No Need for Mixed Media, and yet, ...Lorca and Dali, yes, juxtaposed Salvador and so many more-- irrational-- before that last master, Rodriguez, mix it up— befog the mind’s eye as I dare comparisons, pugnacious and allied in this rebellion to the too-straight shooters marching out of the borguoisie. How, then?-- on my reckoned turnstile, here; a pic, my poem, here-- here it is, with links to green, tinged words and masochistic needs-- no limitations! None! In 2008 aero planes dropped facsimiles of his white-winged sonnets and Spain cried, weeping decades later, many with mixed memories, now. Mix it up? Yes! Mix it up. They shot the muse twice in the ass, and then the whole world went to war as though summoned to anarchy. © 2009 by E.D. Ridgell	For Walt ! Gods, Come Out and Fight!   I dropped into the meeting, A hot house tomato, Not for any slipping but needing picking, Ripe on the vine for some intimacy- Someone to hold me again, someone to Mean a “how you doing?”   It had been a long journey and I was only A little ways through the lonely wood. In a room of some ten misfits on the range, Your testosterone drew me like a bee to the comb- Not in search of anything queenly. This was man to man. I knew that you knew but that you were nursing a whole garden. You were hung on that chair just as shore as mortal sin.   With time, I came to meet the only one who had rights To an earlier claim and so I, a Southern Gentleman, Jabbed my pick in another’s heart and all in all, All were content with the leftovers, friendships. Soon enough you tested that man. Men like you always do. And I was there to conspire against your testing, helping Your man to understand that men are no damned good- How else would you want them but damned hard.   With time you condescended to him and I won my knight, And together we all watched our Dearest David, a gay priest Destroy himself with drink. We developed a friendship… Heard Joan Baez sing on South Street-Settled into hypnotic fantasies. We shuffled and moved all the pieces around and landed in abodes, That are all too bourgeoisie for men who endure too much for too little.   And then Al lost his Matt, his only boy, and evil stuck him hard- The Westboro Baptist Group, and this shaped Al into the strong Gay man who will carry this all through to the end. The Senate will hear the Case soon, and I’ve already told Al he has won in the trying- And for all this, what do the gods conspire? I learn just some twenty Minutes ago that you lay dying with three, maybe four, months to live. They ended Don’t Ask. Don’t tell today and I thought it was a good day For a warrior to die. It is not. It’s a sweet and sour day to die and I am one Drag-assed tired warrior. Let me at the gods so that I might take scalps, And just ride into war with my war paint on and let it be done. Let it be done!                           © 2010 by E.D. Ridgell The Lad in Red   Did you see his eyes, The lad in the red, the obliging comrade, With the sad, thousand year, old eyes? You say, he was high, some drunken guy- The lad in the red, the obliging comrade; A Romanian hooligan, gone bad, With his, sleepy, sleazy, baggy eyes. Funny those eyes, staring at me via a camera, Begging I name his anonymity- The lad in red, the obliging comrade, A simple, austere, lad with Jesus eyes.   E. D. Ridgell...for the Bucharest Boy!
Wikipedia-Federico Lorca Lorca censorship Sarah   She was the wrong side of sincere, Shrewd, slick, bearing gifts, She caught me off-guard, So personable seemingly sharing.   So, the thing was, She didn't know then and doesn't know now, Simply that people who will be free Sing songs outside her silly sensibilities, Suspecting not to become Suspects in some grand drama, Solely the seed of her own paranoid, prudish thinking.   She was insincere, Self-serving despite a contriving to seem familiar; Selfish enough to pull strings even at a second coming; Sabotaging what was obvious to her your Speaking in opposites at an inopportune time- Sorely hurting an innocent, unknowing person- Shape-shifting in the background.   Smith Island simpleminded was I. Still the same Shrew was she!                                        © 2011 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	Weeding Tyre Survering his garden, He spied wilting, And from a safe shed- Returning, Wielding the surety Of a sledge hammer, Wrought of steel, He slugged to slay the sickly And wanton weeds That thought themselves So safe in Tyre. © 2011 by E.D. Ridgell
copyright Color Purple Google Images A special thanks to Whoopi Goldberg who With her ‘bat joke', reminded me, that words like books Must never be burned. EDR "By and By They fetched the niggers in and had prayers,"- And when those that came; family, friends, fagots, Romans, Had finished with a final, feigned rite they had figured for me, That was that, and done, and I thanked them, Presently, in this lyric-like thing of mine. Then, my beloved ones, you must conspire one last time, If you please, for me, for us, for what was and is no more. See! 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 Green, and Another, down the Palace yard from the other end. Broadcast me far and wide. Have some fun with me. Be merry, For merry I'll be rooting through the fallen catalpa pods And green grass in hopes of coupling once again. "You gotta give them hope", you know! Bless you and keep you, and remember, if you please, The mortal are here but a short while, so try to be happy. Know that I am there with you, circumjacent, hovering around you, The bird on the wing, a breeze of windswept memory, Come and gone, waiting. © 2011 by E.D. Ridgell	Allyson Greer Koda with the hand on her hip   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                               Besses    Heralding down spring  Hooves from court brought hard news of  Wilting English rose;      Tudor’s demise, Bess bestow      ‘Fore closing her golden gaze.    On that long winter  Women wagged worrisome  ‘Tween sundry weak men.      When with summary thoughts left      Memories of axe and fire.    Came summer’s reigning  Company of divers men  Hunting and whoring,      Until she victorious      In death ushered a fall.   With time a new House, And then another Much Change married to no change,      The New World takes the best      And leaves the rest to stand the time.      Every season  Men thought only to war on  Lovely fields in France.      Again pray a Bess bequeaths      Her anni mirabiles.                                                                                     © 2010 E.D. Ridgell   http://www.britroyals.com/