Category: R.M. Engelhardt Poem
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The fly swims the backstrokeIn my early morning coffee. Died because it was from McDonald’s. ~ R.M. Engelhardt ©2023
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The house fly seeks enlightenment. Gets hit with a book by Nietzsche.
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WHEN THE POETS ARE ALLTOO DAMN HAPPY The poet dreamsOf some perfectWorld where wisdomRules and profit failsAnd all things areBeautiful, just & fair But the truth isThat if it was weWouldn’t have aGod damned thingLeft to write aboutAnd all our boring poemsWould be aboutRainbows & magicalUnicorns & then we wouldHave to find thingsWrong with them…
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NIGHT WALKING SometimesWe get lonely SometimesWe feel alone It doesn’t really matterIn a world of a billion peopleMore than that inhabitingThe earth It’s just a matterOf the dark And the light We walk throughCities & crowdedStreets but all thesePeople are strangers You can get a drinkAt the bar or justLook into the eyesOf passerbys All…
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Within each man a shadow exists. The shadow of his past.The shadow of his future. And the shadow of all the things heCould have been. ~ R.M. Engelhardt
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In the beginning was the word, the wordThat from the solid bases of the lightAbstracted all the letters of the void;And from the cloudy bases of the breathThe word flowed up, translating to the heartFirst characters of birth and death. ~ Dylan Thomas,In The Beginning NoPe The 1st poem wasn’tWritten in EnglishIn fact it wasn’tWritten…
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I SING OF THE BODY DISSECTED So let us now allSing or if you believe Pray Not of these golden daysBut in this dead choir of reprieveOf anguish of suffering of days Let us all sing of the 21st centuryOf all our failures & the falseTriumphs & of the true progressOf men Unmade Undone Unseen…
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THE COMMON MAN The Common ManSits in the workplaceBreaks his back inThe factory & writesPoetry On the side Doesn’t giveTwo shits aboutWhat the big wide worldThinks too busyTo deal with thoseWho have superiorityComplexes Issues & Destroys themAll with a mereSentence Moves on Keeps writing The Common ManSees what is & whatCould be Could’ve been CelebratesLife…
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THE LAST REAL POET The last real poetSits alone by himselfSomewhere in a cabinIn Upstate NYAround the age of 95 Still alive But they all forgot about himYears Ago The prizesThe many lives manyLoves he had once His memory fadesFrom time to timeUnsure if it was all real Meeting KerouacWas just like yesterdayReading upon the…
