Up North a Liberal is Dying
I cry sanctuary and flee from the TV
into the relative peace of my
to putter and sort these shock induced thoughts.
up north a liberal is dying.
not been popular in these greedy, slanted years.
One senses this is changing, and just when…
Oh my God!
Look at the clematis!
abundant and climbing the ground.
pick it up and string it around to climb the birdhouse poll.
He is the
youngest and living the longest
sets things right ‘specially
John John went flying into the sea.
These hosta couldn’t have
been a better choice.
look at the perfect height and contrast.
I must look and see which special one of the genus this is.
been grieving that fertile family all my life.
I can mark my own by the ups and downs of it.
I wonder how long, Teddy. Oh, anyway it’s about
quality now, not time.
This weed with the pretty, purple flower spreads
I will let it run wild in chosen areas to act as a spread.
This wants to be an English garden- so say you, Capability Brown!
is an Englishman!
he himself has said it,
it's greatly to his credit,
he is an Englishman!’
The next time we’re down to Williamsburg,
I’ll look for a matching
the other side this bed and catch out the winged things.
still a wet-whistle and Irish to boot. He’ll go sailing for sure.
His sailboat is as this garden to me- island, Ireland, England,
centers a confused man- ‘less there’s a bottle hidden in the hold.
surprised that I’m weary already. Sixty was a mistake.
The informality of cottage beds is the ease in which I can cover my tracks
or lack of them. I’ll
lie and say I planned it. It’s politics.
Hypocrites want perfection in everything especially people.
They can not forgive or forget the libertine
nature of the liberal man-
by the occasional weed, they do not discern the beauty of the garden.
what mementos he has tucked away,
most private things that you share with no one today.
Will he leave pressed flowers to be found? Do you burn the diary or not?
mix these promised, fat tomatoes, in here, and here, and perhaps there.
Those last year, were too small, ripening too late.
I can’t believe store
prices today. Too dear with the garden so near!
tired. I’ll go in now, break my diet yet again, and nap,
then later try and remember what the news had the muse whisper in my ear.
“Somewhere up north a
liberal is dying”.
Somewhere up North an angel awaits his
© 2008 by
E.D. Ridgell...revised at Sir Edward's death...2009
You Realized or Cared,
they finally had taken that long anticipated,
and ages ago promised shot
Ah, but sorry, so sorry- too late! Teddy,
had moved on, out of harm’s way,
the arms of whomever
awaits o’er there, on that far metaphor,
under the cool shade and gentle breeze
the golden, fluttering, eagles wings.
Anointed as he was, cleansed clean as
in fine, Irish linen, swaddling clothes,
he came upon this uncertain
full of good and primary things.
Tempered with trials and troubles,
he was immersed early
on in the lures
and inducements that in the hot blood
of youth he bridged so like his
and wealthy kinfolk,
America’s own sacrificial Kennedy clan.
No matter! In these
he found his calling,
and Teddy rose so high into the legislative annals
this great Republic,
it’s enough to make an Irishman blush,
immigrating into all, that empathy
is catholic to any great democracy.
The sod is not set yet, but the fickle
a piper’s tune. Fidelity fades fast for some;
even the neighboring
Jew, who did feign to be a friend,
did stoop to become just a bigot’s
a blemish on his tribe that have nourished so,
the simmering stew of our melting pot.
mesmerized children, some fell into line
with such haste and so little
for any consequences except the soothing of some
imagined, planted challenge to their civic pride.
They would not be moved upon the chessboard-
in fact, the men behind the curtains
did slide them with the ease of
an lustful eye
o’er some cosmopolitan pretty boy centerfold.
But, he is
our stalwart history now.
He has left leaving that dream
parading on in its long, long, march to equality.
Teddy, trust that we will not let that dream die, never!
those whose cares
have been our concern, the work
the cause endures, the hope still lives,
and the dream shall never die. ...”
And Teddy, this voice,
this petulant, and mocking organ of mine,
in its distain of advancing rhythm and time,
will not fail to serve in
the cause of that dream;
just another humble courier in the tempest-tost’
of howling heralds carrying messages
of ghosts like yours whispering;
me, remember me, remember me.”
© 2010 by E.D. Ridgell