ANYTHING BUT THIS
I’d rather be anything
but this oak tree—
a gnarled old thing, half-rotted
nothing but layers of secrets
wrapped in secrets
awaiting the blade
and revelation
years of sickness
years of drought or infestation
carved initials inside hearts
now returned to the soil
barbed wire absorbed
rusty nails embedded in its flesh
deep—a black layer
fire scars concealed yet remembered
and above, last year’s withered leaves
still cling to the branches
and hiss when the wind blows
the dead, once more
speak louder than the living
THE WRETCHED GAP
my earplugs are in
so I don’t hear him
don’t notice as he
sits at the other end
of the long table
until I feel the vibrations
across 8 feet of hardwood—
the pounding of his middle fingers
on the keys
like angry little fists
I stare until he
looks up, then away
continues to pound
he either does
or doesn’t understand
what the look is about
I clench my jaw
against the words
kicking the backs
of my teeth
and try to work
try to finish the poem
I’m writing
a hundred times a day
I’m called to reconcile
what I’d like to do
with what’s socially acceptable
but there’s no reconciling them—
I can only squirm
in this wretched gap
where I live
THE REAL POEM
life is the real poem
but it moves
way too fast
and the nets
of our eyes
are full of holes
and so—
we must
slow...
it...
down.
with words
with lines
like these
lines like photographs
of lightening bolts
of leopards in pursuit
of lovers on a beach somewhere
swathed in the fading light
of a tangerine sun
Brian Rihlmann was born in New Jersey and currently resides in Reno, Nevada. He writes free verse poetry, and has been published in The Blue Nib, The American Journal of Poetry, Cajun Mutt Press, The Rye Whiskey Review, and others. His first poetry collection, “Ordinary Trauma,” (2019) was published by Alien Buddha Press.
