I come to you
In the memory
Of old friends


Over lost time
And lost years

That have

In both tragedy
And revelation

And silence

Detached from
This mere
Mortal coil

To remember them;

They who were
Once here and
They who once loved
And who we all
Once were once
Upon a time long
Ago as well
In a love, a friendship

A moment

Meant with soul
So fiercely


In dreaming

For you see
As we go on
Our minds
Have learned to
Play tricks


In a veil of youth
& passing days

Drunken illusions
And insignificant
Slights now

Replaced by
What was once in our
Hearts our true

A realization
That to be human
Is to be flawed

But these things
Are small pins


Now forgotten

So in coming years
We shall sit down & remember them
And have a conversation
Like old friends
Should have like
All friends living


Into the light &
The brilliance
Of angels
We go

To the next

Without remorse



~ R.M. Engelhardt



Some Days

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Some days I question human behavior I question what we are doing here I question where I came from where mankind came from after I watch the news on tv after listening to people talking on there cell phones screaming at other human beings on the bus. But somehow I never give up. Somehow I just keep moving on. So I light another cigarette, and in that motion I become Buddha I become God . I become just another one of Darwin’s monkeys philosophizing why we all even bother anymore as somewhere aliens are watching us from a spacecraft in the stars drinking beer & writing poems about us.

Being A Poet

Picsart2017-07-11--19-33-00“Being a poet isn’t something you are or choose. It’s something that happens to you at irregular intervals and with no guarantee it will happen again. You can disregard it when it does happen but you can’t turn it on. All you can do is wait.”

~ Margaret Atwood

Failed Human Mantra

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Repeat After Me:

I am perfect
I am powerful
I am strong
I am whole
I am loving
I am happy
I am harmonious


I am
None of
But human

I am
None of
These things
But words
With decomposing



~ Talon
(R.M. Engelhardt)

The Ballad of Fast Eddie



In the 1970s
Fast Eddie was
An old man
Who walked
Down the streets
Of the city
Of Troy
Looking for a
Fight looking for
All the bad guys in
A child sized
Cowboy hat with
Two cap
Pistols & his
Belt looking
For the
OK Corral
On the streets
And in the
Alleyways of
The city where
He was the sheriff
Waiting for the clock
To strike


“Eat lead!”

Eddie would yell
At all the passersby’s
Who laughed
At him cap
Guns blazing in
The air
The sun the
Fastest gunslinger
In the West
This side of
Albany a legend
Who kept Troy
Safe from a world
Too hard to
Understand too
Scared to deal
With life & all
The pressures
Of the world
And of
The mind

Liked his
Straight up
And took no
Gruff from
Anyone another
Hero lost in time
Protecting the world
From the men in
Black hats that
We could
Never see

Was a real
A real man that
All the children
Could look up
To a man who
Was kind but
Tough but who
Didn’t see the
End coming

Until one
Day when
Eddie was casually
Walking down
The block
And got shot down
By the gas company
Maintenance man
Known to all his friends
As Tom Terrific
Who pointed his
Finger at Eddie
And said


And fired

But Eddie just
Wasn’t fast
His pistols never
Leaving the holsters
In time

Pow! Pow!
Tom’s finger
Took him down
And Eddie
Pretended to
Be shot
And dropped
To the ground

That was
The End
Of Fast
And he
Was sent
To a psychiatric
Where they
Just called him



~ R.M. Engelhardt


C__Data_Users_DefApps_AppData_INTERNETEXPLORER_Temp_Saved Images_db36106c7e15b88cf5ed55ddaada0ebc--smoke-photography-smoking-cessation.jpgOLD  SOUL

An old jukebox is playing
Tom Waits as the smell of beer
And cigarette smoke
Permeates the bar
The patrons, the drinkers
Are old and now I am
Have, become one
Of them as
The days of light
Electricity & destruction
Punk rock & single living are now
Over & as the words take over
And possess the pen
As the ink transforms thoughts
Bourbon into
Something someone


The unknown man
The unknown poet
Left with an old soul
Just writing a poem
In some dark place
Or darker corner
On napkins
Outside & behind the walls of
The always boring &
Casually observed
The popular &
Pop culture writers &
The 5-minute celebrities
Of the world
All supposedly living on
Some lost & lonely planet called


I am no man
No memory
Or of any place
Or time
At all
Where I am merely the
Drunk priest in black who
The city sings to at night
And the sound that is
Beneath you
& beneath your
Howl your  heart & soul
The truth

That no one wants to
Hear or think about

And I no longer have
A young man’s eyes  or
Some epic poem love or
An epiphany to share

And I don’t give a shit about
Your politics
Television or the news
Because as always
Death & history
Always repeat
And always remain

The same

Hand in hand


So I don’t pretend to be a
Prophet or
Something I am not
And I am not interested
In attempting to save the
World or
In creating the next great
Literary movement

Of fools

But for those of you
Who do?


That’s swell

But my gods
My muses
Still walk
Still dwell
Still scream
In another

Who tell me
Whisper to me
That in the end of
All ends nothing is left
But your words
Your soul
Burned &
Weathered through
Ink blood & paper
The years &
The experience

Of time


And we
The poets
Are only
The dust
That remains

Old soul
At the end
Of the world
At the end of
The bar

Writing for
No one anymore

But himself

Too Many Cigarettes Can Cause A Revolution



Too Many Cigarettes Can Cause A Revolution

If you swallow poison your heartbeat stands still, then stops to usher in our brother death. All welcome and warm.
It’s happened before for I am no stranger. I walk this weary world alone this mortal coil looking for whatever may be a truth, love oh God a love of God’s of flesh & blood & tribulation when there’s nothing else left. But I am no man of God but just a man of words and cigarettes, whiskey and poetry. Another madman who creates worlds with his pen. Sits in bars, places for hours waiting for the muse to guide me down my ancient path. My church is unknown to you and all you men of commerce you men of wealth and destruction and greed. I keep my one good eye upon you, watch you in all your darkness trying to hide your symphony of dalliances’ and crimes. Your sins against mankind. Your hands in the money pot your hands in wars and death and disease. You never see me but I’m there. Waiting. Waiting with words and my one true voice to take down you and yours your corrupt kingdoms your self made reputations and to judge you as you falsely judge me and mine. The poor and the working people. The starving masses and the rest of the world seeking sanctuary from far away lands. This is America. This is what humanity once meant and stood for. You’ve destroyed it. Used it. Used us and have filled up your pockets with lies and green. A green that the starving shall never see. You’re monsters and not people. Corporations and not our country tis of thee.
So I light up another cigarette and I make notes in my journal. And in my mind I send you on your way to hell with a smile and no regrets. You can ignore me but there are thousands like me. Me and mine. The people you despise, the people whose beliefs and lives don’t matter to you. But we’re waiting. We’re not leaving you are and we’re staying. No matter how many times you poison the well no matter how many stories that your cronies’ manufacture. We’re Americans. We’re the people who bust our asses everyday so garbage like you can live in castles. We are the slaves without a mention we are the tools with masters  unseen. Too many cigarettes can make you see the truth. Too many voices can cause a revolution. A revolution of words. A revolution of the light we shed upon you.

So if you swallow poison your heartbeat stands still, then stops to usher in our brother death. All welcome and warm.

But we aren’t ready we won’t go we won’t leave.

Not until we’ve burned you down

To nothing

See you in hell. Have a nice trip.


Looks can sometimes be deceiving.

For every hero there’s a nemesis, and for every genius there’s a nothing. And for every new day there is always a night. The truth is not necessarily what you see or in the moment believe but exists in those things which you have made, created and that stand, that hold meaning. Those things that are treasured long after you’ve left the building or this weary world behind. These are the true works of art, poetry and literature. Our children in both physical & metaphysical, spiritual and living form. There is never an ending to our stories even after we are gone. Every moment is a beginning. Every moment a resurrection.

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~ Talon {R.M. Engelhardt}

#poetry #Talon #art #Troyny