This Poet's Corner

 

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This Poet's Corner
droeshout-1.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

Queer Daddies Rarely Spilt!

The blinders, blinded 
On both are parts even
Before the nuptials.
It continued
On both are parts after.
Love like life is complicated.

Oh, we loved one another 
Of that I’m sure, but we both were
Adult children of alcoholics-
That clouds fidelity which in turn
Undermines true intimacy.
Love like life is complicated.

I wasn’t straight to begin with and
We both brought weighted secrets.
I think we both meant for it to work and 
The baby trumped all other considerations.
Nevertheless the stress took its toll and...
Love like life is complicated.

She’d spent a fortune on nylons-
Then quit her job when the baby came.
I taught all day and drank all night.
We fought. I drank a lake of Chianti.
That day, I doubt she’d thought I’d go. I went.
Love like life is complicated.

I literally had nowhere to go so I decided 
To go somewhere. I came out!
In those days being queer meant hitting rock bottom. Well, 
The nice thing about a bottom is the only way is up.
Some snidely sneered and said Queer Daddy would split. 
Queer Daddies rarely split. Love like life is complicated.
                                                           c.  E. D. Ridgell
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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 kitchen was a roundtable 

Of backstabbing gossip. 

Her hubby supplied the firewood. 

His mother was happy to stoke it!

                              c. E. D. Ridgell, 2014

__________________________________________________ 

 

 

Not Enough!

Outlaw bump stocks alone?
Not enough!

They pretend to not understand.
We don’t want a chunk of the constitution-
We want a little self control 
At the expense of LaPierre dues...
We want gun control.

And that’s all-
It’s such a small thing to ask
For the sake of our children
In this wake of death

Outlaw bump stocks alone?
Not Enough!
                            E. D. Ridgell, 2018
_____________________________________________ 

Cement Griffins!

Home from the Bahamas

I was met by my own car

And so I stopped to drive 

By that house where my life

Diverged and changed course.

The house burned down now

Seemed strangely distant

Divorced of further heartbreak.

The road was overgrown and

The field unused but mowed.

The stalwart soccer players

Who had cried “Pushkin”

Decades ago were likely

Dead or fast fleeting

Jockstraps hung up long ago.

 

 On to Cylburn I let 

The others Circle the house.

I still have photographs of

The stately statuary shot long ago.

Memories of Cindy’s Karen bit me!

 

It’s a few years since and

Death is certainly circling,

But I am content and aware

Of just how full a life

Is the measure of my kindly soul.

                              E.D. Ridgell, 2017

 ************************************

 

Joseph Campbell Musings!

Four thousand miles 

For o’er forty thousand years

‘Fore spewing into the Mediterranean-

O’er there were the Minoans,

Minions of Nestor’s Pylos

On its journey to Troy!

Did Homer lie

Or was he deceived

By Mycenae?

A German dug himself 

Into a hole and a Brit spent his

Fortune on an amusement park-

Such is the allure of 

Myth and mythology-

It is a Trojan mystery!

                                 E.D. Ridgell 

__________________________________________ 


Johnny Blue!

Kin to Kin, brother to brother,
That war married us to death.
A bureaucracy would swell up
Our boys eyes glazed in sockets
Staring skyward, seeing nothing. 
Sorted in plow rows, suits for soil.

Battle echoes of shrills of bullets-
Dark-dyed blue uniforms,
Holes shot clean through.
Moist eyes drying under gray skies-
Needing records and letters to where 
No-one could read but would know!
                             c. E.D. Ridgell, 2016

____________________________________________ 
 
Give Me Liberty Or Give Me Death!

I'm sixty eight
Or is it sixty nine years old,
This July the fourth,
And led around by the nose,
As I am by this-here oxygen cord
I can't be sure, it won't be my last.

Mind you,
I've no fear of death,
Long as it comes tiptoeing 
In the blue, black dusk of night.
I crave nothing riding roughshod 
Out of a dazzling, blinding sunlight!

Being so old, I've little to offer,
But hard wrought wisdom
That bids you cherish Liberty, 
And a sharp pen, that is but a metaphor,
Before this age of excess fonts.
Keep you a daily vigil on your personal rites!

Guile is as fleet-footed as Mercury,
And there's guile in these here parts of late,
That would promise you much and give you little.
Nothing is free. We've ensuing bodybags enough 
To warrant that allegiance fought and died for 
By the original Sons of Liberty. 
You've one vote. Use it!
                                             c. E.D. Ridgell, 2016
_______________________________________________________

Facebook!

They don't get it or 
Don't they like
Anything I do?

They're supposed to peruse 
Offerings, replies,
Commentaries, witticisms, 
Forwarded items, in-return,
And check them or return them,
So as to pass them around accordingly,
Or stop their momentum-
Impede them in some way, there, at that moment,
As they lay there
Expectant of them, and hoping as I do that they
Will contribute to help muster and motivate
This device of Zuckleburg's in its intended use,
But I swear it does not!-
The great number of them- massed participants,
Don't work at checking
Anything that does not touch them,
Forgetting to motivate anything not about them!

Facebook seems to be some unscripted device,
Some common sort of communication with
Education and socialization buckled to it, 
Enhancing it and changing the dynamics of it.
It is, I think, very splendid in itself,
Even if the participants do not seem to get it at all!
                                                       E.D. Ridgell, 2016 
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Caspar, The Ghost!

On Goldeneye

All seemed right with an unrighteous world-

Yet Caspar was kept at arms length 

For fear the fishes might eat him.

Ian and Ann were oh so protective and

Oh so not at hand. Whereas his peers

Collected Cricket bats and soccer stuff,

Caspar hoarded firearms.

Loved from afar, wanted but not too near,

Caspar could not charm Eton enough,

And they sent him down. Still Caspar acted out,

Charmed the girls, beguiled his fellow men,

And When Daddy had the prescribed heart attack-

Well, Caspar, went into a slow tailspin that 

The laddie boy made no attempt to hide.

He said it all in the note- 'If not this time, it will be the next.'

Chitty, Chitty, Bang, Bang, for Caspar, the Ghost!

                                                           c. E. D. Ridgell, 2014

OccupyWallStreet.jpg
Michael Moore at the "Occupy Wall Street" march October 2011

TheWarpic2.jpg

The War

 

And so, evil came to traverse the continents

And with it the war.

 

A uniformed arm jerked back

At a gentle squeeze,

And another yellow star methodically

Fell o’er a precipice its lapel

Had helped to dig an hour before.

The bittersweet smell of powder

briefly masked the stench

to perfume a new order.

 

Arias and choruses alike arose

In screeching screams, perverse serenades

Of the sons of the Rising Sun

At the raped daughters of Nanking,

Dressed in dragon embellished,

Ripped and torn, silk kimonos

Donned for their defiant death.

 

Time teeters on an edge of

One of many black holes,

Singularities consuming

The particles of mankind;

Extraordinary formations descended

Of that Big Bang that began it all.

 

Courage and valor will the chosen

Fall up into the bright light,

A light intended to trump evil

And beguile that war,

Again, and again, and yet, again,

Until two dimmer and lesser bangs

Than the biggest bang of all

Finally ended the war!

 

                   Dedicated to the citizens of   

                   Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan

_______________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

A Bump Stock Tune in The Top Ten!

The honeybees don’t visit the garden anymore.
Instead there’s a lumbering drone of a thing-
Not a bumble bee but nevertheless a nectar seeker.
It will have to do, another of nature’s manifestos.

In China in hands of two, scores of hands paint in pollen.
Surely this is an inscrutable rebuttal to “The Good Earth”.
What goes around comes around or so they say.
Red worker hands at minimum wage to provide billions honey.

All about my September years there is an irony and
I’m hard pressed to keep the rows with such a tug on the plow.
The grandchildren like the honey bees, seemingly safe are not-
Their hives hum in rapid fire to a bump stock tune in the top ten!
                                                                     E. D. Ridgell, 2017
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Creative Commons License

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We’re In Overtime, The Baby Boomers!

What is this mercury, silvered backlash,
Staring at me, matching my every move?
The aged player here knows everything needed now ...
Except what is to come. All that went before
Is but a prelude to something expected,
Grand and heroic, befitting an all star,
But tenuous and just out of reach.

Parallel fingers touch, exactly upon the
Surface at a horizon that is unfamiliar landscape.
There is no precedence. Eyes glaze over at the
Fog and steam of mildew, stained,
Shower stalls, burning to the
Stinging images within
Minds made moody by the marching pills,
Added to plastic cubicle calendars that divide the
Remaining days. They feed a team
Held together with replaced
Organs and body parts for the
Profit of companies,
Cloning things, disposable.

Everything is reflected in the rushing of innings,
Piling one upon the other,
Tumbling into time far past the prescribed nine.
The score is kept in
Quarter time in a game whose
Rules are made up in mid-play.

Starting in the end zone,
I care less about the final score than the
Dignity of aged, kept firm- the testament to the
Memory of my former glory. It is the
Principles of fair play onto which I fall back upon-
That fame that was and still is shimmering upon the
Silky surface of my retired jersey.

Rising now, to pick back up the ball
And hand it over to the rookies of the players who
Block, I hesitate at the flag upon the field
Hoping for a call from some checkered judge
Who stands silent with arms down.

I do not know my way here
Upon this field, but I am
Game for any meet, trained in the shadows of
Bulldozed coliseums, ever ready for another
Try at one last kick for a winning goal.

Sign me up, again. I’m wrinkled but not too warn to
Walk in front of linemen, tease the shoulder pads,
And feign a foul. If they push me back too hard,
I have nothing to lose. It will gain you time to
Reconnoiter and regroup, stepping into shoes, as you do,
Of a benched generation; ill-seated and illsuited on the sideline,
Distracted before the scores on the silver screens,
Growing ever larger and better in resolutions that
Dim and flicker when challenged by spare time.

This is our fault. We are distracted by disillusionment
And corrupted by coaches taking bribes, congressmen,
The men behind the curtains we should know better than to trust.
Extra time, too, brings extra grief,
And the need to heal and huddle awhile-excuses.
There is time yet though to amend these things-
We are their Frankensteins.
Fear not. We have more mettle
Than you know and more love for you than you suspect.
We’ll win together yet! We’re in overtime!
© 2008 by E.D. Ridgell

Creative Commons License

 

 

 

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________



"I Am The Light"

The bright lit days are over,
And now I live in shadier times-
Circling round and closer to
A big black hole.

I've always known the hole
Was there, waiting to enclose me.
There was a time I feared it.
Now I know better.

In and down this big, black hole,
I know the light I seek awaits me.
Eternal peace-
A 'light' like no other.
E.D. Ridgell, 2013
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

  R.E,M. X
I am a 
Post traumatic stress syndrome 
Childhood survivor-
The sum total of shock and awe.

Burton hurled it into the sea-
“Boom, the shock of each moment
Of still being alive!”
Tick tock, tick tock...

A writer writes
Because he is lonely.
Where do all the 
Lonely people come from?

My mind is full-
Filled with tidbits
Of this and that’s 
Out the shite hole of childhood.

Consciousnesses drippings-
Diarrhea down a wooden leg,
Paul Scofield scolding John Hurt
Down the Thames.

Everybody hurts
Sometimes-
Everybody’s gas lighting
A childhood. Hang on!
                               E D Ridgell 2018
_______________________________________________ 

So

 

The Eagle is wounded.

Dying a slow death-

Or am I a footnote to history?

I hope so.

 

I remember the possibility

Of feathered ghosts.

Were they not saved?

I thought so.

 

The tribal chiefs

Always squabbled.

It was in the DNA.

I worry so.

 

I am an old patriot,

A tired hippie

Used to street fights.

So?

 

These braves

They know the words.

Bowls teach them the basics.

Is that not so?

 

Truth is it’s never easy.

Rows, white crosses in

Lovely fields of France

Attest so.

 

I have offerings.

Words on wings

Not carcasses yet

Soon it will be so.

                   E. D. Ridgell, 2018

________________________________________ 

Cape Fear!

Cancer!
Now that I have 
Your attention.
It’s visited mine
Throughout a lifetime.
I cannot help but fear
Next visit is mine!
______________________________ 

Secrets!

 

It’s interesting-

You secluded those

Secrets within,

Safely securing them

So that no one might surmise the truth.

 

Secrets are two-edged-

Some stay secrets

While others separate

To sprout or wither in the shadows of silence.

We are as sick as our secrets!

 

She unburdened her secret on a sky-ride

High o’er head an amusement park-

Filicide in the cold environs of Canada

When she was a child, watching her parents smother

The baby they could not feed. She suddenly let fly

This secret and I stooped to catch it.

My job is to search out and cull

Secrets!

_________________________________________________ 

Somewhere In The Trenches Of America 

I feel I won't be long, now.
We'll be mingling again,
Dust and bone under the footfalls
Of the next in line.

I haven't heard.
Have you had snow,
And does the drum and fifes still
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
Of eternity.

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 I can
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 footfalls
Of the next in line.
                                 c. E.D. Ridgell, 2017 somewhere
                                     in the trenches of America.
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A Sad Haiku

One last woeful turn-
Who has not left their guard down?
Brace! "All are punished!"
                            E.D. Ridgell, 2013

TheDesertersSonnet.jpg
The name Horsey in the poem is of English origin. I have a number of Horseys on my Dad's side...LOL

  

                     The Deserter’s Sonnet

 

Steady on, Shyaway;

We’ve only a small trek yet,

‘fore the warmth of a blanket and a meal of cured hay,

safely out this storm and nary so wet.

 

Horsey’s spread is ‘ever an envy’,

with its sturdy barn, Amish built but reddish painted,

with acres stretching clear up to the sea

in a hewed expanse felled and untainted.

 

The battle did not fare well,

and lucky were we to survive that rout.

This war is like a rung of hell.

I’ve no more stomach for it. We’re out!

 

To be cowardly is unmanly wrong,

but heroes, well, they seldom live long.

                                            © 2007 by E.D. Ridgell

Waltzing Amigo

It’s good to see the people 
In the streets again protesting.
I am the class of 65.
I was weened on this rub
Hewn from the blows of cop’s
Bigoted billy clubs.

Who are you
If not the sons and daughters 
Of foreigners come in search
Of refuge and safety?
History turns round and round
To these waltzes for liberty.
                         E. D. Ridgell 2018

checking mornings obits

like courbet
im in the rear view
so little time
too little time to 
catch up  but
im cruising now
just biding time

eggheads debate time
juxtaposition it
shapeshifting
i dont want to

im dropping the 
punc
tired
nod off nap
wheres that thing they call god

theres a million ways to leave your lover
it only takes a moment to die
sagan did it and someone delivered the newspaper
everybody does it
or somebody does it for them
crucify them and line the apian way
feed the lions
in the end all the emperors 
die

                               e d ridgell 2018
__________________________________________________________ 

Osiris,

I implore
Accept me,
Fire changed
Boned ash
Shapeshifter.

I Claim
A place 
Even as
My Ka
Takes flight.

Osiris,
Lord of 
The Underworld,
Grant Me
Your pardon.
     E. D. Ridgell 2018
_______________________________________ 


Alice’s Headache!

Time and space refuse all entreaties to cooperate.
One might even say they are rude for if I decide to venture
From here to there the very first step presents a mathematical problem.
How long is ‘it’ and what is one half of that? That is the problem because you see
Every time I divide ‘it’ I can in fact divide its result again by two. The ability to divide 
By two is infinite and so space can never be corralled so as to name it! Furthermore,
It was audacious of me to give any measure the significance of ‘two’ to begin with-
Spewing forth as it did into a vocabulary to do with halves and distance. To place 
Alice in Wonderland in her place would be to point out that everything is
Taking place in Alice’s rather runaway mind. It makes her head hurt!
                                                                                                 E.D. Ridgell, 2017
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Tread Gently

No!

To the degree that we seek revenge

That is the degree to which we stray.

We would have justice and let it hesitate if it must

For “the quality of mercy is not strained.”

Laws should be measured instruments

Designed with aforethought, their consequences

Above all fair, equal, and just,

Lest we loose the reason and dignity we wrap ourselves in.

We are not so base as that baseness we would route out

Separate from the community as a whole,

A community based on equality for all-

The pursuit of happiness for all who prove deserving.

There never is any shortness of darkness and 

There never will be-

Where the light fails to shine

“All are punished”,

“Everybody serves somebody”,

“Everybody hurts”!

“And in the end

The love you take

Is equal to the love you make.”

No! 

To the degree that we seek revenge

That is the degree to which we stray.

We would have justice and let it hesitate if it must

For “the quality of mercy is not strained.”

“The thief comes only to steal

And kill and destroy, l have come that

They may have life, and have it to the full.”

Tread gently.

                                                   E.D. Ridgell, 2017

________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 


Remember Our Roots!

 

Ellis Island could just have easily been a turnstile for me.

We are a nation of immigrants more compassionate than this!

I agree this wave reaches to their sand castles,

But I’m not going to take it out on innocents

For the sake of a few who got lucky and caught a wave

Convinced they did it all on their own. No one does!

 

It’s a long border not easy to guard,

But in no way will I start sharp shooting children off a fence.

That was for East Germany to do when Russia yanked its chain.

Saner heads than these will prevail as long as we

Remember our roots!

 

What are we to do with these children?

Their homelands are rife with violence and crime.

They seek a land of milk and honey, a fairy tale.

Well, we’ve got milk. We’ve got honey,

And I never knew a soldier boy who didn’t have a snickers bar

In his back pocket for any kid that looked hungry,

Slit eyed, high yellow or even white.

Remember our roots!

_______________________________________________________________________________ 





Corny As It Sounds

That abandoned, forsaken, 
Shy-away look 
In my frightened, friend's face
Is that feeling we all carry
In the bowels of our being-
That there might not be somebody
To care enough
To pick us back up, 
To gather together 
The scattered pieces
Of the inevitable fractures that 
Shatter us periodically in our 
Long, long lives.
Everybody needs somebody, 
Corny as it sounds,
Could not be anymore true.

I am here for you,
Tried and true 
As I've always been 
In all things to do with you.
You are the other side 
Lifting the table,
You are the shoulder 
That bolsters me
When I'm bent over. 
You are like a brother to me.
Together we will withstand
The tides of time. 
Together we will reach
The promised land.
Brother, can you
Spare a dime?
       E.D. Ridgell, 2013

Dalhartwindmillcropped.jpg

Al Gore’s Lullaby 

I’m Dalharted depressed tonight- 

Black blizzard'd.

I listen to Gore air out the truth-

Ten years to save the children 

From a wrath fast blow’n down on 'em.

What good is a poem to 'hem, huh?

Christ! It’s Easter Island all o’er again!

One clan again another, 

All hoard’n the little left!

A decade, only a decade, you say? 

Wars waged win wastewater, 

And starvation bloats the bellies. 

Religions ferment discord and 

Hastily ‘rected crematoriums 

Sick'n the stink’n air, what’s left!

I’ll pull the sheets up o’er me tonight; 

Cuddle in this warm’n blanket,

Powered by ‘lectric, pay’n higher and higher dividends, 

With the flat screen timer set to sixty minutes-

I’ll sleep away one more precious deny’n night!

© 2007 by E.D. Ridgell

Boom.jpg


              Boom!
 
Words, like hanging chads,
Hang loose over our catwalks;
Feeble attempts to recapture some misspent moment.
 
Even a flash cannot suffice to fix an instant.
The instant depends on time,
And time does not hover to be netted.
 
The pictures and words
Configured into works of art
Are inadequate substitutions.
We call them art and disseminate the pieces,
But nothing suffices a moment gone wrong, misspent!
 
Live in the moment. Be kind at all times in all things.
The rest is decoration.
 
Boom!-
The shock of “every minute of being alive”!
Feel it?
Gone!

                                          E.D. Ridgell, 2006
                                                   
 
Creative Commons License
 
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TheAlleyno2.jpg

The Alley

 

Blue, black, harbor

Safety from another vicissitude of strife

That periodically marks a solitary life.

My entrance fee, again, a shining token

Minted of misfortune's rife.

Shrouded in its dark and cold comforter,

Off lit, moon lit, a stage for a forlorn tryst-

Think that I do not appreciate

this deep and narrow place?

I have no will but to stay nestled in its hard embrace.

Pardon another sojourn into the thoroughfare of day,

Whence, once again, I return

My father’s seed.

Meanly, roughly sown, green grown,

© 2005 E.D.Ridgell.

 

 Just ‘fore the Commercial Break

She was speaking of a duopoly,
the particulars peculiarly bertrand.
Her brown hair faint with false highlights
fell flat, meeting the lapels
of a bespoke pinstriped suit.

Botoxed badminton eyes, the lids wizened,
were worn weary bespeaking years stylizing her sex.
Curried by decisions culled all her own,
she'd arrived at this moment in the spotlight;
a few clipped minutes of views aired on the morning news.

And with something significant seemingly won,
finished at the signal to wrap,
just ‘fore the commercial break,
I sipped my coffee lying pillowed pondering,
wondering if I'd not just seen someone proven undone.
© 2006 E.D.Ridgell

Creative Commons License



scroogescript.jpg

Scrooge 2007!

My universe was created with a loud, commercial Bang!
advertising rich elements and resources spiraling out to serve you.
These are very profitable if you’ve a stomach for commodity puts.
Everything living feeds off of something living; dwindling crops,
more manna from Heaven for me. Eat your fill this holiday season.
I’ve options on the grocers. The goose is very plentiful and reasonably priced.
Everything dies to be sucked into a Black Hole. Yes, there is a fee for this as well.
Everybody serves somebody. How do you do,
my name is Scrooge and that somebody is me.

This insignificant orb is dying quickly.
Only greed can save it…..that’s me. Goodie, goodie!
You’re back is to the wall. Worry, then worry some more.
I’m directly between you and ruin manipulating markets
until I send you happily skating and sliding for a fall.
Make it profitable and I’ll dip into my many, moneyed, market funds.
I’ll clean up the coal for you at a variable rate. Nothing is fixed.
I’ll gas you up, naturally, when I’ve had my spoils
from the rich fields of black oil you guzzle daily-
choking until due to the holiday you come up short, then, self righteously,
calling on me, that greedy, greedy Mr. Scrooge.

Stop griping. Everybody’s got a job or a dole check-some have two!
“The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigor…''
I’ll have my mortgage or my rent or you’ll feel my boot.

Children don’t want to go caroling in the cold singing archaic songs.
They’re whining for the latest iPod and insistent for the Nintendo Wii.
They text you with their lists; you know, like everyone else, they’re busy.
So is Granny and she isn’t baking pies, not anymore.
Get with the program. What would you have, a real tree?
Put the cookies and milk under a facsimile. Bah, humbug!

“I don’t make merry myself at Christmas”...a small, spoonful of more gruel.
“Keep Christmas in your own way and let me keep it in mine.”
What’s that you’re babbling? Someone needs a new crutch, tinier than most?
We’ve a hot, titanium model, adjustable, fresh off our new, Chinese line.
Merry Christmas to You and Yours and a Profitable New Year!
© 2007 by Scrooge, LLC
…all rights reserved to me.




Interview:

Mitchell is sixty eight-
Only a year. She fades ever so slowly.
"I am melting" ever so slowly.

Joni always does her own album covers,
Mixes it up. Mixes her media.
She paints in L.A. and B. C.

Like her I am flipping-
Making these word-songs,
Though I still shoot a hidden photo or two.

'Love Has Many Faces'-
New tunes to ballet dancers,
And I am finished the revisions.
                          c. E. D. Ridgell, 2014

Easterquickrendered2006.jpg
A Recent Quick Sketch Of Easter At The Foot Of The Bed.

Easter

It needed patience and trust- faith
to wait for the void to be filled.
After a year of grief,
one miracle had occurred
and I set sail again.

Then “Kitty” up and died suddenly;
she’d always had that murmur in the heart.
I rushed her to the vet in vain listening to her pain-
pushing peddle to the metal. The box became so still and quiet.
I bent and kissed her goodbye in some vet’s office.
She had died in the van.

I’m a man. I cry in public and expect that recognition
when breaking this taboo. Intruding rudely on my grief
they wanted me to buy her ashes.
I’d had ashes enough, thank you. I left her remains there,
for them to do what they would do,but I kept ‘Kitty’ in my heart.
My heart is near filled up now. I’ve of a healthy heart.

I seem to lose those I love in early spring
and then spring back as the rains end.
I’m a gardener and I understand the need to mulch
and patiently await each resurrection.
Love is forever a perennial thing. It will rise up, again.
The planter awaits his mark. I can not love annually.
Commitment is unconditional and everlasting, at least for me.

Come that Easter morning, I went to climb up into the van
when what brushes the leg but a bit of fur no bigger than a bunny?
This is courage and desperation, the things miracles are made of.
I’ve no fear left. I pick her up, this meow crying out to me.

I named this new kitten “Easter” and she sleeps here
at the foot of our warm bed made warmer by mutual consent.
Three of us occupy this safe and resurrected place.

Don’t look to lilies or chocolate bunnies to fill the voids.
Look to eternal resurrection and tend to your garden patiently.
© 2007 by E.D. Ridgell


Creative Commons License

Bouquet of Poetry, compiled by Jean Lewis and S.M. Zang

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

This anthology in which six of my poems appear and in which you will fine many accomplished poets shown above is available at Lulu;
Publisher
It is also available at Amazon

 _____________________________________
 
Mystery

Here at the last chapter,
I wish It the penultimate,
And no wiser in my ways,
I still doubt my way.

I’m no longer young enough 
To know it all, and I struggle
For that faith that some 
Wear so effortlessly.

The body ages yet the mind
Seems somehow sharper
Ferreting out the smallest detail
Stored away in the grey cells.

Most of mine are dead or dying.
The young waiting in the wings 
Come forward to take their turn
In a well oiled and worn turnstile.

I used to kneel staring up at her
With a certainty and trust 
Untested and untroubled-
Doubts waiting in the wings.

Came the learning 
Turning as it did on reckoning and
Belief posited not upon that field-
Faith encumbered jarred the door.

In that land once dubbed
The jewel in the crown I learn 
My mentor proves wiser dumb
With a panache for mystery. 
                               E. D. Ridgell 2017
____________________________________________________________ 



Don't Hold Your Breath!

And while all the edges 
Of empire were suddenly
Cattywhompus,
The tribes within
Never, so restless,
Yet paralyzed, seemingly
Dumbed down from
Grace, fidelity,
And other virtues, 
Once their rock bed-
Grabbed, hoarded,
Swindled even shysters,
To stay on top.  

Emperors came and went,
No thumb, thick enough
To plug the sprung leaks,
Patch the cracked, water lines.
The arenas sold out,
Tickets were forged, then hacked
With Monopoly money.
Commerce came to a halt.
Foodstuffs once graciously distributed
To the poor were cut willy-nilly-
Some, scapegoating scheme
Of fattening Senators,
Seen to be saviors!

Everyone held their breath, 
Even as the poets did not!
                             c. E. D. Ridgell, 2014
                           

  



checking mornings obits

like courbet
im in the rear view
so little time
too little time to 
catch up  but
im cruising now
just biding time

eggheads debate time
juxtaposition it
shapeshifting
i dont want to

im dropping the 
punk
tired
nod off nap
wheres that thing they call god

theres a million ways to leave your lover
it only takes a moment to die
sagan did it and someone delivered the newspaper
everybody does it
or somebody does it for them
crucify them and line the apian way
feed the lions
in the end all the emperors 
die

                                    e d ridgell 2018
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

One Final Prick!

Old age envelopes me-
Wraps me in a cocoon 
Of wrinkled flesh
No eye tarries on.

Everyone is here,
Gone or going-
Some sweet or sour memories,
Others daily devotees or critics.

I count my worth in 
Item counts or
The number of likes
On a flickering screen.

I’ve come all this way,
Waded through trials and tribulations 
Only to be told that by the way
There is no God!

That faire lad
At the foot of the bed,
Just some childish apparition
A lonely, only boy would have craved?

Oh, my Michael,
How could you,
When we’re so close
To the secret curtain?

Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust-
Will no one rid me of
Cosmologists? 
                   c. E.D. Ridgell
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 
 

 


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