Night Walking

NIGHT WALKING

Sometimes
We get lonely

Sometimes
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

Broken
Or damaged

Homeless or
Rich

There’s something
Missing

There’s always
Something missing

Which no one
Even the people
Who walk these
Streets

Can
Even explain

Like a hole torn
In the fabric of
Life

So we wander
Walk at night

Looking for
Ourselves

Alone

~ R.M. Engelhardt
©2023

Shadows By R.M. Engelhardt

Within each man a shadow exists.

The shadow of his past.
The shadow of his future.

And the shadow of all the things he
Could have been.

~ R.M. Engelhardt

nOpE ~A poem by R.M. Engelhardt

In the beginning was the word, the word
That from the solid bases of the light
Abstracted all the letters of the void;
And from the cloudy bases of the breath
The word flowed up, translating to the heart
First characters of birth and death.

~ Dylan Thomas,
In The Beginning


NoPe

The 1st poem wasn’t
Written in English
In fact it wasn’t
Written in any words
At all

The 1st poem
Was a flower that
A hairy cave man gave to
His beloved

Who thoughtfully
Pondered it’s meaning
& then ate it
And without emotion
Left him

For a muscular
Neanderthal

Named Chad

So the first poem
Was actually a failure
A gesture

Of heartbreak & love
Loneliness & longing

But not enough to
Convey it or even
Reach it’s destination

The heart

Or the soul

And on the cave walls
Were painted crude
Drawings depicting mating
To let a woman know
That she was desired

To which their response
Was ” Ew” and a new
Word which they created called

” NO”

But the art approach
Didn’t work
Quite well either

NOTE:
(*See Bathroom Poetry
History of)

WIKIPEDIA

But once humans
Could speak? Talk?
Well the game
Was on

Hunter gatherers
& Future jock types
Started getting angry
Because skinny guys
In fur beret hats starting
Stealing their women

But they couldn’t figure out how
And to this day

Still cannot

And that’s how it
All began

Poets & artists
Being treated
Like outcasts
Unwanted & disliked
(Musicians soon to follow)

Because they had
Higher IQs
And first somehow knew
That words could be turned

Into “Magic”
& Into light

Spells that could
Invoke what feelings
They held urges they felt
And the things they could see
Or could not

Like the silent moments
Of trees swaying in the distance
Like the beauty of colors in the air
And sea, animals & nature

And within these words
They worshipped all
The mysteries which they
Couldn’t fathom or understand

And turned them
Into something
Called poems

Myths
And gods

So in the beginning
Poetry wasn’t really popular

And still isn’t

But without it
We’d all be lost

For it is the whole
That makes us all human
And what it means to be
Human

And that
Is all we know

That and that throughout
Human history that muscular guys
Named Chad and with similar names
Still hate us

And want to beat us up

Without knowing

Why?

~ R.M. Engelhardt

© Copyright 2022

I SING OF THE BODY DISSECTED. A Poem By R.M. Engelhardt

art*poem by r.m. Engelhardt ©2022

I SING OF THE BODY DISSECTED

So let us now all
Sing or if you believe

Pray

Not of these golden days
But in this dead choir of reprieve
Of anguish of suffering of days

Let us all sing of the 21st century
Of all our failures & the false
Triumphs & of the true progress
Of men

Unmade

Undone

Unseen

Watch &
See how we
So easily destroy

Ignore

Incite

Our own defeat

And on repeat
Like a bad news story
Like history
Still worship greed
And money
The holy dollar
And all the fat politicians
On all sides taking
Away what we once
Called ” Freedom”

As a quaint, dismembered idea

As wars are still waged
Poverty still a slave
We post all our success
Stories

But never our shame

As a dead earth
No longer of beauty
But of a violence unimagined
And obscene

Disgusting.

Weapons
Unimagined & unseen
The end of everything
The end

And the tragedy
The murder of all days

Like all the animals dying &
Loosing space

Oh how inconvenient

How 1980s
And Green

Our voices & our
Votes now all dead and
Useless worthless things

Without any real power for
Truth or change

Countries & governments
In decline still crumbling
And arguing, fighting
Killing over race

And over oil

A disgrace

A disfigurement a
World burning
Forests dying
No gods answering
No gods listening
No god here

Because
No god cares
Or listens
Anymore

This planet
This rock
Used up &
Separated

Dysfunctional
Diseased

Destroyed

With hate
With rage

Peace
Now just
Another trendy word

Forgotten

So for thee I Sing
Of this body
Dissected

Damaged by
Monsters & corrupt men
Fake patriots & grifters
Looking for trophies
And hiding behind a flag

And blaming
All other living beings
For everything
They’ve done

More convenience
More sorrow
More lies
The scapegoat
Followed by the
Image of the Tower card

Falling

As the seasons change
The leaves remain
But we never change

And never will

So for thee I Sing – Scream

For the impoverished
Families and their children starving
I Sing for the ignored
And uneducated the unemployed
And for all those
Guilty of being
Human beings

With hope
With dreams
With love
With faith

I sing for humanity
I sing for change

For Black lives
For all lives
For Suicides
And for all those buried
Beneath us in unmarked graves of
Unrest & genocide
And for all those who
Believe in a Jesus Christ

( Or not )

I Sing for
The Great Spirit
That once roamed
This land now a mere
Figment of imagination
Lost in the blood of
My ancestors

The flags all at half mast
Concealing the sadness
The truth

Of a nation
Once called America

Ashamed

I Sing of the body
The whole of the soul
Dissected

Diseased

Where Walt Whitman
Would now if alive
Weep over it’s reality
And in it’s sorrow
Walk away

Where Lincoln would
Crawl up into a ball
And simply

Choose to die

I Sing of A Nation of the
Body dissected

By cannibals
Who’ve erased all of
It’s glory

And where there
Is no honor, spark of
Democracy, decency
Or even electricity

Left

~ R.M. Engelhardt
©2022

The Common Man By R.M. Engelhardt

THE COMMON MAN

The Common Man
Sits in the workplace
Breaks his back in
The factory & writes
Poetry

On the side

Doesn’t give
Two shits about
What the big wide world
Thinks too busy
To deal with those
Who have superiority
Complexes

Issues

& Destroys them
All with a mere
Sentence

Moves on

Keeps writing

The Common Man
Sees what is & what
Could be

Could’ve been

Celebrates
Life & freedom &
Lives in the moment

Doesn’t have time
To deal with other
Writers writing issues
Theories, speculations
Negativity, anger

And Just writes
Just lives

For himself &
Whoever with his words
Might find

Touch

Don’t like what he says?

Doesn’t matter
To him

He just writes
Just cares about
The voices in his
Head that say

“THIS”

Because he
Knows, realizes
That poetry is
Spiritual poetry is
That which is a part
Of the mystery
Of being human

Without compromise
Without explanation

Because
The Common Man
Or the Common Woman
Has more to say than
Those who cannot perceive

Cannot connect

From all walks of life
From all colors, religions
Places & souls

For these are the real voices

From the real world
In which we live

The Common Man

~ R.M. Engelhardt
©2022

The Last Real Poet

The Last Real Poet By R.M. Engelhardt

THE LAST REAL POET

The last real poet
Sits alone by himself
Somewhere in a cabin
In Upstate NY
Around the age of 95

Still alive

But they all forgot about him
Years Ago

The prizes
The many lives many
Loves he had once

His memory fades
From time to time
Unsure if it was all real

Meeting Kerouac
Was just like yesterday
Reading upon the stage
Drinking beers & whiskey
Meeting all the Beatniks &
Ferlinghetti

Ginsburg was just
A smart kid, Corso a punk
Who swore alot
And clammored
For everyone’s attention

Whining

He remembers
The applause and the hip
Hot beautiful girl with long brown
Hair who took him home
That night

Only to receive
A long distance call
From her nine months
Later

Hey
Daddy’O

What gives?

Where’s the
Dough?

So
He wrote
And wrote
And wrote

Was published
Everywhere
His books now rare

Recieves letters
Every now & then
From college kids
Who found one of
His books at a library dollar
Sale, praising him
As a genius, a poet

But the literary cannon

Doesn’t
Never cares
Or gives in
Or gives a shit

Recognize
Beauty or sadness
Street poets or
Vagabonds
Madness or unformalist
Poetry

Far too consumed
With the fear of
Honesty, cancel
Culture or a frightful
Reckoning

When most
Of his kind are
All dead

His legacy
Torn from the days
The pages of true
Freedom & non censorship

We were all labeled ” Communists”
For publishing

The Truth

Stood

Behind
Martin Luther King
And at Jack’s
Grave the same
Decade

Saw
The world
His words helped
To create only
To be betrayed
By all those hippies
Who traded in their love
For the mighty dollar

“Sorry”

But we can’t
Publish you

Your work
Just doesn’t
Seem to fit

We just want
To hear another
Version of the same old
Shit we just published
Last week

“Fuck Off”

His rough voice says

Fuck. Off.

With your
Boring trite mighty
White ass kissing
Journal of garbage
Packaged in flowers
That follows trends

Do you have a Facebook?
An Instagram?

Fuck no.

Poetry
Is meant to live
Upon the page

And not
On some ridiculous
Flavor of the month
TV screen

Takes a shot
Of whiskey

Goes to sleep

And dreams

Where he and
Mingus are
Shooting pool
In a NYC dive bar

And
He smacks
Some faux celebrity
Writer in the head
Smoking a diva stick

For talking too much

And being
Annoying

The last real poet
Sat alone by himself
Somewhere in a cabin
In Upstate NY
And last night he died
Around the age of 95

A small obituary
Appeared in the NY Times

And thousands
Of writers & poets
On their computers
Put up memorials with
His poems claiming

He was a genius
And I’ve read all
His books

Which
Two months later
Appeared in all the
Bookstores

Published by
The boring trite mighty
White ass kissing
Journal of garbage
Packaged in flowers
That follows trends

Who bought
All the rights
To his life

With the sales pitch:

He was friends with Kerouac
And Bukowski before Bukowski

He was The Last Real Poet

Buried now

In an unassuming pauper’s

Grave

~ R.M. Engelhardt
©2022