|
Exmore
Virginia Rain
seemed fast fleeting netting nothing ‘Cept a dizzingly white and dazzling sunlight Leaving me happily harbored
in crisp, clean colors. The Bay froze o’er just the one year, Backing the house to an icy, black mirror of creek; A miracle to marvel
and one I’ve nary seen since. In spring, spreading out o’er a quarter mile Grew nurseries of azalea
and rhododendron, Stopping short at eroding cliffs breaking on your reason. Green and yellow, tufted, mustard fields Growing
wild either side the road waked our ride. The honk, end the drive, often startled a partridge or a bobwhite. Georgia Gal, the shepherd
friend to your old age, Guarding the white-washed house so comfortable, Barked a greeting pretending not to be glad. Each summer had goals
to mark those years; Mason’s breakfasts, garden victories, and churchly things- Harvesting by rite the immigrant, neighbors’,
crab pots. You
drifted there to stay some years before, To dry dock and wait your turn at being a Bay ghost, A merchant mariner dignified
as The Cleo sinking ‘side the road. Everything about you bespoke the lower Bay. Coming home that fall to the Delmarva Chronicled you bow
high in the family log. And anchored there, you found the blue, green harmony Resonant of that water estuary to this land, So flat,
sandy, and scented of high tide. Reckoning my life amidst these grassy shores, I too love this tribal land and claim my marshy
share, Your
grateful son and heir to the Chesepiooc. E.
D. Ridgell
|
|
| The Pier Out Back Of My Father's Place In Exmore Va...circa 1970 |
A Sad Haiku
One last woeful turn- Who has not left their guard
down? Brace! "All are punished!"
___________________________________________________________
|
|
| The Unkwnown Soldier Could Have Been Gay We'll Never Know. |
The Unknown Soldier Could be
Gay. We'll Never Know! [Dedicated to an elephant eye, high name on a shiny, black wall] Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell! Don’t ask Of when you discover you’re one’ a those freaks The other kids are slinging pejoratives at. Don’t tell parents of
those innocents Who
kill themselves, secrets strangling school tied necks. Don’t ask Society’s, scapegoat divorcee what it’s like To have loved but not lusted after. Don’t tell The kid two hearts were not broken! Don’t ask How you struggled up, out of the dung, To stand attention ‘fore
hoards of closed minded dolts. Don’t tell Of enlisted resurrections for fear of more crucifixions. Don’t ask The names of friends and lovers Blamed for a plague not their making. Don’t tell Which part of a heavy, crowded heart houses these relics? Don’t ask About husbands or wives unconsecrated, Except beheld in the golden
eye of God who “doesn’t play dice”! Don’t tell Of that lonely pain of bent would-be widows and widowers. Don’t ask The indentify of my soldier lover Drowned down in a rice field-Oh God! No! Don’t tell Less they strip away a memory gone dull- never
sullied! Don’t ask Of this wise old fag’s
bemusement- Walking
pneumonia standing reverent at this ceremony. Don’t tell Of mussed musings ‘fore our Unknown Soldier!
E.
D. Ridgell ____________________________________________________________
|
|
| A Poof Hair Style Popular With Marie Antoinette |
Knitting Needles for a Pouf The marchande de mode, Rose Bertin, has added A pouf to her repertoire At
the Grand Mogol. A lady to the Queen Was seen on the Rue Saint-Honoré Heavily burdened with A decision. Was the coming fete To be sentimentalité Or a commémorative? These things are delicate. Having no
clue, She was driven away With two poufs, One for either occasion. A second barouche Was needed for the heavy gowns And light frippery that Would enhance these; Accessories and adornments For a courtly function, Dependent upon the mood Of Her Majesté. In the mêlée Amidst so much commotion A strand of baubles broke scattering from Milady’s fair and powdered neck; Seeded
pearls and baubles Of
little consequence were Cleared
from cleavage, floor, and seat- Clutter
tossed out the carriage windows. That night in the taverns by the Seine There was many a toast In honor of this good lady Hocked at her generosity; None were kept By enterprising pickers. Most pawned for cheap wine- Lafarge purchased knitting needles. E.
D. Ridgell Revised
2018 ______________________________________________
Pack A Basket You only get to keep your memories,
So live each and every moment. Be with the person you are with. Keep
good company. Invite all your senses. Pack a basket.
The
arbiter of your conscience is you. Whether there is a God
or not is irrelevant- Your want or need for one is not. Be
tolerant. Religion is a prescription written by others.
Choose physicians well. Practice your faith quietly, in whispers.
Paraphernalia is just that, paraphernalia. Beautiful paraphernalia takes the shabbiness Off of God. Creation is cause and effect. Cause
something to happen. Have an effect. Give something to the community, if only truth- Give back. Grief is the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do, Except maybe death. I haven’t tried that yet. _________________________________________________________
Faith
We occupy
A little bit of geography
And a blink of time
Before it’s over.
No one knows what
If anything follows.
The price of knowing
Is universal.
Almost all
Conjure
god uncertain
Who created who.
It’s a mystery.
Whether
there is a god
Or not is irrelevant.
The need for one is not.
I need one.
As science sits grounded
Faith takes flight alas
On fairytales
More often than not!
E. D. Ridgell 2018
|
Like My Father
Before Me! It was a chilly, sun-lite day
And Dad was finishing Showing the rector of
Trinity Church Just where he was to be buried. Dad was a force unto itself, As the good rector was finding out,
A check in his hand And a dazed spell in his eyes.
I totally understood.
As
always I was numb, Dumb with embarrassment-
Not
knowing myself what was expected. I last saw my father
In the rear view mirror Just minutes after falling
into my fortuitous arms. He waved from atop the steps he’d just toppled from.
A week later, my aunt Betty and I
Were
watching some bazaar masonic ritual, Played out late into the night at the funeral
home. I don’t know which one of us was more amused.
I broke down the next morning, So I was composed
by the funeral. Poor Uncle Bud was so drunk at his brother’s death,
His annoyed daughter declared we had buried the wrong man!
It was a splendid funeral To an overflowing throng-
Complete with a twenty-one-gun salute Befitting my Dad’s
commendable service. That old seaman
had had several ships shot from under him In World War II, and rose in the Merchant
Marine to Chief Engineer. It was only later I learned of the weighty secret
He kept locked away, ashamed at nothing.
Like Dad I’ve known the burden Of carrying secrets
Made heavy by the biases of society, But like my father
before me, I’m a force unto itself!
E. D. Ridgell ______________________________________________________________________
“My Indomitable
Self” She pricked you! Isn’t it
the truth? I can’t miss a trick, Not note a remark, I’d come
completely apart. I’m high strung and gifted, I’m
quick stepping, I’m fox trotting- I’m tap dancing, I’m
the Mad Hatter. What’s the matter- On a slippery
dance floor, again? Welcome to Bedlam, Where I’m surely
“My Indomitable Self!”
E. D. Ridgell ___________________________________
_____________________________________________________
On The Corner’s Of Church And Liberty
I identify myself by fidelity to principles Which are packaged in words That are set in sacred
but secular writs. I am as immediate as a turnstile Or descended from Rough, rambling, and rum Gypsies of global castoffs, Trailing a contingent
of Injuns I failed to kill off with the buffalo. Who are you to judge me, When I am but an amputee of you?
God Save The Queen, But I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy And everyday’s
the Fourth of July. Don’t murder mine on my burial grounds, And in league or not with others, Taunt me
with threats that may or may not be real!
Do you not see my coiled tail or hear my rattle? I will strike you
if you tread on me, Then bind your wounds with the wrappers Of pockets full of Hershey bars. I am the relative
you do not want Who comes to visit and forgets to leave. I am the intervention in your dysfunction Who at
times is crazier than you!
The children dressed in bulging vests Tug at my fatiques Asking for chocolates- And just when do I intend
to go? That is the one thing, children, I do not seem to know.
I am not pretty- I am beautiful In the reflection of antique mirrors Made new in The People’s
Republic of cheap imports North of Vietnam where the labor Is suddenly cheaper still. Come sign agreements
in presidential suites. There’s a Hilton everywhere- Dubai, London, Singapore.
Take care! Beware! There’s breath still in
this struck deer. It ain't over till the fat lady sings and She’s a Hummer still humming, No matter the
price of gas- Kiss my Yankee Doodle…! Speak up or talk behind my back. “He’s losing his dominions. Her power wanes!”…
But
“Firearms are second Only to the constitution in importance: They are the peoples ‘liberty’s teeth”.
We identify ourselves by fidelity to principles That are set in sacred and secular writs and We
back it up with the USS Nimitz!
E. D. Ridgell
|
|
| Every Spring They Take Their Share |
_______________________________________ Born so
Recently
emerging finally from the nest
so poorly hidden every spring
in the middle of the flower ring,
comes a furry, would-be innocent, little pest,
bent on nipping every shoot
from bulbs planted with care
in hopes some might escape the hare,
and boast like decisions taking root
stark, bold colors in the garden
everywhere-
But no! Once again I’ll forfeit brief hues popping
for the pleasure of seeing you lawn-hoping
thoughout a coming long, hot, summer’s tear.
|
|
| The Fireplace Swelled The Bottom Drawer To Emily's Dresser So That Her Sister Did Not Burn The Poems |
Her Devoted Bow-Front For so long she has entrusted me
with Scribbled secrets
and rhyming recipes- Now
at death she has no more right to these Than the felled, pine tree that gave form to me.
I’ve been
robbed of pigeon carry Scooped
from the top three- I’ll
be damned if I’ll surrender Her pensive, scripts, ribbon wrapped in the bottom!
Tug and pull faithful
to her final fancies- The
heat waves of mischief flowing o’er me. Swell my final bastion’s walls- I’ll wait out this designee’s impulsivity! How I’ll miss the gentle tug of her- The considerate closing of the parts of me, And the reflective sweep of that small hand Upon veneers wed to her devoted bow-front.
E. D. Ridgell  *The photo [ Emily Dickinson's Bowfront ] is the property of
The President and Fellows of Harvard College
________________________________________________________________
Secrets It’s
interesting, You nestled your Secrets Safely securing them So that no one
might surmise the truth. Secrets are two-edged, Some stay secrets To wither in the shadows of silence- Others
spoken are spent Shore footed and indiscreet. We are as sick as our secrets. She unburdened her secret on a sky-ride High
o’er head the amusement park- Filicide
in the cold environs of Canada When she, a child,
watched her parents smother The baby they could
not feed. She suddenly let fly A secret and I stooped to catch it. My job is to search out and cull Secrets
into songs, stories- Poetryfor better
or not.
E. D. Ridgell Revised
2018
|
|
Emergency Exit Only!
A long hallway with many doors,
All leading into empty rooms without windows.
The naked lights of inexpensive fluorescence
Hang
down like yellow nooses.
That alley one moonlit night,
Searching her abandonment
Her 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 the scurrying rats-
Chivas Regal,
Diet Coke, and cigarettes.
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!
c. E. D, Ridgell, 2014
Revised 2018 ___________________________________________________________________
The Last Domino!
I had lost Tom
Soul
mate of twenty three years.
I was bitter and I was angry.
I’d come through the door
And yell to the void, “I’m home!”
We used up our prescribed time.
I secreted
my heart and I went out there.
I walked the full length of
Manhattan
From 72nd to the Bowery as I wasted away
Not caring if I whittled to nothing.
I walked the long walk through grief.
Nothing
can hurt me like that again.
Did you know abandonment accompanies
grief?
It drops off chicken noodle soup and flees
With an alacrity propelled by fear.
The fridge can only hold
So
much chicken noodle soup,
And the heart just so much pain.
I found another between episodes
Of Sex In The City and auspices of Queer As Folk.
We both grow old with one another.
With each
year I carry the fear
I may be the last one standing.
Mark Twain outlived everybody.
Love is the willingness to be the last domino!
E. D. Ridgell 2018 ________________________________________________________________
Scrooge!
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 up this holiday season.
I’ve options on the grocers. The geese are plentiful and reasonably
Priced. Everything dies to be sucked into a black hole.
Yes, there are fees for these as well. Everybody serves somebody.
How do you do? My name is Scrooge and I am that somebody!
This
insignificant orb dies, quickly. Only greed can save it…that’s
me. Goodie, goodie! Your backs are 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 marketed money 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 tar sand oil you guzzle daily- Choking
until due to the holiday, you come up short, then Self-righteously
call on me that greedy, greedy, seedy, 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 the 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
Or the Nintendo WII. They text you with their lists. You know,
Like everyone else, they’re busy. So is grandma And she ain’t baking cookies or pies, not anymore. Get with the program! What would you have, a real tree? Put the cookies and the milk under a facsimile. Bah, humbug! “I don’t make merry myself at Christmas”... A small spoonful of gruel will do. “Keep Christmas in your own way, And let me keep it in mine.” What’s
that you’re babbling, now? Someone needs a new crutch Tinier
than most. We’ve a hot titanium model, adjustable, fresh Off
our Chinese line, one of several imports. Let me show it to you. Merry
Christmas to You and Yours and a Profitable New Year!
Scrooge,
LLC! _______________________________________________________________________________________
Full Circle Old now, I wish that I could tell you The
world is a happier place. I wish That my grandchildren
Could have a greener earth. The weather
Walks on stilts O’er sodden ground, down drowning in apathy.
The rich Stare
down on Wall Street protesters, Down drowning martinis with
just a twist of lemon peel. Cameras are everywhere And somehow,
nowhere. A sore festers to begat two. It’s have’s
or have not’s Down drowning time ticking
To an ominous hourglass. Cull me, Sweet Jesu! As surely as the full moon salutes the night, “I follow on the water”.
E. D. Ridgelll _________________________________________________
Shooting in Orlando
Soul mate will have lost soul mate In this horrific
act that begs an explanation We are at a loss to give. We can only reach deep inside To that place from
which art arises To lend a hand and give sustenance within our pain.
Here then a poem of mine- a small tribute
to That soul mate that reaches out to that other soul mate Who suddenly is absent the outstretched hand of love- "All
are punished!" says so, the Duke of Verona...
The Demise of the Mandarin See my little wing quiver so
As I lie here atop the snow! Water is
surely free I think. I only wanted a tiny drink. Something is broke
within I know. I can not lift and rise to go. So happy was I on the brink
Eager at a dawn’s early pink; Very frightened, left alone,
Lamenting others who have flown- Fled
they so high into a sky Never more into will I fly. What rudely broke my
perfect wing So swift and sudden came the sting, Dropping me from an upward lift
Leaving regal feathers rudely rift? Something struck me swift and cruel, Sharp tipped from side a northern pool,
Amidst the warnings of little swallows
Urging me to flap and follow. And where’s gone fidelity
In the face of so little pity, Here now in a
shadow of Showa, Falling fast with a final, “Q
U
A”? _____________________________________________
By Sacred Rite
My father, one of a selfless generation, Who by
his decorative fight Had earned the right to Pick one or two choice crabs from out their
pots, In full view of their moored yachts Nestled to their private piers- He was the closest thing to American pedigreed nobility, In that inlet community.
Deep tentacles of Firm roots in Sandy, southern soil, A distinguished veteran, A recent Lodge inductee, Bespoke in equal measure, That he had every
rite to ply That inlet in his simple boat As any of them In their sleek yachts!
Planted today at the summit Of St, Mary's City, MD. His simple marker still Is testament to all That moors a Republic To sacred values as stated In simple script on
yellowing Parchment, a nation's sacred writ; Our American Constitution!
E.
D. Ridgell __________________________________________
Sweet Jesus, No!
Oh Lordy, Lordy, Lordy,
It took me awhile
to see-
What so disturbed me
At the sight- the very idea of this!...
How can we punish the
Offense by repeating that offense?
What reasoning
is this?
How does this fit into Your Creed?
I am an old man. Surely I
Can stomach this? I've seen
far worse
Than a Blown Vein, for Christ's sake!
That's just it though, isn't it?
That table, Sweet
Jesus, No!
Is it not in the shape of Your cross?
E. D. Ridgell _____________________________________________
Point Lookout!
I wanna go back
To summers in "the
land of pleasant living",
On Point Lookout, where the Potomac
Was one block to the left, and the Chesapeake
...
Only a short block to the right-
Where I was surrounded by colliding bodies
Of Collies and German
Shepherds,
And a bathing suit would suffice
For the entire day. In the nights,
The ghost of a Confederate
prisoner of war
Would haunt those same beaches
That were once his prison,
A point where the calm, smooth
Potomac
Collided with a rough, wave-riven Bay.
Fresh seafood was the only kind,
And all kinds of
cakes and pies lay inviting
On Grammy's kitchen table. I'd scoop
Out snapping turtles with a fishing net
From out the muddy ditch, side the house,
And leave 'em up on the lawn
Much to everyone's disapproval.
Grammy'd
tell me not to pick her roses
As she handed me a pair of scissors,
And scissors or not, the thorns would
Blood my busy, little fingers.
Everyday seemed hot, bright and sunny,
And the real life problems of grown
ups,
We're missing, entirely. All of life was good
And romantic. The sights and smells were
All home grown,
and the earth held nothing
That could not be weathered or mastered.
There was pride in your name
And a
church window named to uphold it.
Yes, all was right and good when I
Was a mere, little boy on Point Lookout,
In Maryland, "the land of pleasant living!"
E. D. Ridgell ___________________________________________________
See More
Disinterestedness?
Disinterestedness! But surely he jokes or chokes
on the word! Lo, Me can not feign to float too lightly above as though Me sailed with no anchor? No, Me knows, or at least Admits fear, even so near to harbor.
Sooner or later the limes are all gone, The
water is rancid, and the monkey eaten! And, sure enough, just look
at that dark Patch on the horizon. It was always bespoken.
The lucky end up ghosts Along the shoreline. Others sink down deep Into
the sea. The gods will not be placated For daring to venture too far.
Oh, it was so, so, satisfying, So soon after Me balls dropped, but now, they Threaten
to rise up again. Me will be a pretty tenor at Me wake, Mark Me squeals!
Old age is on Me Back And Me be bending down. Me castle is under siege, And the moat is strewn with inner tubes of the cutest rubber duckies! Send help. Me thinks they've slipped acid into Me wine. It
borders on punch and all will soon be lost to total disinterestedness!
E. D. Ridgell _______________________________________________________________________________
An Anger Dump
A life spent
Digging
out of an anger dump,
Silent seduction caped with
abandonment.
I recall how sunken she looked
In the shipping casket-
Corrugated baskets of glads ‘side her grave.
Sunlight everywhere
Stirred
a grief Lit as it was with relief.
Came doctor’s gloves for a rectal exam,
A case of that sympathetic cancer
That so often haunts the survivor.
Here, there, everywhere, cancer
A doctor’s appointment away.
Seventy
years later it still beckons.
I am sick
of the sick
Pushing the anger button-
Clickers in their lily white fingers.
Six score and ten and
Still
I’m sick with fear
Tempered though it be by time.
Lay me gently down.
Bounce me off the canyon wall-
The
wailing wall.
E. D. Ridgell
| Courbet's The Wave |
|
Courbet and Those Roe Deer
Maupassant
dubbed you
Fat, dirty, and greasy-
Awestruck at
Your drunken wave.
Green grottos
Centered on black holes-
Sappho sisters’
Wish fulfillments
Captured me and
Held me there,
Light headed.
Perceiving
you were
Complete in your own skin,
Bail bonded my return-
Dead mentored
to
Canvas again
Crude hanging rows.
I stared at those
mineral oily,
Roe deer-
Perpetual
Yet primordial.
You slashed, and left undisguised,
Rabbit skin, glued ground. At times,
You
bristled at any hair-
Your knife
Not wiped.
Forbearing and unglazed,
Hind limply down,
Strung as on a spit-
You persevered. I understood.
There was so little time.
©2007
by E.D. Ridgell
The above poem is very significant for me. I had occasion
to see an exhibit of Courbet's and noticed how crudely some deer were rendered
in some of his paintings. Upon research I found that Courbet came late to
the vocation of painting and consequently had no formal training. I have
come to the art of writing late, not until the age of fifty. I was formally trained as a visual artist and for some thirty years the vocabulary I brought to any work of art was that of the elements and principles
of design as used to describe painting or sculpture- the fine arts. That
does not matter, however, as these are universal to all forms of art. The
words are often different, however. The term meter and movement, for example
would mean the same thing. Alliteration is simply a kind of pattern. I'll
never have time to learn the extensive vocabulary that is unique to poetry
and writing alone, but like Courbet I will use the time remaining to me
to try and do so, while concentrating principally on the making of good
written works without any real formal training in literature or writing. To
some degree, I think this may very well work in my favor as I have less
restrictions and presumed expectations to live up to. Art is universal and
can be reduced to simple and easily understood principles and elements of
design, but change in art often comes from thinking outside the box and
by sheer accident resulting, in my opinion from the artist embracing the
untried- the habit of taking risks. EDR.
Michael,
Intercede for me. Flutter your mighty wings To scatter these Nano-Things
That would steal my breath away. Michael, I am only here
At your intercession, Time and time again You have been my protection.
Doc,
hearken to Your archangel. I cannot ride the bull again. I
am so tired, Doc. Around and around We go.
Where we land I do not know. Oh for the gift Of fresh air,
To prance and ride again- To stay the full eight! Oh, Michael. I am frightened.
Let me pull a wing up To sleep this night. To sleep, to sleep, Into the good
night Under the catalpa trees In the full moonlight. _________________________
I Hate It When They Fly!
Was it me who advised them to soar, Carrying my heart so high into the skies I could
choke with fear?
Surely,
Lord you will not Mark twain these tired shoulders. I haven't his penmanship- Only a journeyman's cowardice To any such weighty writ!
No comet's tail can I grab, When Michael whispers
in this old ear, The highwayman is here- Just a cold hand to shake, And take me just A little ways away till they Lay me gently down,
there, On that field a little ways away.
But who if not them, Michael? Who, I ask as I pull His wing over me In this restless night.
© 2014 by E.D. Ridgell ______________________________________________
Matins At
matins- His nocturnal vigils, The clouds in his mind would part Until
last lamentations Would signal the closing in again
Of his red sea of doubts. The long troubles between Stephan and Maud
Ending on the flowing red fields of Lincoln Had not fostered these worry beads. The
loneliness capped even those troubled times.
The damp had come into his joints. He was no longer favored for being young. He began to settle into a soured residue, Bottled
in boredom and corked in cups of repetition. The way that
had seemed so clear and lit Now was shadowed in overgrown
vines. With each ensuing year, another fear came forward, Fears
common to uncommon men- Simple but strict doctrine, rote
prayer, an insistent acceptance- Every attempt to surrender
had failed to foil Sobering arguments that belied the norm.
The retreat within was under siege, And like the king and resistant queen, He
would have to pit reason against faith Before the inevitable
feast of worms.
E. D. Ridgell ________________________________________________
Under The Catalpa Trees
Shadows under the catalpa trees
Encircling the square
Play in
lightly, speckled shapes
Caressing the dust of bits and
pieces
Coarsely crushed by footfalls of foreigners:
Millers on the Palace Green strewn with your ashes.
Whorled leaves shroud these littered remains,
Remnants to raise memories
Too distant to distill, too recent to dispel.
Speaking overmuch of it and spied still thinking of it,
Neither of us guessing the irony of it,
Moves
her to gently chide me as if to change feelings
That
are too closely moored to memory. Feigning to forget
Would
only be to forsake where they lay me down round you,
In
that spot of space such a little wait away.
Tread
gently then upon the heart
And suffer these small unguarded
slips
Of a mask donned only for the sake of others.
I will ride upon the carousel
Supporting grandchildren on carved horses,
Moving up and down, round and round
“Til
in my turn, on a last turn, I step down
To lie in dusty
pieces that abound the ground
Under the catalpa trees
In faire Colonial Williamsburg.
E. D. Ridgell
Tadzio Lido,
pubescent Pole.
Depart, dribbling, leaking,
cholera on Lubeck gossip.
Driftwood!
Venice,
soddenly Doge.
Recede, stinking sinking,
prostitute of Paris pillage.
Lagoon!
© 2006 ____________________________
"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 _____________________________________
|
Watersheds of the Chesapioc
With leathered hide and liver spots,
Like a bay bobcat,
I melt into
these surroundings.
Comfortable and well heeled as you
were,
Some half a century ago,
I watched you pot-lift
For the sport
of it.
You nick’d the immigrant’s crab pots,
Well within the eye of his spy glass, both content
In friendship and your discretion’s count.
All those flat, sandy, fields of bounty-
You
were due a small measure
By right of lineage, a small sober
tally.
How many torpedoes did you dupe
With your disciplined dog paddle?
How many folk did you grieve down-drowned?
These lands derived from our clans-
We harvested both
soil and water ‘fore settling
Into soggy graves
more unmarked than not.
Slowly stewed in brine and blood,
Your prose son, takes his turn at the wheel,
Well seasoned for his watch, and
Steers
these careworn, waked waters;
Navigates his generation’s
storms-
In written watersheds of a once,
Shellfish full Chesapioc.
© 2009 by E.D. Ridgell
Revised 2018
Pie Jesu Domine, . Jesu, but I'm sick, Wheezing
and Gasping To breathe with this
millstone On my hacking back. . It is of so little weight, Let me lay it aside, And like the Centurion's pais Be
grateful to be alive- Not only in this temporal place, But in the scheme of Thy mystery for which I am Your Confused but faithful supplicant. . In spirit I am euphoric, And
thank you for the blessings You bestow. "I
am not worthy that you Should come under my roof". I pray by that deed and grace. Done in your preaching pilgrimage, I am found worthy to enter Into Thy Celestial Presence. . St. Sebastian,
pray for me, As when with their piercing
arrows, You forgave all who Knew not what they did. ©
2010 by E.D. Ridgell revised
2018 ________________________________________________
Clara,
Oh
Clara with weighted wagons
Of linen cotton wool
white wrappings
Venturing out onto
The killing fields-
To downed lads
Blue and
gray
Showering care and pity
Wrapping, wrapping, wrapping
Limbs pulsing,
clotting!
Clara, Oh
Clara,
Bind the wounded day,
With sad adieus
Out shaven chins-
Short, budding beards.
Broken words of wobbling pain,
Out rudely, cleft and dry jaws-
O’er
the bantering, charging words
Their war and glory
yells before
The ripping, jabbing stabbing down.
To bleeding pools.
Clara, Oh
Clara,
Better battles ensued,
‘fore your virtuous stitching-
Seeded tears for war-torn years to come-
Wrapping,
wrapping, wrapping-
Clara, Oh
Clara,
“I
can’t feel my legs!”
c. E.D. Ridgell, 2015
Revised 2018 ________________________________________
Missin’ Billy Jim! They lifted the little box, And it seemed to weigh them down Out of all portion to the weight They
must have born. It seemed strange to me seein’ That
it should take four cuzins To haul such a little thing
No bigger than our toy chest. No one seemed happy
Or wantin’ to play, And I didn’t understand The nessessaries of
lines then. Mama held my hand right tight, And
I thought I’d dun somethin wrong, Plus Billy Jim still
wasn’t back From wherever they said he’d gone.
That
thar parlor was usually off base ‘Cept on Sunday after
the grownups Had finished in the big, brown, shingled place
Singin’ and wigglin’ all o’er the place..
This
was a long time ago, And I’m already in the first grade,
Linin’ up every morn at the bell Missin’ Billy Jim! _________________________________________________
Thou Who Changeth Not Lend me Thy strength Let not life’s demons Harry
me to sway. Guide me into righteousness For Thy sake. Thou who chandgeth not Lead me to the cross. Lord lay me gently down. Thou who
changeth not Lead me to Your heart. Wake me above the waves. Bring me to Thy well, Fylle me to the rim And buttress my faith in
Thou who
changeth not. _______________________________
In Conclusion The way I see it You’ve got maybe a decade left, Give
or take a year- Best make the best of it. You’re
in fair health, And you’re not broke. Corny
does it, One day at a time. Live everyday like it’s your last. Talk to God, Even if you’re not sure He’s listening. Whisper and He’ll be there.
Climb on the back Of your archangel’s wings. Don’t get
grounded. Fly. Set an example for the kids. They’re
watching. Oh yes, they are- Lead. When the time comes,
Fall into the hands of God. Let go. Die.
E. D. Ridgell ________________________________________
Collusion-
The highest officials are suspect!
Dishonor-
Oh Lord!
Greed sullies the ranks,
And a statue of the Virgin is seen to weep!
Fear and blasphemy rule the day,
And in distant
lands fascists march again-
Oh Lord!
The rising, walking dead of a last century
Mount Subarus
and Kawasakis
For a blitzkrieg led by Fox TV
In a false front of the Prophet!
And
here they come, the Horsemen
Riding again from the bowels of history
To once more humble the mighty
And trod headlong o’er the needy-
Oh Lord!
Have we again angered the Almighty?
E. D. Ridgell ____________________________________________ Closure
Last words, spoken Between us, pre-dream, I will recall post-dream when I grieve, with This closure, I Want and need.
I, the hero child, rescue you, The lost child, as in our salad years, Before our cub, Now desperate to shield her Three little bears, From rapids rushing over waterfalls.
I cradle you in my arms; You, in a full-length, white gown, With elbow-long,
Jackie O gloves; As innocent as when I courted you so long ago, With roses, frog legs, and Piaf songs.
And when I rescue you From the sleek, squeaky Blackamoor, With his slit-eyed,
bitch in toe through this deep-sleep, I awake, Fresh from my psyche's underworld To parse and
piece meaning.
I
want you out of pain. I'd sacrifice for you to stay; Spoil the kids, enjoy some twilight years. As for
the center of both our lives, I am the lion To you're lioness, but,
surely you know this! __________________________________________________
There will always be an England- …from the newsletter of the Jane Austen Society: “Sir, - There have been three occasions
recently when human ashes have been left in the garden of Jane
Austen’s House Museum. They have been left without permission and in secret. While we understand the many admirers of Jane Austen would love to have their ashes here, it is something we do not allow. It is distressing for visitors to see these
mounds of human ash and particularly so for our gardener. Also,
it is of no benefit to the garden! We would be grateful if
you could notify members- that if they know anyone who might be thinking of doing this, it is not permissible. Any ashes that are found will be disposed of” One Last Thing If You Please
“By
and by they fetched the niggers in and had prayers”, And
when those that came; family, friends, fagots, Romans had
Finished what meager rites they figured on me, that was done and I thanked them here in this writ of mine-
Then my loved ones You must conspire one last time, If you please for
me, for us, for what is fitting. Here! These are my ashes; fresh ashes mixed with bone, That I charge you scatter, quickly, on the run, Before
the ash police conspire to stop you. One run up the field
of The Palace Green And the other down- Broadcast me far and wide. Have some fun with me. Be merry, for merry I’ll be to rest finally Among
the Catalpa pods. God bless you and keep you, And
remember, What is mortal remains, Even as I am with you, Circumjacent,
hovering around you, A whisper on the wind, the breeze on
you cheek- The memory come and gone, Waiting, waiting, but awhile.
Please Visit my Antique Store on Ruby Lane
The Dungaree Doll Under a dark pall On a silken road South an ancient
wall Robes of yellow Caress worn red tiles
Aligned just so. Below her whitened face For a final opera Under the majestic
moon As dragons fight Amid celestial clouds
‘Round the imperial kite- The queued men kowtow
‘Side bound lotus feet All foreheads ground low.
Borne into a hall For Manchu rites, Dictates of ancestral law-
Force
a perfect pearl Out the lock-jawed mouth, Spoils for an Earl. They seal closed the tomb, Litter Pu Yi away, Barren of her womb Sullied grandfathers in shame Of
the dungaree doll. Unseeded brothers cannot blame
A
slit-eyed whore, Docent on the square, Giving foreigners a tour
With plans to woo A single son She’s met on Bidu.
Olive
fatigued comrades sleep Heavily donned with red stars
As ancestors weep! ___________________
The Antique Tapestry You are a mystery of intricacy.
My jewelry loop peruses you. You fascinate me.
St. George slaying the dragon, Out an Amish home- Is this idolatry?
Twelve
colors on interwoven wool Into a body of black thread.
I’m in awe of the weaving. The dyes are natural,
The wool homespun- You are lovely! Her boys with their sandy locks Dressed
unashamedly in faded pants With darned holes say nothing.
It
strikes me there is no adult male To do the dickering.
Is there some mystery? She looks miffed but does not turn away.
I remember her hospitality and I do not press her on the price.
She directs her boys to do the boxing As her pencil struggles with its mission. I must not loiter as I am an English to her.
I have you now, And muse again at your mystery- I have rescued you
from her. She watches me negotiate the bumpy drive, Unaware
of the added layer of history Both of us have just added
to the tapestry.
___________________________________________________
I Am The Eagle, The stark predator Back-dropped
by the dazzling sunlight, I measure
and reckon upon details; The direction
and velocity of winds. My talons clutch
in a firm grip And my beak, razor edged,
rips and tears.
The aerie lies near the lake In the shadow of the high mountain. Unlike the hawk roosting in the valley nearby, Deep within it’s screeching woodland, Many take no heed of me Aware of nothing soaring so faraway, Meandering in a distance too foreign For them to see or fear, but Coming into that geography, The boundary and parameter of my sharp sight, I only need to pounce in a lightning catch and Sweep them up into some convenient perch. Unlike them, trapped in a scheme Not
of their making, no carrion do I seek. No
trap awaits me.
They are sighted movement caught by my eye,
A tribute to be taken, ripped and torn,
Pieced just so, for ripe and particular appetites.
The first course is mine and measured to my need.
The second, are gleanings of the harvested carcass,
The smaller, savory pieces, I deliver to
Frenzied, nestling eaglets hungry for my return.
I am forever soaring above, Seeking an unguarded opportunity, When they chance a safety that does not exist. This is my eternal rank. This is their lower link. They feed me and mine according to that covenant, Governing all things, including me, the eagle.
E. D. Ridgell ___________________________________________________________
|
|
| Dedicated to Lynn, her Grandmother and Lynn's Favorite Poem |
The Cookie Monster
So there we are, all but one, sitting in the dining room,
when, all of a sudden, I notice a chair walking by the door,
an opening onto the hallway leading into the kitchen.
It isn’t hard to figure out who the propeller is. I listen and,
before long, I hear the sound of the freezer
door opening.
She comes in and makes her way around the room, bag wide open,
asking each if they wouldn’t
like a chocolate chip cookie.
Daddy, whose cookies they were is last. It is yet another
fait accompli in a well
planned sortie.
Her mission almost accomplished, she addresses the room
announcing that perhaps she will
have just one cookie too.
Daddy hesitates and Mommy is struck dumb.
Mission accomplished! There is but one thing
left to do.
Capture this two armed little bandit, chocolate chip in each hand,
and bundle it in a huge hug. Pop
Pop has caught
the Cookie Monster.
© 2008 by E.D. Ridgell ______________________________________________________________
| THE MARYLAND STATE BIRD - THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE |
|
| AN ORIOLE DYING |
An Oriole Dying That patch-quill nest Of fading hopes Silent the late Signaling fluttering- I sensed the pact broken and Flew fast into a feigned
freedom Leaving the old windbag dead, Wasting
already. Where flies an oriole. When on her last wing? What song does she sing, When the jail-cell gate, That oddball's plughole, Stiffens open? Fleeing fleetly up and out, In search of any sweet song I'd wished to sing, but no! It was not to be. There
was none of that Treachy-cheeping, cooing come out of me! My old, back-bent poet and I were both fools To think
that our best could ever be pretty scores. The sounds come forth from both of us Were not soft, saccharin flight
to any ear, But hard notes written to even a score, Screeches in search of serious meaning. It was to that purpose they served the Music of both our souls all the
better, And gave this world songs in poems That sought to be more true and real ‘fore any thought of rhymes
to Life's divers and sundry, Cherished
matters; Sunset, Sunrise, One more bloody love sonnet! ************************************************************************* See
my little wing quiver so As I lie here atop the snow! Water is surely free I think. I only wanted a tiny drink. Something is broke within I know. I cannot lift and rise to go. So happy was I on the
brink Eager at the dawn's early pink; Very frightened, all alone, Lamenting others who have
flown- Fled they so high into a sky Never
more into will I fly; The gentle-meaning poet dead, And I, flown home, An oriole dying. © 2011 by E.D. Ridgell |
