Two Poems by Harry Ricciardi

 

stalled

just like
foundering in the wake of an awesome
spectral sport fisher
the sails don’t fill
you have no way
the ocean isn’t yours
the water isn’t yours
it is like you are
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and moved by the instant follows
the shapes suggested
by everything else
the water shrugs
your boat tosses
the boom pulls the sheet across and bangs
it reverses again
and bangs
the pulse of a mighty engine recedes
it’s fine
the tyrannical
surface of the world has so many
indecipherable avenues

 

defining space

you leave me alone again
by the window
barely thinking
drinking oolong
i never beg you to show up
i never beg you to stay
mostly i just
let you know when i’m around
and when i’m here more
i make tea

 

Harry Ricciardi: These days I’m a sailor and a boatbuilder. But I grew up in suburban New Jersey.

Edward S. Gault is a poet and fine art photographer. He lives at Mosaic Commons, a co-housing community in Berlin, Ma. He has a wife Karen, and daughter.

 

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