“A smoke, a book, a cup of coffee.
“
These are the little things that get us through this sometimes weary world and all the rainy days.””
~ R.M. Engelhardt
R.M. ENGELHARDT
Poet Writer Author Albany NY
-
When stars fall out of the sky and
all lights fade into silence.
When you grow cold
Eyes grow old
Touch grows cold
Stars fall out of the skyAnd lights still fade.
After years
After hours
After moments
That never matteredYou grow cold
Love grows cold
Eyes grow oldAnd love fails..falls,
Fucked up and silent
Foolish and waitingIn the corner.
When the universe no longer
Yields to your commandsWhen the mirror finally breaks
And all you are left with is glassYou grow old
touch grows cold
eyes grow oldAnd all of the stars still
Fall out of the skyIt’s time for the last call.
_________________
~ R.M. ENGELHARDT
Share this:
-
So the other day
The witnesses came
And knocked upon my door
Both dressed in black suits
And they wanted
“Information”
They tried to come in
And they tried to hand me pamphlets
And they tried to make me confess
And they kept asking me this
“Have you found Jesus yet?”
So I told them
That I didn’t know anybody named Jesus
And that I didn’t know who he is or where he lives
And that I don’t know anyone named God
Or anybody named “Peter” “Paul” or even
A Baptist supposedly named “John”
Let alone some woman named
“Mary”, the Pope or anyone else of
Any importance or of any significance
At all.
All I told them was that
I know this guy who lives
Down the block named “Noah”
Who is always in his backyard working
On his boat.
Both of them then looked at
Each other a little bit puzzled,
But they did not seem to believe
My story. And after saying something
About this guy that they were looking
For being quote “My savior” in an annoyed
And confused manner
Left.
So I closed the door and locked it
And then told Jesus that the coast
Was clear and that it was ok for him
To come out from behind my curtains.
“Whew!” That was close he said.
They almost got me that time!
I told him “Listen bro” Your secret’s safe with me.
Cross my heart.
Jesus scratched his beard
And made a peculiar face
“Very Funny” he said “Very Funny”
And with a wave of his hand
Made us some more wine
And we got drunk.________________~ R.M.Share this:
-
“In older myths, the dark road leads downward into the Underworld, where Persephone is carried off by Hades, much against her will, while Ishtar descends of her own accord to beat at the gates of Hell. This road of darkness lies to the West, according to Native American myth, and each of us must travel it at some point in our lives. The western road is one of trials, ordeals, disasters and abrupt life changes — yet a road to be honored, nevertheless, as the road on which wisdom is gained. James Hillman, whose theory of ‘archetypal psychology’ draws extensively on Greco–Roman myth, echoes this belief when he argues that darkness is vital at certain periods of life, questioning our modern tendency to equate mental health with happiness. It is in the Underworld, he reminds us, that seeds germinate and prepare for spring. Myths of descent and rebirth connect the soul’s cycles to those of nature.”
~ Terri Windling
Share this:
-
If it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it.
Unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don’t do it.
If you’re doing it for money or fame, don’t do it.
If you’re doing it because you want women in your bed, don’t do it.
If it’s hard work just thinking about doing it, don’t do it.
If you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently.
If it never does roar out of you, do something else.
Unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don’t do it.
Unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don’t do it.
When it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, It will do it by itself
and it will keep on doing it until you die
or it dies in you.
There is no other way.
And there never was.
~ Bukowski
http://theghostofpoetryfuture.tumblr.com/post/94880175400/remembering-bukowski-happy-birthday
Share this:
-
Share this:
-
“I am the beast with a contorted grin, contracting down to illusion and dilating toward infinity, both growing and dying, delightfully suspended between hope for nothing and despair of everything, brought up among perfumes and poisons, consumed with love and hatred, killed by lights and shadows. My symbol is death of light and the flame of death. Sparks die in me only to be reborn as thunder and lightning. Darkness itself glows in me.”
~ Emil Cioran
Share this:
-
