that. But for the luck of a bad shot I’d
not have the companion of this old age. Six weeks ago he sent the forms to the DVD For his special Viet-vet license tags- No tags so he calls to learn they were rejected, No explanation, no notice, and certainly no refund. Are we so broken
that we have come so low? Were our boys
stupid to go, losers to serve, suckers to die? I think not. I know not. Vote. Vote
like your country depends on it!
E D Ridgell 2020
Pushing God There are questions: If the Big Bang happened Didn’t it have to happen within something? I can not bring myself to believe That something can come from nothing Isn’t nothing nothing? Nothing from nothing leaves something? Whether or not there is a God is irrelevant. Our need for one is not. I need one if I am to believe Something can come from nothing. Furthermore, mathematics it seems
to me Is a God pusher if
ever I saw one. Don’t
push me without a reason. Otherwise, Push
your God on someone else! E
D Ridgell 2020
Rome I’m dickering
with Rome again- Cataloging sins for the confessional- Maybe
it’s fear of death, Except that I am not frightened. Larry made an about face and Went back to Mother Church. Lar’
never told you anything ‘cept what you needed to hear. Soon after,
he dropped dead, martini in hand- Talk about adding just a twist of lemon peel! He’d been viable the other side of sod all, A mainstay
in my arsenal of diddly squat excuses. In truth I’d done this before, felt the lingering
tug, To go back, change it all around again, to as before. In my case popery makes sense. My grandmother born Methodist Did not die so. It must have been a shotgun marriage. Was this Captain Wes, Arthur, or
James- Somers, McGill, or Ridgell? Whatever, it played into her conversion, As she is planted back of St. Michaels Catholic Church and Not next her father
up in Saint Mary’s City In Trinity Episcopal graveyard. An Obit has Arthur dying decades later somewhere in Florida. Did Dorothy
convert as a result of trauma? She had twelve children all told with just two living Past infancy and one baby died in a fire. We’ll never know except that the turning
is with her. It is what it is and it is Catholic. I am content in this cockeyed ancestry- Ready then to cross over In my turn when they shall Incinerate me and lay me gently
down to mingle With ashes awaiting my company among The cigar-like,
seed pods under the Catalpa trees Of Colonial Williamsburg. Come on
Doc. Bring a Boy home! E.D.
Ridgell __________________________________________________________________________
2020 I’m grieving. I think it was Mendez’s obit. I
tried reaching him once But didn’t hear back- Not a word. It’s
this never-ending year. Everybody’s exhausted And you get tired of trying. These walls are closing in- Locked
down! I try to Keep the emperor in tow, But it’s
hard to be in the moment, To let go. I want to. I’m tired. Stress does that, and it begs Medication- 2020 goes on and on and… And still it’s here. Caesar can whisper sweet nothings As much as he likes. Time still drag asses along In
this never ending bitch of a year- 2020! E.
D. Ridgell 2020
__________________________________
Captain Wesley Somers
Now, Captain Wes
Had ninety nine schooners
On the Bay
When
the crash came and
Ruin came in with the tide.
The feud started when Sterling
Undercut the Captain and
Sold his
catch to the few hotels still in play.
It’s said the
varmint took a loss
Just to bogart the trade.
In any event,
That be when Wes
Left that thar Island, crossed
the Bay
And with what little left
Built Homewood and
Settled his family in faire St. Mary’s
Setting
to start over.
Poorer, he nevertheless
Left this world owing
Nothing,
having
Full title, and his honor.
They buried the skipper
In Trinity
up on the hill
Overlooking the St. Mary’s River.
My father lies planted
Next to him every inch
Himself
a sailor.
The only recollection
I have of Captain Wes
Is touching
his cold hand
At the invitation of my grandmother
One of many Somers he fathered.
Seawater courses my veins
Even
now in the September of my years-
Proud to be his great grandson.
I understand the resolution and the drive
To carryon no matter the ebb and flow.
E. D. Ridgell, 2020 ________________________________________________________________
Hear Me, But do not heed me- That is more merit than is wise. I am in search of the soul of the self To sort the sounds that simmer within. Hear me muse upon the mathematics of my mind At times like some paramecium’s scum Where I swim backwards, to and fro, In many synchronous schemes. Hear me, As I strum my chords and stroke my words, Free and open futility to reveal, My mumpsimus of brainwash. Hear me As
I sing into shrinking time That
is but overtime- I suppose. Hear me in your mind’s eye, The modulations you mediate, Misled by my coarse, rough punctuation Of so little regard. Hear me, Expecting nothing in me. I do not sing for your praise- In this silkily triggered trope of voice. E.
D. Ridgell _________________________________________________
Temple Offerings
Forever fickle
Fortuna would have
Her cake and eat it too
A devotee
Offerings are plenty
As bespeaks her largesse
But fail in their duty
Her retribution
Is to the Prince
As
Thebes to Athens
He and they
Forfeit
All
luck
And sought after bounty
E D Ridgell 2020 ________________________________________________
The Eagle Scout
He holds The Order Of The Aztec Eagle. As expected It shimmers gold. He isn’t
used to Soft
accolades. He is Honored and confused By the intangible. It warrants No coverage, yet it’s Valuable to him- Very. He’s fathered boys And a girl. Touchy and feely,
he’s Affectionate stone. Trapping through The Middle East, He does not tan- Orange does not suit him. E. D. Ridgell
2020 ________________________________________________
Oh Where Oh
Where Where is he? He’s never gone
this long. Nothing
stirs except revision, And this is only half baked. Worries abide, But that’s come far, And the ear is tuned to Too much secular. It weighs! At risk with no way home- Do you care? Of course, but You just can’t find the right demon. Not yet! So irritable, And oh so judgemental, Who do you think you
are, Narcissist? Come won’t you? Please. I cannot breath. It’s been forever
and a day. Where
are you? I need you! E. D.
Ridgell 2020 __________________________________________________
Hawking’s Bequest
Carl Sagan
Though not Jewish
Is planted
In
Ithaca New York
Under a comforter of
newsprint
Anchored under a large stone.
Stephen
Come
furtively in bits and pieces
From Great
St. Mary’s, Cambridge is
Tucked
in the Abbey
Near Newton and Darwin.
A fervent atheist, he bequest…
“By denying evidence
For
climate change and
Pulling out of
the Paris Climate Agreement,
Donald
Trump will cause avoidable
Environmental
damage
To our beautiful planet…”
Spent is anymore time for compromise;
There is no further room for debate
For
us or our children,
Less we become
another Venus
Under a warm blanket of
Sulphuric acid.
If there were
a God,
“We would know the mind of
God”-
Everything that God would know
“If there were a God,
Which there isn’t.”
“We’re made of star stuff.”
“Like butterflies
that flutter
For a day and think it is forever”,
We fly in the face of Science-
“Extinction is the rule.
Survival is the exception.”
The time for compromise is past-
E. D. Ridgell 2019
|
|
| GENERAL ROBERT E LEE ON HIS HORSE TRAVELER ! |
Memories That Will Not Die! If they could not speak, They just ran their hands O’er
Traveler In a despairing goodbye. The old man,
Hat in hand, Did not avert His blazing eyes. Eyes born Of a woman Buried
alive. Eyes that beheld Too many dead.
The boxwoods at Stratford Hall, Elephant eye-high a decade ago, Now
slowly die of root rot. The memory of them does not! _____________________________________
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.
The
yard’s forgotten
There is a price to pay
When seals go broken and slime seeps in.
Singapore wears a sling
As Helsinki
picks out a tie.
Moscow mocks them all in a tux.
All the dead soldiers
Are swinging.
The yard’s jumping.
The Red
In
his best military fatigue
Lends Counsel behind a tombstone.
Oh where is the sun to banish
The grave robbers? “Will the
Last
one out please turn off the”...night?
E. D. Ridgell 2018 ______________________________________________________________
A Front Row Seat
Gay lad,
Lost
lad,
Under the lamppost.
Poor lad
Kneeling ‘fore the
host.
Where is the lad
Sapsucker?
Fading lad,
Petulant lad-
In
the front row.
E. D. Ridgell 2019 ____________________________________________________
Gimme Gimme Gimme Dawkins and Fry, get out of my face! Chris was enough, God rest his soul! I go one God further, that’s all. Take the dust covers off Our Lady, Let Jesus bleed a miracle or two. Let bells toll and choirboys watch their virtue. I take it all back, the Latin, the incense, And all the archaic superstitions- Gimme, gimme, gimme. I mean, who are these fools? Where are Chesterton and Waugh. When you bloody well need them? There is a link ‘tween eye and heart That does not need intellect. Every creed promises a paradise but It seems to me there is only one rock hard. The source of faith is anything but fact- Mystery married to myth. E.
D. Ridgell 2019 __________________________________________________________
I Always Thought At nine she killed God Reasoning He deserved
it. She
sat back and Wrote ferociously. She’d eventually
write Five or as many as six
a day Towing
the dawn in Letting
the day begin. She insisted she was
a Yank Would
always be a Yank Would always speak And write in perfect
Yankee. In her imperfect way She embodied The angry bots Of her being. Eventually, Haphazardly She, Sylvia Turned the Gas on And Joined God. E. D.
Ridgell ________________________________________________ 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 _______________________________________________________________________________
Show And Tell
What makes folks think I have any inkling If these droppings have any merit? Like
Emily, I haven’t a clue- Not that I mind, mind you. Fame does nothing for
an old man.
Why then do I subject them to ridicule? I
think it is a kind of innocent show and tell.
Decades ago well o’er
half a century, In a one room school house, She singled you out- Had you hold up that
crayon drawing Of the house backed by the bright yellow sun. You never, ever, forgot
that!
E. D. Ridgell 2019 ________________________________________________________________
El Cid!
There’s
something about the light in Spain
That
cuts sharp shadows. It’s a bright light like no other.
The heat of the sun must infuse the heart-
The Spanish are passionate. I know,
I loved one.
The Spanish, too, can abide the tyrant.
Democracy just doesn’t cut it.
God knows, they tried. There’s a
Strong homo-erotercism. Lads
In
military trucks wrapped in each others arms.
It’s the land of the bull sacrifice,
Some left over religious fervor.
They once ruled a vast empire
Only to loose it in the course
Of just one turbulent century.
Everything about that land
Is sharp, hot, and turbulent-
A land made for risk
No matter the danger. Spain
Has
many lovers and no cowards.
E. D.
Ridgell 2019 __________________________________________________________
Enough!
I cannot control
Anything outside of myself.
Why do I worry?
I do but I shouldn’t.
I’d make a poor god.
I can savor blessings,
Try to be happy and
Righteous. Share little
Ripples of wisdom-
That’s
all. Enough!
E. D. Ridgell 2020 ____________________________________________________
|
