WELCOME TO THIS POET’S CORNER!
! My Inner Child Picture! - You Choose An Old Photo That You Think Best Captures Your Spirit! Welcome to my poetry site.  I’m a versatile artist: a painter, sculptor, weaver, teacher, etc. and, if you dare to stay and sample a few, a fair poet and writer of sorts. I’m not sure at how good I am at any of these, but as it is the impetus of my life and my bliss, that blissful life being lived as I will live it and my opinions, how little weight they merit, my own by what I reason and reckon from within the muddy, muddle of the brain behind my brow. I will leave you to it, then, adding  just a few bits more, so that before you lick the ink, you may be forewarned to move on if you’d prefer; I am a patriot, and I am a Liberal, Social, Democrat. Either I have moved so far to the left, I may have fallen off the edge of this flat earth into a realm all my own, or most of the world has moved so far to the right, in my lifetime, I fear, they’ve fallen into a sort of hell all their own. I am an unapologetic Gay and like so many of us, more than you might suspect, a father and a grandfather. I only hope that when I die, I’ve been the best of all of these that I could be. Finally, I am descended from the original nine families that founded Smith and Tangier Islands, smack dab in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay. My grandmother was born there but was moved then to the tip of St. Mary’s County sometime around the turn of the century. It was there that by happenstance and a good fortune, so similar to Truman Capote’s, I was raised by a magical and duly dysfunctional family on a peninsula that is today Point Lookout State Park-that is to say that much of my boyhood, mostly the long hot summers, were spent on the sandy shores of where the Potomac and Chesapeake Collide-a site formally a prisoner of war camp during the American Civil War- and now, if you please, I would be honored if you would tarry and read. E. D. Ridgell ________________________________________________________________________________ Credits: I wrote my first poem in 1999, in that year of the death of my significant other. I immediately knew I had embarked on that search for the soul or the solid self that is so broken at the loss of someone we truly love. In short, I knew poetry was a medium for reinventing myself. Since those beginnings, I have read poetry hosted by The Samaritan Counseling Center of Lancaster Pa. For awhile. I was a movie and event's critic for Walt's World an online GLBT 'zine' on the social network site Journalspace. Some of these 'crits' can be read on pages 18 through 20 along with some short stories. I've also delved into the short story, commentary, etc. For some two years, I acted as a moderator at "The Peaceful Pub" on Wordflair, another online zine that is part of the Yuku network more British than American. I led a forum on Wordflair called "Taking Risks" where I encouraged my peers to "try to think outside of the box"- to realize that to create anything remotely new and unexperienced you must first destroy what has fossilized into the academic rules and proprieties that must never be broken. I sometimes, therefore, break these. I'm not a rebel, mind you.  I am a simple artist. Six poems appear in 'A Bouquet of Poetry' an anthology compiled by S.M.Zang and Jean Lewis, c.2007. The word "bouguet" is derived from the Greek meaning "a collection of". Details on ordering can be found at the bottom of page 5. ________________________________________________________________________________ All poems, original art work, prose, etc. are copyrighted under the name, E.D. Ridgell. Should you wish to use any of the material you find here, contact me, and I almost always concur. This should not be assumed though. The pictures and some of the multi-media are not always my own and may be subject to the copyright and ownership of others, and should anyone object to their use, please contact me, and I will promptly delete them. No plagiarism is intended. I only mean to honor them. Anything submitted to other sites, contests, etc. is published here, first, so as to establish copyright. Thank you. © 2008-2010 by E.D. Ridgell
The Pier Out Back Of My Father's Place In Exmore Va...circa 1970 Exmore Virginia Rain seemed fast fleeting netting nothing ’cept a dizzyingly white and dazzling sunlight leaving me happily harbored in crisp clean colors. The Bay froze over 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 stopped short at eroded cliffs breaking on your reason. Green and yellow tufted mustard fields growing wild either side the road waked the ride. The honk at the turn 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; Masons' breakfasts, garden victories, and churchly things- harvesting by right the immigrant neighbor’s 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 as dignified as The Cleo fading away 'side the road. Everything about you bespoke lower Bay. Coming home that fall to the Delmarva chronicled you; bow high, into the family log. And anchored there, you found the blue green harmony resonant of that water ring round 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. © 2006 E.D. Ridgell Contact me at: er21120@msn.com The Unkwnown Soldier Could Have Been 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 about. Don’t tell parents of those innocents Who kill themselves, secrets strangling school tie, 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 their dung, To stand attention ‘fore these 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 reverent at a recent ceremony. Don’t tell Of mussed musings and a muffled guffaw ‘fore that Unknown Soldier.                                                                              © 2010 by 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? 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 to fall and scatter from milady’s fair and powdered neck; seeded pearls of little consequence were cleared from cleavage, floor and seat, clutter tossed from out the carriage windows. That night in the taverns by the Seine there was many a toast in honor of this good lady bought with pledged proceeds of her generosity; Most pawned for cheap wine. One purchased knitting needles. © 2007 by E.D. Ridgell	USS Nimitz  US Navy  Conflicted Emotions of an American on the Corners 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, rumbling 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 every day’s the fourth of July. Don’t murder mine on my burial grounds And, in league or not, taunt me with more threats that may or may not be real! Do you not see my coiled tail or hear its rattle? I will strike you if you tread on me; then bind your wounds with the wrappers of pocketfuls of Hershey bars. I am the relative you do not want who comes to visit and forgets to leave. I am an intervention in your dysfunction who at times is crazier than you. The children dressed in bulging vests tug on my fatigues asking for chocolates, and just when do I intend to go. That is the one thing, child, I just never 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 yet 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… 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 which are packaged in words that are set in sacred but secular writs and we back it up with the USS Nimitz.                           © 2008 by 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. © 2008 by E.D. Ridgell 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. © 2008 by E.D. Ridgell *The photo [ Emily Dickinson's Bowfront ] is the property of The President and Fellows of Harvard College           The Poem Hunter Poetry Society of America PSA/Events/Poetry/Awards/Store The Poetry of Ted Hughes The Maryland Poetry Review To order A Bouquet of Poetry in which some of my poems are published: American Poetry Review The Author's Den   Maryland Institute College of Art : BFA, '69', MFA '78' Poetry Foundation An RSS Feed to the Daily Poems of Poetry 180
AT THE MOMA 2005 ___________________________________________________________ Courbet and Those Roe Deer Guy dubbed you fat, dirty, and greasy, awestruck at your drunken wave. Green grottos, deep, centered to black holes, Sapho’s sisters’ wish-fulfillments, captured me; held me there, light headed. Perceiving you were complete by your own design, 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 skinned ground. At times, you bristled at any hair; your knife was left not wiped. Forbearing and unglazed, hind limply down, strung as on the 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.	Pui The Last Emperor Of China 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”?                           © 2009 E.D.Ridgell Stings for the Kinsmen The whimbly, wambly kinsfolk little knew the letters faint yet folded with caring and tossed into trash bin, an act to rue, yet were treasured writs of love so daring. Sometimes a tolling bell is the siren, sounding need for rash and hasty action, as locks go changing and time does upend leaving doubtful future expectation. The reasons cliquey-tricky they soon see, speed a griever’s misgivings aplenty; and into the lock of grief goes a key as anger turns unlocking no bounty. Like to poisoned kisses sent on the wings swiftly quills do leave kinsmen many stings. © 2007 by E.D. Ridgell
Matins At Matins; his nocturnal Vigils, the clouds in his mind would part, until last laudates in the final psalms, would signal the closing in again of his red sea of doubts. The long troubles between Stephen and Maud, ending on flowing red fields of Lincoln, had not fostered these beads of thought. The loneliness capped even those troubled times. The damp had come into his joints. He no longer was favored for being young. He began to settle into a soured residue bottled in boredoms corked in cups of repetition. The way that had seemed so clear and lit now was shadowed in rambling vines, overgrown. With each ensuing year another fear came forward, fears common to uncommon men. Simple but strict doctrine, rote prayer, insistent acceptance- every attempt at surrender had failed to foil these sobering arguments that with facts 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. © 2009 by 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 under footfalls of foreigners; millers on a palace green strewn with ashes. Whorled leaves shroud littered remains, remnants to raise memories too distant to distill, too recent to dispel. Speaking overmuch of it and spied still thinking on 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 what is fixed between us and still lies in a future 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 and round and round till, in my turn, on a last turn, I’ll jump down to lie in dusty pieces that abound the ground under the Catalpa trees. © 2006 E.D.Ridgell   The Latest Poems! A Lonely, Last Bud to Fall   In a spell that seems so long already, I tend one after another garden In a lifetime of gardening.   The precious buds fall one at a time. They burn and decay away. They are in my memory  And missed each for a passion its own.   I tend the garden now aging and failing, But still I till on, one season at a time.   I am not sure why I garden still. Or why the lovely buds must Wither and fall. I am resigned, But I do confess I fear I’ll be A lonely, last bud to fall!                  © 2011 by E.D. Ridgell     Social Issues! It seems I have undergone a me,me,metaphor,fa,fa,sis.I have become a Social Issue, a hanging chad, examined.Out of the closet to be welcomed by some and condemnedBy others to be frack'd down into Dante's imagination, A santorum stain on the shower-room floor! Oh yes, I'm still a peda-fille, waiting in the van forMiddle school to let out! "Little Boy, we have candy for you!" I track Pete. He was out in something short of seven years.Even his pic is on the Internet-last address-last job;A real pedophile, I helped to check so long ago.I don't understand this particular flavor, And God help me, I can forgive him, see the Fascist system That will never forgive, and at least wish him a gun shot toThe head. Better that, than no cure, topped by no solution.I don't know. I have old perverts in the family tree,Eighty year old watermen who married the next twelve year oldLass in line. Some sired more. The wash got done. It was Necessary. Where is Michael Jackson performing, now? Here, then, where the grass is greener, I find little to graze on.Mythology is fading. Intimacy is warping. Friends are misunderstandings waiting to happen on a ever clearer screen. Sex is so dirty to these people. They taunt with jacket-likes From Brokeback Mountain. They miss the message of what they Can not feel themselves, not to mention A damn good score! Finally, We can welcome real sex addicts Into the fold! No matter, but they take it so seriously.Conceal their porn sites! It's a rum world, and at times, I reminisce  for the closet! Oh, Frack it! This is a poor poem, And they delete them now, pretending To have read them. I can feel the irritationAt the interruption to what? What do they do?Oh well, another sing song for the poetry site,Another entry into my private diary, a commentOn the Social Issues of my time.© 2012 by E.D. Ridgell   Nary a One, Mr. Santorum   There are days in these rushing last allotted segments of time, When I feel like a tumbleweed. It was always so, you know, And I regret that more did not know me very well, For I never did but bark, with never any intention to bite. All my preoccupations I followed through so as never to Shoot the dove, and I always did and will favor the weak And sorely used. I spent half my life just furrowing me out, Learning to love what I could not fully feel by the mores and Cruel messages of this confusing world that assured me I did not deserve love, but to be locked in some closet. But despite all, I was loved, am loved, and still I must hesitate, Hold back, from sheer habit and from the fear and shock of it all. Still the dogs chase my dreams into nightmares. Still I can trust only one, and that one not even me, But you see, I can and do trust my God. My God, no longer eludes me. He never did really, but for the Smoke and pollution that evil puffs out and all about. But, I know little to nothing of God except that he cherishes Me and He created me just so for reasons good and beautiful, And so it is by Faith I stand here now, knowing little of God, Knowing most gods not at all, for by their creed I be a freakish, Mistaken, and queer thing. No matter, for my God, my Gracious God Makes no mistakes, none at all-Nope, nary a one, Mr. Santorum!    © 2012 by E.D. Ridgell Michael Moore Among the Protesters   Fidelity to That Revolution! Do I hear Of rumbling in the ranks? Is the battle lost; And what of its Cause? Where are the Sergeants-at-arms'? Who bolsters freemen, Nurses their fidelity, So conscientiously, hard won? The first of Our Chief's line Suffered so many setbacks, It seems a miracle The seeds of our legacy were ever sown. He's honored, The Father of Our Country, For good reasons; One being that tenacity moored to So much humility at his commission's end. Speak to me without dissidence In tongues not treasonous! Muster in! Muster up! It's better to be dead than confined? Remember all that were the Cincinnati, A revolution and a Tea Party long ago- For nothing new is in the wind, that this Republic Has not endured ‘fore and will not shun to endure again. Each day begins with reveille and its "Call to Colors"- And with the nightfall's retreat and taps we Entrust our sleep to the brave sentries of centuries- ‘Fore battles next day and a Fidelity to that Revolution that never ends! ©2011 by E.D. Ridgell     A Stance   It was half a century before I noticed it; I think it was in one of those family photographs I cherish so much, the ones that will most likely be Chucked out at my death by happenstance, or haste, Or for having no relevance to the chuck-er.   In so many images so many of my forebears had the habit Of hoisting the hand on the hip as you would a signal flag. I remember habitually doing this in thirty years of teaching. It was a stance conveying a stand; A relaxed kind of tenacity which never rests.   There's the worn photo of Grammy her arm raised and aware Accepting some Veteran's award From a uniform beneath the flag pole In front of that nursing home of hers for dry docked old seaman. In my mind's eye I can still see her standing, self-satisfied, Firmly dug into Maryland's, sandy soil with that hand on hip That bespoke her affinity to that ground and the prizing of it.   There are photos rescued of people I never knew, But who are a part of me Caught in the light of the lens at ease with this posture. Yesterday, I found myself hand on hip Standing before my well weeded garden,   When it entered my mind, melding into hope that one day I will catch out one of the grand-kids Mimicking me in this trait handed down through generations. We are all who came before and a little more.                                                        © 2011 by E.D. Ridgell   Social Issues!   It seems I have undergone a me,me,metaphor,fa,fa,sis. I have become a Social Issue, a hanging chad, examined. Out of the closet to be welcomed by some and condemned By others to be frack'd down into Dante's imagination, A santorum stain on the shower-room floor!   Oh yes, I'm still a peda-fille, waiting in the van for Middle school to let out! "Little Boy, we have candy for you!"   I track Pete. He was out in something short of seven years. Even his pic is on the Internet-last address-last job; A real pedophile, I helped to check so long ago. I don't understand this particular flavor, And God help me, I can forgive him, see the Fascist system That will never forgive, and at least wish him a gun shot to The head. Better that, than no cure, topped by no solution. I don't know. I have old perverts in the family tree, Eighty year old watermen who married the next twelve year old Lass in line. Some sired more. The wash got done. It was Necessary. Where is Michael Jackson performing, now?   Here, then, where the grass is greener, I find little to graze on. Mythology is fading. Intimacy is warping. Friends are misunderstandings waiting to happen on a ever clearer screen. Sex is so dirty to these people. They taunt with jacket-likes From Brokeback Mountain. They miss the message of what they Can not feel themselves, not to mention A damn good score! Finally, We can welcome real sex addicts Into the fold! No matter, but they take it so seriously. Conceal their porn sites! It's a rum world, and at times, I reminisce  for the closet!   Oh, Frack it! This is a poor poem, And they delete them now, pretending To have read them. I can feel the irritation At the interruption to what? What do they do? Oh well, another sing song for the poetry site, Another entry into my private diary, a comment On the Social Issues of my time. © 2012 by E.D. Ridgell   In A Last Gasp Potter's Prayer   I can't be all that! I can't do all that! It's geeked me too high, Lord. All I see are Mama's eyes.   The alleys spew us. We scurry in the, cold, moonlit night, Till we nudge up ‘gainst strangers O'er a sagging, rusting, iron grate, Warming any old, bold, brassy-polished bank,   To await a fate, ice pick-like sharp and chilling; A last stab into a waiting, already rotting carcass Of the vast namelessness' of coming Potter's dust!   © 2012 by E.D. Ridgell Remember, Remember, The Ninth of September!    Words, like hanging chads, hang loose over our catwalks; feeble attempts to recapture some moment.   It was September wasn't it? Remember, Remember the ninth of September? We started out for Bar Harbor, Stopped by his digs in Soho.   How he shined fresh from his shower, With beads of water running down his back, To vanish into an innocent, perky crack.   At the door, wrapped in his best, modest, smile, He hugged us both, and gave me a squeeze, And wished me an early, best Birthday.   On the twelfth, I blew out, A heart broken snotty, blow that choked me up. Remember?   Wrapped in each others anger and grief we sobbed and sobbed, In the helpless awe of evil.                                    Why This Need   For show and tell? You do not solicit any distraction. It does not diminish my need though To share the awe I see and feel, Mud pies of my making. What germinates showing and telling, In a needling need I cannot uproot To share some part of these?   I scratch and claw at the pad, Balancing the black and white, Tuning to the ear the sounds from the Concentrated words that lay here unread- Even revising, anon, echoes off the secluded Canyon walls that have been the Splendid solitude of my own making. It's a little disingenuous to wonder so Let alone quiz the empty theatre, Careful to resonate in the back rows. © 2011 by E.D. Ridgell Peter Pan and Wendy...Walt Disney pic compliments of Lladro   Tinker Bell's Fail! Come Back to the Five and Dime Bobby Dee Bobby Dee, I didn't mean it. You'll always be my Disney boy, so dear to my heart! How came you to a potter's grave Bobby Dee Bobby Dee? I didn't mean it, to prick and stick You so hard and high you'd die, pretty boy! Lie you still on Hart Island, Bobby Dee Bobby Dee Far from Treasure Island, the voice of Pan Now but a whisper o'er the windy Sound? © 2011 by E.D. Ridgell   It Ain’t Easy!   Some lives are sucked up in post trauma, A syndrome, surely worldwide. Mine has been such; Slap after slap, the first slap at birth!   It shapes the individual for good or bad, Or in my case for someone stuck in-between. My point, my poem, this song is to say this can be A blessing, a soul search for creativity born Of the necessity to survive, The sensitive, soulful swap of the artist.   So often this post traumatic, symbol, says something so shape-shifted it sounds The depth of a simp, singed to not be silent, Just for the sake of societies' silly sensibilities!   You try singing your "s"s this sticky sweet, and succinctly! It ain't easy! © 2011 by E.D. Ridgell   Recession 1   The muse, if she visits at all, Just sits there silent, a vacant gaze, Shunning me, shaming me, Depressing me further.   I feel past empty, Running on gas fumes. Voiceless in the face Of so much apathy, Weighing down dark times- hard times, Coming as they do, Not singularly but in wave, after wave, after wave..   Where is everyone gone- Syntax, shit!  What am I to do with your Leftovers? Am I meant to do Anything, to nurture hope, to lament, To mirror feelings that, in truth, Leave me as overwhelmed as them?   She sits on a bench In Walmart with her Bent-over, grey haired Head in her hands, Waiting. What for?   He goes out to lunch, Frequents groups, Worries that two houses Up and the one next door, Also have one old person Left within echoing walls- Survivors, burdened by the guilt of Surviving, guilty at the relief It is over, and waiting like me For the answer of what to doWith a house no longer a home!                                       © 2011 by E.D. Ridgell   ****************************************************   Full name: Email address: Comments:   Adzio Lido, pubescent Pole. Depart, dribbling, leeking , cholera on Lubeck gossip. Driftwood! Venice, soddenly Doge. Recede, stinking sinking, prostitute of Paris pillage. Lagoon! © 2006 Pic is of Shekar Kaper  The Hindu Pakistan  ____________ Hear Me,   but do not heed me- that is more merit than is wise. I would you lend an ear but spare the cells close by. I am in search of the soul of the self. This is but a path I plod to sort the sounds that simmer within.   Hear me, muse upon mathematics of my mind, at times it seems 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 in a futility to reveal, free and open, that mumsimuss of brainwash I can only seek to unravel.   Hear me, as I sing into the shrinking time that is but overtime- I suppose.   Hear me in your own 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- another highwayman held, I hope,   in this silkily triggered, small, trap of voice.                                        © 2009 by E.D. Ridgell	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 just 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 many blessings You bestow on me and mine. "I am not worthy that you Should come under my roof", But I do reason by that deed and grace. Done in your preaching pilgrimage, Like one of those many of your making. I am found worthy to enter Into The Celetial Presence. . St. Sebastian, pray for me, Even as you forever bleed from Their piercing arrows, Forgiving all who "Know not what they do".                                  © 2010 by E.D. Ridgell    [There Always Will Be An England] -  from the newsletter of the Jane Austen Society -  Sir, - There have been three occasions  recently when human ashes have been left in the garden of Jane Austin's House Museum. They have been left without permission and in  secret. While we understand the many admirers of Jane Austin would love to have their ashes here, it is  something we do not allow. It is distressing for visitors to see these mounds of human ash and particularly so for our gardener. Also, it is of no benefit to the garden! We would be grateful if you could notify members- that if they know anyone who might be thinking of doing this, it is not permissible. Any ashes that are found will be disposed of. -  One Last Thing, If You Please - "By and by they fetched the niggers in and had prayers,"- And when those that came; family, friends, fagots, Romans, Had finished what meager rites they figured on me, That was done, and I thanked them, here in this writ of mind.   Then my loved ones, you must conspire one last time, One last thing, if you please, for me, for us, for what is fitting. Here! There are these ashes, fresh ashes mixed with bone, That I charge you scatter, quickly, on the run, fast Before they contrive to stop you. One run up the field, and Another, down that Green from the other end. Broadcast me far and wide. Have some fun with me. Be merry, For merry I'll be feeling through the rotting catalpa pods And green grass in hopes of coupling once again. God grant it!   Bless you and keep you and remember what's mortal stays there. I am with you, circumjacent, hovering around you, the whisper on wind, The breeze on your cheek, the memory come and gone, Waiting.                                                                                                      © 2010 by E.D. Ridgell   The Actual Tapestry Please Visit my Antique Store on Ruby Lane The Antique Tapestry You are a mystery of intricacy. My jewelry loop moves over the surface and There is nothing that does not fascinate me.   St. George slaying the dragon, in an Amish home? Is this not idolatry? You seem not to care, Anxious for the sale, one of many things that fit better into a lot.   I count more than twelve colors and the wool is interwoven with a thread, Black and nettled throughout  holding everything together. I see no other foundation. I marvel at such craftsmanship.   Your boys, handsome and blond Contrast with faded dark pants with darned holes, here and there, Worn unashamedly. All of you have that beautiful complexion.   There is little dirt but a patina that is overall and lovely. I think the wool is homespun, but I am uncertain, And there is that one color that does not look naturally dyed.   It struck me that there is no adult male, And I wonder if I’m shunned dealing with a woman. I buy your put-up delicacies though willingly paying twice a store shelf price.   I know already I want to purchase it. I want to study it in a detailed leisure. Its value right now is just a reflection of your needs and impatience with my deliberation. I want to know its history. I want the key to a mystery.   You are silent when quizzed but you don’t look away. I ask too much and remember your hospitality. I will not press you on this. I sense this is a private matter.   It is old, yes, very old, but in a condition that reflects much care. I see one or two small holes before the window light but of no real concern. I realize I am spending too much time perusing its back. I must flip it over.   You have begun to direct the boys to box and carry the things to the van. Your pencil moves quickly and I see a struggle with the addition. I must not loiter and be out of here. I can feel you want me gone.   I gaze again at the motif and continue to wonder how it came into Amish hands. It is continental, I’m sure of it. My mind spins at the beauty of it, and I am already hooked into every detail and am eager to make away with my treasure.   You stand watching me negotiate the bumpy drive, not aware of the layer of history Just added to the diary of this tapestry. You are relieved to be rid of it, and I am glad to Rescue it. Your darned holes are contemporary. Mine are the open holes of history.                                                                                                    © 2007 by E.D. Ridgell   The Dungaree Doll Under a dark pall On the silken road South an ancient wall Robes of the yellow Caress worn red tiles Aligned all just so With Her face white For a final opera Under the majestic moonlight As the dragons fight Amid the celestial clouds Round the imperial kite The queued men kowtow Side bound lotus feet All foreheads ground low Borne into a Hall For the Manchu rites Dictates of ancestral law Seal closed the tomb Litter Pu Yi away Barren of Her womb Force the perfect pearl Out a lock-jawed mouth Spoils unto some earl Sullied grandfathers in shame Of the dungaree doll Unseeded brother can't blame A slit eyed whore Docent on that square Giving foreigners the tour With plans to woo But a single son She's chosen on Bidu Olive fatiqued comrades sleep Heavily donned in stars As angry ancestors weep © 2006 E.D.Ridgell I Am The Eagle, the stark predator back dropped by the dazzling sun. I measure and reckon upon details; the direction and velocity of winds. My talons clutch in a last grip and the 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 the screeching woodland. Many take no heed of me bewaring 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 swoop 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 sited 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, gleanings of the harvested carcass, the smaller, savory pieces, I deliver to frenzied, nestled 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 eminent rank. This is their lower link. They feed me and mine according to that covenant, governing all things, including me the eagle. © 2009 by E.D. Ridgell 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 shoplift 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 of, by right of lineage, a small sober tally. How many a capsizing 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 setting son, takes his turn at the wheel, well seasoned for his watch, and steers these careworn, waked waters; navigates his generation’s storms- in watersheds of a once, shellfish full Chesapioc.                                  © 2009 by 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