November 2017
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.
Winged Delivery
one night during the autumn following
my parents' wedding, they were both
startled awake by a piercing tap at their
bedroom window that they opened to
find the stork carrying me in a basket.
my dad said that stork was absolutely
delicious, adding that there were plenty
of leftovers he made sandwiches with.
Originally Published in Right Hand Pointing
Down Near Pitkin's Farm
we were lost, so we decided to get off
the road and drove into a clearing we
recognized from a previous beer bash and
inside the electric bath of the car’s twin headlights
stood an enormous bull moose with antlers far
more brilliant than any art class attempt at
sculpture we’d seen, his funky brown asparagus
legs supporting a long torso that extended
high above our car, whose good breaks saved us from
having all of that beauty slaughter our awkwardness,
but it safely and nonchalantly wandered off into
the darkness while we hyperventilated and fogged
the windows with exclamations using words
that did not exist.
we pulled back onto the road in search of the small
campus inside whose dorms we hid from the winter
weather, our parents, the jazz ensemble concerts
and a surrounding wilderness with creatures that
were even stranger than us.
Originally Published in San Pedro River Review
Therapy Reject
I lied to my fourth therapist,
telling her all of my bogus
achievements while she jotted
them down on a pad in her lap,
hoping that she couldn't smell
the Schnapps on my breath or
catch me while I admired her
legs during my feeble attempts
to lie to her about my ongoing
drug use so I could remain
her "favorite patient" because
I had finished some college
where I had failed to learn
how to be a good liar. She
booked an appointment for
the following week that I
would be too hung over to
attend, let alone cancel.
One of the receptionists
walked in on my desperate
attempts at masturbation in
the lobby bathroom in order
to let me know the patient
van had arrived to drive me
and all the other impotent
losers home, or at least to
a quiet place where I could
feel suicidal until I bored
myself into a fourteen hour
coma of too many nightmares
and not enough dreams ready
to come true until I was
ready to come true.
Originally Published by Drunk Monkeys
Winged Delivery
one night during the autumn following
my parents' wedding, they were both
startled awake by a piercing tap at their
bedroom window that they opened to
find the stork carrying me in a basket.
my dad said that stork was absolutely
delicious, adding that there were plenty
of leftovers he made sandwiches with.
Originally Published in Right Hand Pointing
Down Near Pitkin's Farm
we were lost, so we decided to get off
the road and drove into a clearing we
recognized from a previous beer bash and
inside the electric bath of the car’s twin headlights
stood an enormous bull moose with antlers far
more brilliant than any art class attempt at
sculpture we’d seen, his funky brown asparagus
legs supporting a long torso that extended
high above our car, whose good breaks saved us from
having all of that beauty slaughter our awkwardness,
but it safely and nonchalantly wandered off into
the darkness while we hyperventilated and fogged
the windows with exclamations using words
that did not exist.
we pulled back onto the road in search of the small
campus inside whose dorms we hid from the winter
weather, our parents, the jazz ensemble concerts
and a surrounding wilderness with creatures that
were even stranger than us.
Originally Published in San Pedro River Review
Therapy Reject
I lied to my fourth therapist,
telling her all of my bogus
achievements while she jotted
them down on a pad in her lap,
hoping that she couldn't smell
the Schnapps on my breath or
catch me while I admired her
legs during my feeble attempts
to lie to her about my ongoing
drug use so I could remain
her "favorite patient" because
I had finished some college
where I had failed to learn
how to be a good liar. She
booked an appointment for
the following week that I
would be too hung over to
attend, let alone cancel.
One of the receptionists
walked in on my desperate
attempts at masturbation in
the lobby bathroom in order
to let me know the patient
van had arrived to drive me
and all the other impotent
losers home, or at least to
a quiet place where I could
feel suicidal until I bored
myself into a fourteen hour
coma of too many nightmares
and not enough dreams ready
to come true until I was
ready to come true.
Originally Published by Drunk Monkeys
©2017 Kevin Ridgeway
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF