Twain's House in Hartford Connecticutt A Jewel In Hartford's Crown She still bespeaks a commission for ingenuity. She is fancy and whimsical, dressed in Victorian Gothic, a rarity so like his imagination. Were the ceilings mark twain high? I didn't think to ask. The docent was intent on time, a metaphor himself, for the change in feelings wrought by death and time within this house gone homeless. She's long since fallen out of mode, her vistas ruined, replaced by things more recent and pressing to Hartford. He loved to gaze from her eyes but found this too distracting, when his pen raced its way across page after page. He mused instead in a windowless corner near a sunlit desk overlooking a beautiful, felt covered, cue table, sporting a gentlemanly manor. The girls were dear in those early years and liked to play with cherubs pawned from atop the bed's headboard. Many years later he'd die, his head wrong way round, so that he might gaze at these angels with their sad reflections. Invention placed ambition before caution, and she was lost. He was to lose so much more. Almost the last one standing, he bore on and on, while she fell into disrepair and he into despair. "...a time when one's spirit is subdued and sad, one knows not why; when the past seems a storm-swept desolation, life a vanity and a burden, and the future but a way to death." And so, first with Susy, then Olivia, and finally with Jean he hung on, waiting. Tenacious to the end he did precisely what he said he would. He came in with Haley's comet and he flew out on her fiery tail, seventy four years later, one of his nation's most beloved writers. Humorous and whimsical on the outside, serious within, He so complimented that beloved home that restored still stands today; waiting and warmly welcoming all, including me to a jewel in Hartford's crown.                                                                © 2008 by E.D. Ridgell Aquitaine and Pop Pop Allyson Greer I love you, too, my little Aquitaine, the first born, the bridge over the grief these five years, now, when then, your other grandfather, the better half my soul, left barely missing you; and I the other side of bereft beyond any need but wasting away; and she presented you to me to see there nestled in my arms the hint of another morning to beacon hope, and suggest a purpose for not just falling away. And, yesterday, in the midst of a family so recently blessed, yet again in such confusion at the tandem of change and time, you were there to say; “I love you, Pop-Pop. I miss you. When will you be back?” And, Oh my precious Aquitaine, know that I will never leave you, but will always be with you even if but a whisper to caress your pretty cheek with a gentle touch, the soft wind to remind you that Pop-Pop loves you, too, past all distance through all change beyond the silly seeming confines of time © 2005 E.D.Ridgell __________________________________________________________ Missin’ Billy Jim They lifted the little box and it seemed to weigh them down out of all portion to the weight they might have borned. It seemed strange to me seein’ that it should take four men to carry such a little thing no bigger then our toy chest. No one seemed happy or wantin’ to play and I didn’t understand the necessaries of lines than. My mother held my hand so tight I thought I’d done somethin’ wrong, plus Billy Jim still wasn’t back from wherever they’d said he’d gone. The parlor was usually off base ‘cept on Sunday after the grownups had finished in the big white buildin’ and my brother and I had snucked a swim. This was a long time ago and I’m already in the first grade, linin’ up every mornin’ at the bell a’wonderin’ when Billy Jims’ comin’ home. © 2007 by E.D. Ridgell ___________________________________________________________ I Think Back on Black I think back on black in this immediacy of my grief; that black one piece swim suit that so suited you. It was another meet won but it was not so much the triumph as the swim and your whooping at it. Just once I saw your breast stroke, practiced and particular, your pride. I observed the beauty of a crane, its wings waking the water, just before the tranquil stillness that signals its sinking into a settled rest. Vividly, etched now in my memory, I remember that day when you sent the others away after the normal morning swim. With reassuring words you conveyed this was my day of baptism; for the first time, I must duck my sandy,sun-bleached hair underwater. How patiently you urged me on; that little boy so hesitant and frightened, anxious to never let you down. We struggled through the morning, and with both of us triumphant you took me up to the summer house; you put me before the others for only the day; for favorites were not your way. Tonight, even in my grieving, I can still taste the salt-lick, salty Chesapeake as I think back on black. © 2007 by E.D.Ridgell ___________________________________________________________ Incidere Nos in Risus [Cut Us in Laughter] January 1,2008 “Well, what family doesn't have its ups and downs?”…an actor’s cliché or the spirit that is your bloodline?- like Bacchus’s wine, hackneyed humor dulls our pain. I know no line of the family, and it is my business to know the lines, that does not weave its history with weft lighter than it’s warp. I have watched you, Trissa Tatiana, this last year, mirror those reflections- our ancestors salve; practiced generation upon generation down through time, no less the generation that is mine. We’ve weathered many misfortune’s whims marred too much in woe than blessed in fortune with continuous deadpans of feigned wit, until in the end even we thought better of it than it really seemed. Christ, we’re good! “Christus vincit, Christus regnat, Christus triumphat” We survive it all and leave it in our dust for our children’s children to stroll upon under the shade of the Catalpa trees, and when that day comes when you spread me on the Palace Green recite my motto, if you please: “Licentia lemma in vos pulvis”. You make a father proud. You have done no wrong, and for that you win even in the losing of harmonious time to the tempest. Like Einhard, Eleanor, and William, that is in truth but the continuum of merging lines, you cut us in laughter. I, Edward, your father, have noted it here; with all the good humor and irony that makes a farce of our serious play. © 2008 by E.D. Ridgell Pic is the copyright of another.... Reactions of a Black Sheep to The Black Swan   Those rushes; Those waves breaking In emotive ejaculations- Lifelong bumps To the snap crackle pop Of some secondary addiction.   So passionate My cherry broke To the first stroke And I never looked back- I knew I was not normal, But in some pit Where escape would Never be wanted.   I came so close to failing, To not taking the bit And riding naked into the night On Equus in that search for Parnassus. I am indebted to their abuse Each and everyone, And for the kindness and empathy Of opposites!   “BOOM. BOOM. BOOM — The shock of every second Of still being alive!” I’m still here. I still live. I still feel them, Those rushes; Those waves breaking In emotive ejaculations- Lifelong bumps To the snap crackle and pop Of some secondary addiction.                        © 2011 by E.D. Ridgell   Hephaestion was the childhood friend of Alexander the Great, fellow student of Aristotle, and his principle confident as well as one of his generals for life. Labels before the Christian era regarding "straight" or "homosexual" are just not able to convey the entirely different sexual mores and attitudes towards sexual preference and practices between the two distinct times. Hephaestion was Alexander the Great's principle lover and only trusted confident throughout his life yet both took wives and begat children. Hephaestion's death shortly before Alexander's and the possible influences on Alexander afterwards is interesting enough to Google if history is your thing. The form of the poem is a ghazal.                      ************************* Switch hit! Broken, Bucephalus took the bit- no docile ass onward to switch hit. Salutations of twilling pages dare never a shrilly chord switch hit. The many intrigues and treasons thwarted- no other allegiances to accords switch hit. In years of endearment, heralding sentiments with sudden fell switch hit; fore contemplation so carefully, the subject, poor in degree, switch hit. And come the summons-genuflecting, a subject’s passion’s plea no switch hit. True loyalty on one knee, head bowed; supplicant portending the switch hit. He kills in His cups, but not this time. Not Hephaestion! Lay down switch hit! © 2008 by E.D. Ridgell	TOM 1944-1999 Lamenting Minds mingling Thoughts emerging Together wounded hearts seek sustenance in vigil waiting. Unraveling time keeps company death impending until sundering silence ushers in grief Intruding Going on not caring where into tedious rituals of living I lamenting mimic a beginning deftly masking no ending to loving you. © 2005 E.D.Ridgell ___________________________________________________________ The Last Lie In the last hours alone just you and I, finally, it was here, the rattle. I knew you were beyond pain. I hoped you could hear a last loving lie; “It’s alright to die I’ll be OK” E.D. Ridgell ___________________________________________________________ Here After The other side of an instant Nothing Anything not witnessed Lost Never was And so We paint rocks Tattoo trees Kodak moments Chisel monuments Dig and sift And pray © 2005 E.D.Ridgell __________________________________________________________ Anonymous I have known six generations now, and it is unlikely I will see many more. That is a long line with many to know- too many to meet. I am the scribe. I unravel lines while plaiting patterns. I hit walls. There are secrets to uncover; then scatter under the Catalpa trees left untold in the ashes of me. I know of heroes. I know of fools. I know many folk make family, all with stories that beget more. The spiders never cease spinning and their webs grow and grow. I am destined to lie in one, sticky melding. Who the next weaver may be, I do not know. I will cast the net far and wide in hopes to snag a curious, currycomb to groom the never shedding coat of shame and fame. I hope it makes the silver threads glow for you as they did for me. I was neither the first nor the last to reckon the snare of time, and you, fair, future kinsman will never tie the ends together. “Remember me”. Do not leave me hanging here, anonymous. © 2009 by E.D. Ridgell   Sylvia The Last Supper of Aunt Bee Andy finds her half in and half out of the oven, Pantyhose anything but askew. Her feet strew the floor One pointed left and the other heading right, In a proper perpendicular. A paisley dress of a floral barkcloth Testifies that it is a Sunday and that She keeps the faith. The organ Still resonates from this morning’s touch. Her violet-water perfume caresses the air Rising faintly above the scented gas. Atop a Maytag is supper’s faire, Half prepared. The table Is covered with worn linen cloth, Patterned in her favorite roses, Opening on gossamer buds. Beatrice is finished With all the tedious rituals Of sewing bees and church suppers. She leaves her reasons Folded perfectly in a kitchen towel Precisely falling with sides parallel, Hanging from a horizontal bar On a scrupably, scrubbed wall, Just above the impecably clean oven, On a rod far above a turned knob with its white line Ignoring the insistence of lines in the remaining three, And marking the last supper of Aunt Bee.                                                           © 2006 by E.D.Ridgell 1<object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NkOoZDK7Rz8?fs=1&amp;hl=en_US&amp;rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed Marmion When she died, I realized everything I did not know about her was gone with her, The intimate private things; Thoughts, passions, hurts, secrets- the pride she took In a polka dot dress still lingering there in a closeted box, Touches and scents meant for her alone, that excruciating Painful mess of it all at the end of both our bitter trials. It struck me, that baleful event Estranging me from you, Did not help to acquaint me with the real you. My mind’s reason forgave you but my heart was left hollow. They say death leaves a hole that can not be filled. Did that hole have to be in me? Why? Was I your only winking doll To stick those pins into. Seduced to be stabbed in the end- or was it the pain? It must have been so painful! When he died it was that time of passage, When I wanted to have some answers. No longer your pensioner and still divided from him I had become an island unto myself. I was island bound. I learned more about him after he was gone Than ever I had known when he was alive, But I dug deep this time. I searched his secrets out, Secrets you had known all the time. Did you use these as weapons- No, I know you did not. He would not be laid to rest next to you. Why?  Was it that other old man, that would be, could be, father of his that didn't quite jive. Even in death, the both of you taunt me. That family as far West as they can be, still remembers you, Idolizing your beauty. Over a half a century later You’re still a knockout in the browning photos and Hand-me-down memories. One sister still lives. Perhaps it’s no mistake that I’ve kept this single link unbroken. Perhaps yet, I can find the energy to dig deep again, Learn more about you now Than I ever knew when you were still alive, and thereby reckon the hurt more to one you loved most, I think, than not. Pain strikes out at what it can most still reach. I came to love and miss him. I’d like to go out loving and missing you, just a little more, Marmion- Mommy!                                                           © 2010 by E.D. Ridgell
Sunshine aka Little Sam Sunshine on My Shoulders My Sunshine, my little Leo, always sounding with laughter, shore your heart and follow your bliss to wherever you may wander and, should you ever suspect, you are abandoned and alone at one of life’s little hiccups, know this: it is not so. The circumjacent lights of all that came before, swirl about you, guardians and stewards moving through time, ties ever constant, lighting the way and mending any broken toys. Some are of that long shoe string that runs matrilineal through Lygon, a Major for a fair Mary, a Harris heralding from Crixee, lying in Henrico; then journeying still farther back in a same train to meander through Coeur de Lions and their forebears; and with still another string, my tie, moored to Poseidon with islands of strange names like Smith and Tangier, now mostly ghostly and no more. Add to these more threads woven of the Green Isle, patrilineal, and yet another of a greatly grandmother at the foot of the Alhauer Alps, all the diverging, divers, and sundry regions of an Old World entangling your spirit and soul, and, then, emulate the best and noblest of each. Be free of any fear of death knowing it is but a passing back into arms that are always waiting, reflections longing to enfold you once again, not the least and brightest mirrored in mine. I am Edward, son of the same, one of many watching wards who with gentle reminders, whispers on the air, brush your wispy hair. We, descended of forerunners, entwined in lines that bind us all in wakes parting in that honor and fidelity to family, are all of one accord in espousing all you do. Be a gentle man even if the times are not. Forsake all temptations that might temper what is noblest in you. Champion the less fortunate, succor the needy, and preserve what’s righteous and true. Stand up to tyranny, safeguard justice, and by your heritage be as a color blue; primary, mixed of no other colors that might lessen the beautiful attributes of your hue. Blue does not excuse you from the many responsibilities due, I am your grandfather. Know me and hear me in these words I ensue, though still here, child, circumfluent around you in a misty love stuffed in a toy box of temperate reminders to sue, and, although you can not see and touch it, encircles you still, many years since when with these few love laced lines, branching from the heart, I penned this little poem for you, my Sunshine, my little Leo. © 2007 E. D. Ridgell	Rudy Cowardly lion Kindly needy Sleepy head Echoing songs Soldier Hero Easy shot A Sahaab Sharing Autumn © 2005 E.D.Ridgell   Rudy served in Nam and is decorated for action under fire. So much for "Dont Ask. Don't Tell!" In Medias Res Of our many musings in medias res I miss those most at end of day When we nestled side by side With Kitty atop my lap Purring dreams of prey Would settle into silent unspoken close of day Now silence screams at me in such a way To harshly herald a costly price to pay For those innocent lost musings in medias res © 2005 E.D.Ridgell ___________________________________________________________ A Picture Perfect Day, Today. They’ve all left now, finally. I’ve only ever wanted to die alone free from the eyes and hands of strangers This is a home in which I am not at home. The doors swing silently and there are no locks save one. It is my last move, I know. I doubt I’ll need most things in those brown boxes they packed and labeled for me. Where has the white box gotten to, my pills and pictures? There it is over there. I’ll get it later, if I decide to play with my pills today, or maybe I’ll cut one or two in half to save for the future. I don’t want to look at pictures today, desperate attempts to recapture summary events slowly fading away. Someone just came in and left without saying a word to me. That’s OK. I’m feeling tired today, so busy disappearing. E. D. Ridgell ___________________________________________________________   Dry Goods Threadbare dry goods in a pine desk here bruised and folded in a blue mound, soldiering hats hanging on my heart I fear, like the camouflage cap in the shed at the rear, 'side dry hemlocks fainting pale flowers down. Threadbare dry goods in a pine desk here lie with dog tags cold to the touch and queer; these taps in a hewn box you found- soldiering hats hanging on my heart. I fear hallowed eyes of a prized bisque so dear spying trembling hands once wrapped around threadbare dry goods. In a pine desk here dungarees in the bottom drawer tease a tear worn from the company of years lying ‘round soldiering hats hanging on my heart I fear. Oh were it not so and love’s fate less clear, and I had nary a need for these to abound; threadbare dry goods in a pine box here soldiering hats hanging on my heart I fear. © 2006 E.D.Ridgell
Conti is a masculine form of pastel one of my favorite mediums Lurking © 2005 E.D.Ridgell [Conti on Paper]	Contact me at: er21120@gmail.com er21120@msn.com
Come the Mating Season,   the winds of autumn egg on, scents, smells: spice among the dried, standing stalks of jealous husks; vaporous fingers beaconing, come deeper into the wood. Dewy eyed does, innocent and alluring, perfuming the air, briefly taunt at the meadow’s edge, gesturing with their white flags- eager, atypically bold.   Stags snort the stages of the rut in the chilly, pre-dawn- eyes, blood shot circles with bulls-eyes, stalk even as they scrape and mark with glandular warnings their fiercely, guarded territory; wood, corn field, secluded meadowland- fields of battle to shame and tame the bucks.   Caution, no consideration; only the mounted delivery- estruses serviced, eager, so eager for the seed. The instinct to breed- the chaotic performing of rites; natural prescriptions of some source?   There is that encumbrance on all that is born. Everything living feeds off of something else living- one dying for the needs of the other, or just for being gotten caught out in the cycles that must turn just so. Death is prescribed and constant.   And so, that lowered guard, so uncharacteristic, becomes a hole spewing and spurting the life blood of any caught in the centered sites of the adamant. He dies, carcass flung, hung, and pieced per need or want, the morality of it dismissed as nothing more than the feigned, feminine mask of Eve.   Come the first season, if the last be not lethal, the, once again, cautious and retiring does deliver with a mystery as old as their lines, running back to the beginnings of time, their evolutionary results of some Big Bang, or simply the birthing of the little fawns of spring.                                      © 2008 by E.D. Ridgell	I'm the only one left in the group A Lonely Raker What will I do with these raked, pine needles this fall, that have been for some twenty years warm bedding for your geese through winter? How should I feel at this lonely raking, with its lumbering, one-handed bagging, as the shedding pines wag whispers; "Where is Lorraine?’\" Do I sense a gloating at left-lain bounty? Years ago with six rakes raking, we all were gleeful at the newly, gotten geese. There were needles enough bagged away, leaving overheard gloating rooting under our poaching of their acidic expectations. I remember a cold autumn’s day, when here we raked in the knowing fear of a premonitory, winter’s wake for our cancerous and chilliest raker. He offered small piles muddled with fallen colors, auspices to usher in the winning season; four rakes raking under pines reckoning. . Amidst sounds of raven’s caws in a stand of snotty pines, I am a lonely raker raking, amongst the taunting pines needling their haunting and wistful chorus, "Where is Lorraine?" © 2009 by E.D. Ridgell
I did this sometime in the Seventies...Conti on Paper	Again, Conti which is pretty much limited to these colors- Earthen Colors Landscape in Conte © 2005 E.D.R.
The Artist Sturgis an ancestor of mine on my Mom's side. Daddy’s a Real Live Artist And she just all of a sudden said, “Daddy, you’re a real live artist, aren’t you?” I just nodded yes. I didn’t know then it would be a test. Daddy can’t! Daddy won’t mimic a child’s hero! Art is more important you see Than some false front of me. I hope that you will weigh my “to be” With what some falsely see. I must be free and I’ll risk the fee- For Daddy is a real live artist, you see. Sown of Plantagenets And rough men of the sea You need no better pedigree. I hope you’ll still love me © 2005 E.D.Ridgell ___________________________________________________________	Tom and I early on A Sulpician Why was it you wanted a Sulpician, you, a Pole? But, then, you did not have time to explain this last rite, before falling into that antechamber dispassionate and in-between. I swear there was smoothness to it like Chivez Regal, that comradery at our meeting so immediate it needed no chaser. It was not some barroom, blood-brotherhood sealed with a boilermaker. I stood at the broken post of the four poster bed and pondered a scene as from Brideshead Revisited, trying to suppress tears deemed unmanly. Grief, the wood-walk on stilts through a mad void, was, with time, tempered folding in the feeling-stalks that grabbed at the sky just after your dirge. I was so bruised and burned, seared and scorched, at the cremation of that broad racked, well tined friendship, I forgot the bliss and history of it. Forgive a friend! When, You Thick-headed Pollack, my time comes, if time allows, I’ll call for a Sulpician to bestow forgiveness upon him before crossing over to box those Golabki ears. © 2007 by E.D. Ridgell ___________________________________________________________