Brian Rihlmann writes

WHAT DRIVES YOU MAD

what drives you mad
isn’t the people
or the world as it is
it’s the you in your head
the one you’ll never be

it’s like attempting a facsimile 
of a portrait 
painted by a great master
you stare at it
as your brush follows the lines
the curves...

but when you’re finished
and lay your canvas
side by side
with the original 

all you can do is scream
tear it to pieces
and start over
again
and again

Brian Rihlmann writes

THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA AND THE SPLINTER

in a small cave
an old man sits on a tarp
staring at the sea
his backpack
and a rolled up sleeping bag 
nearby

from the beach below
I wave
but he just stares at me
he knows too much
to wave back

further down
small stacks of polished stones
stand precariously 
along the shore
placed with patient fingers

is this his art?
his way of leaving his mark
upon things?

in the morning fog
the wooden houses 
of the town sag
old pickup trucks rust
while the lilies bloom

none will endure
not the stacks 
not the houses or the trucks
not the lilies or the old man, or....

obvious, but still—
It’s the damndest thing...
you just can’t believe it

not when eternity stabs at us
with every footstep 
like a deep, embedded
splinter

Brian Rihlmann writes

AN EXTRA BREATH 

As we talked and laughed
while sitting on a riverside bench,
you reached toward me,
and with your fingernail
tore a tangled spider web
from between the slats,
freeing a little grey moth
caught there,
beating frantic wings.

It perched on your finger
for a moment,
until you held it aloft
and gently blew.

You smiled as it flew,
and I breathed 
an extra breath
as something in me
soared.

Brian Rihlmann writes

NOT SO SECRET ANYMORE

i may shake my head
sadly
when speaking of
"the others"
wandering around
colliding in the darkness
outside my circle of illumination

but i am secretly
clapping my hands
while basking
in my own spotlight

and booby trapping
the perimeter
of its glow

Brian Rihlmann writes

IT MAY BE

it may be

that all it takes
is enough time locked up

inside the padded cell
of yourself

peering through
a narrow window
with chicken wire

to become as a soldier
huddled in a foxhole
while bullets rip the air

or a child covering her eyes
as floorboards creak
and a shadow darkens
the light under the door

Self-Portrait in Foxhole -- Howard Cook