May 2018
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.
Darci Lynn Ridgeway (April 8, 1954-September 5, 2015)
Her Son's Muse
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My mother was a singing prodigy who gave up her passion to raise two sons. She was a very supportive force in my life and encouraged me to pursue my art. These poems are among several I have written about her, before and after her passing on September 5, 2015. Only one of them was written after her passing--she was a major catalyst in the birth of the other two poems, and she got a kick out of being a part of her son's creative process. She dared me to write a poem about the discomforts of an adolescent dragged to go lingerie shopping with Mom, and she realized just how twisted I could be with a poem like "Two Dimensional Lovers" or the deadly comic imagery of "Swap Meet Odysseus". I really called her on her birthday on April 8, 2016. And I heard that powerful voice one last time. Dozens of poems have followed, but my mother was large, she contained multitudes. She was a ball of fire, a wild card in our family and I am so proud to be her son. She took care of everyone and lived life fully, creatively, passionately and fearlessly. The Queen is dead; long live the Queen.
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APRIL 8, 2016
I dialed the same phone number
listed in the white pages when
I was a kid, the same one that
I used as an adult and needed
to get bailed out of my usual
cross country trouble. We had
just emptied the house and
put it on the market, but she
still answered in that same old
teaser of an answering machine
message, sorry we're not here
but leave your name, number
and we'll get back to you, okay?
The first time I'd heard her
voice since she died.
I whispered her a happy birthday
and began the rest of a life filled
by her echoes against the walls
of my mind as it listens to her
endless silence.
Originally Published in Gravel Magazine
Two Dimensional Lovers
my mother had to look at every item on
sale at every department store we went
into and she always made these bargain
hunts ten times worse when she dragged
me into the forbidden aisles of the lingerie
department filled with women as they held
up their potential unmentionables that I ran
into, trying not to look at them, but that
changed with puberty when I even gawked
at the scantily clad headless mannequins
and, wearing only a skimpy black lace
negligee and gazing down lustfully at me
from her massive fading Montgomery Ward
poster advertisement was my sweetheart
that I secretly called Sharlena, her never
ending smile making out with me when I
saw the shell shocked faces of other sons,
frightened refugees smoked out of their
cavernous mall video arcade hideouts,
and the heartbreaking day came when they
replaced Sharlena with a homely woman
modeling a bra that was first introduced
at the 1939 World's Fair and I was unable
to track down my captive Sharlena before
wrecking balls shattered through that
confusing land of cup sizes, peek a boo
nighties and support hose that cried
pervert at me for peeping before I had
grown old, dirty and creepy enough to
get arrested for still hanging around
women's lingerie departments and when
security asks me what the hell I think I'm
doing, I'll tell them I'm waiting for
Sharlena.
Originally Appeared in Whiskey Fish Review
Swap Meet Odysseus
every Saturday they would
build a city of sunken tents
in an abandoned drive-in
theatre whose blank screens
played sun damaged ghost
reels that I watched while
my mother haggled over
brand name rip-offs with
hungover amateur salesman
who didn't speak English
until she realized that I was
missing, clasping the hand
of her Mexican lookalike at
a neighboring wagon of
black market stink that
I tried not to inhale in my
desperation to find her on
the opposite end of that
earthquake ravaged parking
lot in a tent housing spoiled
perfume, oversized leftover
Dukakis-Bentsen '88 t-shirts
and a steaming crater of
Teddy Bear amputees, their
eyes pleading with me to
save them all from their
inevitable dumpster doom.
Originally Appeared in Dryland
©2018 Kevin Ridgeway
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