No Need for Mixed Media,
...Lorca and Dali,
juxtaposed Salvador and so many more--
irrational-- before that last master, Rodriguez,
befog the mind’s eye
as I dare comparisons,
pugnacious and allied in this rebellion
the too-straight shooters
marching out of the borguoisie.
on my reckoned turnstile,
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
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
Gods, Come Out
I dropped into the meeting,
A hot house tomato,
Not for any slipping but needing picking,
Ripe on the vine for
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.
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,
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
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.
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,
in the red, the obliging comrade,
With the sad,
thousand year, old eyes?
You say, he was high, some drunken
The lad in the red, the obliging comrade;
A Romanian hooligan, gone bad,
With his, sleepy, sleazy, baggy eyes.
eyes, staring at me via a camera,
Begging I name
The lad in red, the obliging comrade,
A simple, austere, lad with Jesus eyes.
E. D. Ridgell...for the Bucharest Boy!
She was the wrong side of sincere,
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,
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;
enough to pull strings even at a second coming;
was obvious to her your
Speaking in opposites at an inopportune
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,
I feel like a tumbleweed. It was always so, you know,
And I regret that more did not know me very well,
never did but bark, with never any intention to bite.
All my preoccupations I followed through so as never to
the dove, and I always did and will favor the weak
And sorely used. I spent half my life just furrowing me out,
to love what I could not fully feel by the mores and
Cruel messages of this confusing world that assured me
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.
no longer eludes me. He never did really, but for the
Smoke and pollution that evil puffs out and all about.
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 TyreSurvering his garden,
He spied wilting,
And from a safe shed-
to slay the sickly
safe in Tyre.
2011 by E.D. Ridgell
|copyright Color Purple
|A special thanks to Whoopi Goldberg who
With her ‘bat joke', reminded
me, that words like books
Must never be burned. EDR
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,
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
It was half a century before I noticed it;
I think it was in one of those
I cherish so much, the ones that will most likely be
Chucked out at my death by happenstance,
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.
the worn photo of Grammy her arm raised and aware
Accepting some Veteran's award
From a uniform beneath the
In front of that nursing home of hers for dry docked old seaman.
In my mind's eye I can still see her
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
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
Heralding down spring
Hooves from court brought hard news of
Wilting English rose;
demise, Bess bestow
‘Fore closing her golden gaze.
On that long winter
Women wagged worrisome
‘Tween sundry weak
When with summary thoughts left
Memories of axe and fire.
of divers men
Until she victorious
In death ushered a fall.
With time a new House,
And then another
Change married to no change,
The New World takes the best
And leaves the rest to stand the time.
Men thought only to war on
Lovely fields in France.
Again pray a Bess bequeaths
© 2010 E.D. Ridgell