Two Poems by Ricky Garni


I had nothing left to say to my family, my friends, my co-workers. Nothing left to say at all. Everything that I could say, I had already said.

And then I noticed a small ant crawling along the edge of the kitchen table, a table that was made of walnut. It occurred to me that if that ant came with a large colony of other ants, millions of ants, billions of ants, the table would collapse from the sheer weight of the large ant colony, the ants being so heavy, the table being so old, as old as my grandfather, now gone, who bought it many years ago in Manhattan when he was a young man, spry and filled with promise and at the outset of a great career.

And so I had something to say again. I turned to my friends and family and said:

“This table is made out of walnut.”

Why Do You Not Play the Cello

Because I am afraid of bows, of strings, of rosin, of rosin dust,
of spruce, of maple, of willow, of Brahms, of Pablo Casals, of
John F. Kennedy, of Fauré, of fifths, of 1660, of vibratos, of
glissandos, of wire and gut cores, of Good Vibrations and
Eleanor Rigby, of  Yo Yo Ma, of tangos, of things that tremble
that are not trees, of never eating peanut butter & jelly again
because it smears and stains, of dogs that bark when you are
trying to do something really important inside your room.

Ricky Garni
Ricky Garni

Ricky Garni was born in Miami, and raised in Florida and Maine. He works as a graphic designer by day, and writes music by night. His work is widely available in print, on the Web and in a number of anthologies, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize on six occasions.

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