October 2015
I started reading and writing poetry as a teenager. Growing up in Southern California with few friends or a sense of community, I found solace in the power of the written word. I have since found community with my fellow writers, and I am grateful to remain involved. Recent work of mine has appeared or is forthcoming in Chiron Review, Nerve Cowboy, BIG HAMMER and San Pedro River Review, among other journals that have been very generous and supportive of my growth as a poet and writer.
Her Dead Husband's Ashes
She had told me about them,
where she stored them, and
I was perfectly fine with having
him around. She had been gone
for several days before I finally
opened the drawer and pulled
out the cardboard box that I
opened and there he was, a
pile of gray sand I had heard
so much about in her colorful
stories that I got nervous as
I said hello and introduced
myself. I was lonely, and he
completely understood. He
asked me for something to
drink so I got us some beers.
We laughed and talked until
sunrise. I got emotional about
her and he cheered me up by
letting me sort through him in
search of his remaining teeth.
All was going well with us
bachelors until the day the
Neptune Society came and
took him away to be scattered
like all the other people I get
too close to.
-originally published by Cultural Weekly
Editor's Note:
"Her Dead Husband's Ashes" recently won second place in The Third Annual Jack Grapes Poetry Prize. Congratulations Kevin!
The President of my Fan Club
I was waiting on a bench
at a suburban library for my
girlfriend to join me for an
afternoon reading magazines.
While I was sitting there,
a group of developmentally
disabled people and their aides
descended upon me and my
paperback of Anthony Burgess
dystopian literature. A diminutive
girl who let out earth-shattering
howls and one-word exclamations
sat right beside me and began to
slowly pet my long blonde hair,
murmuring “pretty” every few
seconds, as I calmly thanked her
and the aide asked me if I minded.
I politely said “no” as my admirer
lavished me with attention.
I whispered Warren Zevon lyrics
to her, and that crooked smile
grew wider with each deafening
wail as people dropped overdue
books through metal slots,
trying not to look.
-originally published by Chiron Review
When Grandma Met Elvis
a photograph
sits on the
fireplace mantel
her proud smile
beneath her
perm standing
side by side
with Elvis
holding a
microphone
his mouth agape
frozen in time
she glanced
at it every
afternoon
and insisted
that The King
was a gentleman
and that they had
such a lovely time
together,
regardless of
the large sign
behind them
that read
MOVIELAND WAX MUSEUM
-originally published by The Weekenders
©2015 Kevin Ridgeway