R A W Poems R.M. Engelhardt Now Available On Amazon Kindle


The Kindle Version of my new book R A W

*Paperback Version Coming Soon!*

Get Your Kindle Version Now!




RAW anger initiated by those who embrace
racism, prejudice & hate .

RAW humor and honesty, odes to icons as human beings.
And the RAW deception of political failures destroying our world as we speak.

RAW POETRY No cliches. No punches held back.

RAW imagery swept up in the mourning of our times.

This is RAW . This is POETRY. This is a DECLARATION

Of WAR and a verbally destructive threat, a manifesto to those who would annihilate freedom
and democracy in these days of idiots & insincerity.

This isn’t just a book about political poems but about
poetry & life itself.


Published By DEAD MAN’S PRESS INK 2023

R.M. Engelhardt is an American Poet, Writer & Author who over the last 30 some years has   published several books of poetry including Where There Is No Vision, Coffee Ass Blues & Other Poems, The Last Cigarette: The Collected Poems of R.M. Engelhardt, The Resurrection Waltz, Dark Lands and others. Through his ideas and visions he has helped to create a large amount of the Upstate/Albany, NY spoken word~poetry scene and is the former host of the long running “The School of Night”  An Open Forum-Mic For All Poets in the late 1990’s/Early 2000’s and now hosts the “Invocation of The Muse” Spoken Word Poetry Event Monthly in downtown Albany NY.  He is also the creator of the “School of Night Newsletter” which supports the Spiritual, Pagan-Wiccan community as well as being the Editor of the independent small poetry press DeadMansPressInk which publishes, promotes and helps writers & poets to put their unique work out into the world with a concentration on Pagan Poetics & experimental literature.

His work has been published by such journals as Retort, Red Fez, Rusty Truck, Sure! The Charles Bukowski Newsletter, Thunder Sandwich, Fashion For Collapse, 2nd Avenue, The Angry Poet, Winedrunk Sidewalk, Full of Crow, The Outlaw Poetry Network, The Rye Whiskey Review, Fishbowl Poetry Press, The Black Shamrock,  Trailer Park Quarterly, Spillwords, Dumpster Fire Press,  Punk Noir Magazine & in many others. The original founder of the group Albany Poets.Org (Now a part of The HVWG) and the creator of The Albany WordFest he currently lives in Upstate NY where he writes and lives with wife poet/writer/artist Kali who is a writer, photographer & artist.

*His new books of poetry are entitled “We Rise Like Smoke” Poems, Psalms & Incantations 2021 & “Of Spirit, Ash & Bone” Poems*Parables 2022 now both available on Amazon as well as his previous books, ” Darklands” 2019 & ” The Resurrection Waltz” 2012.

Literary agent: 

Dead Man’s Press Ink, Albany NY

Night Walking


We get lonely

We feel alone

It doesn’t really matter
In a world of a billion people
More than that inhabiting
The earth

It’s just a matter
Of the dark

And the light

We walk through
Cities & crowded
Streets but all these
People are strangers

You can get a drink
At the bar or just
Look into the eyes
Of passerbys

All with the same expression

Something missing
Within their souls
Their hearts

Or damaged

Homeless or

There’s something

There’s always
Something missing

Which no one
Even the people
Who walk these

Even explain

Like a hole torn
In the fabric of

So we wander
Walk at night

Looking for


~ R.M. Engelhardt

A Good Poem Or Poet …

A good poem or poet
is like a good cigar or a
good whiskey. Everyone
Has their own preferences.

~ R.M. Engelhardt ©2023

I Am The Door …

Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s “Populist Manifesto No. 1.”

Poets, come out of your closets. Open your windows. Open your doors. You’ve been holed up too long. No time now for our little literary games. No time now for our paranoias and hypochondrias. No time now for fear and loathing. Time now only for light and love. Poets, descend to the street of the world once more and open your minds and eyes. Clear your throat and speak up.

Poetry is dead. Long live poetry. Don’t wait for the revolution, or it’ll happen without you. Poetry, the common carrier for the transportation of the public to higher places. Poetry still falls from the skies into our streets still open. They haven’t put up the barricades yet, the streets still alive with faces, lovely men and women still walking their lovely creatures everywhere. In the eyes of all, the secret of all still buried there. Whitman’s wild children still sleeping there. Awake and walk in the open air.

Long Live Poetry

On T.S. Elliot & The Death of Poetry. Another Opinion – R.M. Engelhardt

So apparently this article has been moving around a bit in Facebook groups. The writer is not the first to coin the term ” Poetry is Dead” or for that matter the poetic viewpoint that T.S. Elliot was the game changer. What is your idealism or belief? This is not so much a critique as merely a viewpoint ( *please read first). To me, as a poet his viewpoint is interesting but what he has seriously forgotten is that Elliot wrote Wasteland in a drastically changed world only a few short years after WW1. Hence why the poem & title “The Wasteland”

I see Elliot’s poems as the new siren, the almost near dead, broken muse attempting to somehow comprehend a vast amount of death & destruction in a new world trying to recover 100 years ago. This was the very beginning of our times. A fearful world which now after 2 world wars and the fear of possible nuclear war which we were born into. The old world of our humanity & our full relationship to the natural world disappeared in the fire. The constant is again the word ” Fear” which we still live with in our subconscious every single day. So it is of little imagining as to why we are poets of politics & protest, dark, brooding rebellion and of end times. Eliot was just the first victim grappling with this destitute reaction to a nightmare made reality and its horrors.

Simply put? The event of World War, destruction & the death of thousands was merely a razorblade cutting into the poet’s soul and the realization that we would all never be whole or the same ever again.

We are still broken.

We just don’t realize it.

~ R.M. Engelhardt

On T.S. Elliot & The Death of Poetry.

R.M. Engelhardt & The Notorious Coffee Quote Scandal

My Quote Has Been Shared All Over Creation Since 1994 Because, Well, I’m A Coffee Addict

Damn. ( I’m laughing at the obvious)

And I mean this humorously but:

Generally I’m an open minded writer and I support new and upcoming writers but If I had single dollar for every time someone ripped off my famous 1994 coffee quote I’d be a billionaire by now. I’ve seen it switched around, I’ve seen it turned into (gag) tea etc.boring, gross, lines stolen and thrown in without the smokes blah blah blah

Will someone please tell these idiots to create their own damn words and learn to write? I’m tired of seeing my words unravelled by dim-wits who think they’re being clever( See said inferior plagiarized quote below. No author on Google found or mentioned) Found this ” gem” on Facebook … Twice!


Go buy your own damn coffee.
This one’s mine.

And always shall be.

~R.M. Engelhardt. Writer (And Coffee Addict)

Said Inferior ” Rip Off” Coffee Quote Above

Rainy Days” my Ass (Yawn)

~ R.M. Engelhardt ©2023

2023 A New Year

As the old year fades away

I dream of a far off day

Where we all contain the humanity

To mend & change our ways

Let greed make way for charity

Let hate make way for understanding

And let these two wrongs to others disappear

And as the old year fades away

Let our world begin again anew, awake

A better place without malice
A better world without disease

This future time
This future place
All depends upon


~ R.M. Engelhardt ©


It’s going to be a great year of change, poetry, writing & events. My small press Dead Man’s Press Ink will be publishing new work by poets and hosting events such as our monthly poetry open mic INVOCATION OF THE MUSE POETRY OPEN MIC at Lark Hall here in Albany NY as well as a new non poetry event at the Fuzebox Nightclub called PROHIBITION 1923.

Also? I’m working on my next book!

Have a Happy New Year!

~ R.M. Engelhardt

2023 R.M. Engelhardt

The Lost Poems From Nod. R.M. Engelhardt 2003

Twenty years ago I wrote a chapbook called Nod. 2003. These were some poems based on the experimental style of EE Cummings & George Oppen Many of the poems were published on now long gone poetry journal internet sites and as we know many online journals don’t last forever. Here are a few poems. Hope that you enjoy them.

~ R.M. Engelhardt



If I can’t find the meaning well then at least I’ve found you
And that being that is much more than ever being and much
More than ever merely needing a touch, a voice, a word or a
Feeling, something to be or not to …


There I’ve done it again!

Hyper and not hedroglossia!

Too many words asking me to listen
Too many voices only mine repeating
Being two when I’m with you when this elusive thing they call time stands still and these days of our lives are suddenly & distinctly becoming entangled
Moving much too fast for even Captain Zoom & his paisley rocket ship to fathom
And sleeping beneath these quiet dreams of unspokeness
And hearing all of these voices at once and yet, at times being so alone.

So I guess this is what they call hedroglossia,
The wanting of a voice now gone, the hearing of a song
The fear of not knowing possibly what belongs In these arms of poetry and dusk.


(oh no Jock Cousteau, please help me salvage this heart.) because she who thinks she knows who thinks she knows knows nothing.
says so long because his song has been sung. (and being a wreck, invisible)
he sinks, drinks her false fear un-emotion and her ice cold seas into oblivion
and sends out one last beacon for her in the night
that she will never answer.

and lost at sea even she knows that he cannot comeback from the dead.
for it was she who sunk the ship before it could even reach its destination

Crea en el amor y en yo¶ll siempre cree en usted


Better to feel
          (Than be)
Blood rushes thru veins
And the heart beats,
Only one-day to complete its duty
While eventually earth and gods shall all come
Crashing down
And kingdoms & civilizations fade.
And so please, I ask you only this;
That when I leave to let me take these
Few things with me;
The moon, the sun and the stars,
And the small traces of light which
Once reflected in your eyes
That I can no longer see


So what do you know about What is or is not to be?
(Hmmm … perhaps it is we)
Moving, living and struggling as if we think the very existence of the universe depends upon these things
But the universe (dam dark void)
Will be quite fine without us
&  our  ³Feelings´

Poor universe
And without love
Sadder still for not
Knowing what it wants
Or what its here for


Yours is a beauty of monstrous pro-
Portions with the world
Spinning randomly into
Oblivion where the leaves are all
Dying all of the time off of the trees,
Where  misery makes its way into every small tissue stealing.

Yours is a world where
Beauty has fled and has left town
For greener pastures, has drowned its-
Self into the sea of angst & tears and
Has mixed its-self with alcohol &
Cigarettes, sad poems and
Indiscriminate men & women who
Already know that beauty has left
The scene,

(And they no longer care to find her)

And yet it is good that beauty has
Finally found you and that beauty is not

But was only merely sleeping

On the sofa of your dreams

She said;

³If you ever tell me that you love me I’m afraid that I’ll have to leave.´  

So not wanting to ever lose her he bent down, got close and softly whispered   in her ear;

                     ³Lust … .Lust …Lust´ 


Buddhist hope cow.com of love transcending the  dialect of     
gloss & loss & gloom to the mysterious mysticism of the time  machine

                                               of  ³when?´
             Oh how I love thee, mammals of flesh and blood and candy.             Let me count the innocent waves, the waves of psychotic           
              emotion, measure my ass for caps and my heart for meaning                                
(And please; screen my phone calls for truths, religions, promises & AIDS.)

  For selective in our service we the
  brave and the free will send out our hippie-bred children into the 
  Man swarm and the cities of their destinies, their lives as  
  Instantaneous as eighteen-year-old twinkies and our reasons   as contrived as an
oily eagle
         Captain Zoom may send you to your doom as happy as a       
           rectal thermometer but the smiling mortician man grim will       
             dress you up in green who spills & spells out
                                        F R E E D O M     
                                    with a capital


Alone in a room with-
                                               Out you is alone, alone                                                 Without you is alone.
                                                             Alone without you is like
                                                             The moon without the stars,
                                                             The world without the sun                                                           
                                                               Shining upon it.
                                                 Good days or bad
                                                 With you I’m never sad
                                                 But without you in a          
                                                                                        Room I’m alone.


There are certain things  I know don’t  know, feel don’t  feel & see don’t see.

I am a blind
Man with the near
And the far, I am a
Baby bat that grasps
And squeaks to all
Things sad & mean all
Past & future present past
In the worship of your heart.

Sacred life of words
Unspoken by man
Knowing truth
Is truth.

*All poems From The KotaPress Anthology  2003
R.M. Engelhardt ©



Some day
One day
You won’t reach out
For fame
Because it doesn’t
Exist never existed
Never came or stayed
or ever paid
The rent


Or real

Or yours

Or was ever

Like words

And then?

Sometime off
In a near distant future place you
Will find yourself standing up
On a stage older

And under the lights

All alone

Empty & Vacant
Like all the stars
You once dreamed of or
Wrote about

Yet still comparing
Yourself to all the
“Famous Ones” remembered & yet
Constantly complaining about how
Your genius wasn’t noticed &
Was over looked

By fools

As you wish to believe
You were a great part of history
The handful worth reading

When the truth is
Nobody & no one will
Even remember your name

In a month?
A decade or just a
Year from now?

And they won’t
Recall or remember
A single word you said
Or wrote

Finding that all
The mingling &
Sucking up and the fake
Didn’t get you very
Far in life

At all

And that this will
Be the sad day the infinite
Day of all days
And past

With no love
Soul or sentimentally


But perhaps?
The artist was wrong

And the lecture
Has ended

In your version

You believe that
Your handful of
Blind followers

Will think
That you have

Like Rimbaud
Or some other
Immortal legend

But instead
You’ll be found
In the drive thru

At McDonald’s


~ R.M. Engelhardt

© 2022