Biography of Ronald Koertge
Ron Koertge was born in Olney, Illinois, April 22, 1940
Ronald Koertge is the author of poetry collections like Dairy Cows, Life on the Edge of the Continent: Selected Poems, and Making Love to Roget’s Wife (University of Arkansas Press).
He has also written a novel, The Boogeyman, a lot of young adult novels, including Arizona Kid, Mariposa Blues, Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright, and Confess-O-Rama.
Koertge recently retired from Pasadena City College after 37 years of teaching.
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Ronald Koertge Poems
An Infinite Number Of Monkeys
After all the Shakespeare, the book of poems they type is the saddest in history.
They were never handsome and often came with a hormone imbalance manifested by corpulence, a yodel of a voice or ears big as kidneys.
In the airport bar, I tell my mother not to worry. No one ever tripped and fell into the San Andreas Fault. But as she dabs at her dry eyes, I remember those old movies where the earth does open.
goes by at 1:00 a.m. two nights of the week. I can hear the feather whoosh of his machine and see one red light.
Walking toward the library, I pass three children staring down at a dead crow and daring each other
When the Lexus hit that pigeon, he lay there beating his one good wing against the curb
When I come in, my mechanic is eating lunch. He doesn't look over the top
The Trojan Pony
It is small, holds only a few boys and girls and smells like graham crackers inside.
Delores Del Rio takes a walking tour of my body. Unlike most vagabonds
Poetry Begins In Delight
"That panting on the wall" really was the most interesting line
Poets Vs. Wildcats
Coach entreats us to control the clock. But how can one not ponder "time's winged
Little Morning Seranade
Bamboo shoots in a blue pot, tea steeping in a tall cup with painted koi on the side.
Traditionally, Gaspar, Melchoir and Balthasar show up with their exotic gifts, though the Bible
Burning The Book
The anthology of love poems I bought for a quarter is brittle, anyway, and comes
goes by at 1:00 a.m. two nights of the week. I can
hear the feather whoosh of his machine and see
one red light.
I believe that the streetsweeper lives alone,
through the cold days, waking clear-eyed and deft
as the sun goes down.