The Rain Poets

The Rain Poets


It seems that all the rain poets

Are weeping again tonight,

In words, that rain down

In buckets.

The living, once more pretending

To be the dead, the waiting and

Wanting of it, just above their heads

Like false prophets.

The art of

Voices & rants

As all of the dark clouds gather

And they ask, demand

Why ME?

Why US?




As their world is ending once again

As their world is in pain in the

Black black black abyss of the DARK DARK NIGHT

of Apocalypse again and again

And of themselves.

In a world that is a mess

In a world that suffers war

And in a world that is slowly dying, starving and well


As they read their poetry brought to life by an attitude

That attempts living where shock value incurs some glimmer of truth at all.


The rain poets are not reading a

poem or writing a poem about that,

The rain poets are too busy writing

What their own selfish little lives are all about,

The whining & the bitching and the


Or I’m FAT, life is so unfair & no one wants to

Have sex & I can’t find the right pair of pants

That fit!

Yes, the rain poets are all weeping again

Up unto the masses & unto the general consensus,

Rhyme it : And keep the tragic flowing,

Slam It : And shock again whats been shocked so many times before

Oh ever so popular (as usual)

Oh, ever so the same old song

And oh ever so amusing

So all about an attitude and

All their poems that never change

Never … Change At All.

Or even acknowledge

That somewhere out there

In a real world where there are

No poetry slams or malls that there is

A desolate place where a child is dying alone of starvation,

That somewhere out there

In the real world there is a killer

Who really kills people with guns & without words

And who doesn’t give two shits about your attitude or your poetry

Or your wonderful comfortable happy thoughts ideas about

Peace or what’s right & wrong with your life, your relationships

Or what you had for dinner as he kills another person, another human being

For as little as

A thrill.

Yes, tonight as in every night somewhere

The rain poets are performing & whining once again about

The “I” & the “My” & the “Me” & “Why” & Are The

Who who are saying that I AM THE SHIT

When in the real world, and not in their own egotistical minds

Their convictions and words  are merely artificial

False anger, false masks & false words

That hide the real fear of the real world that they

fear the most.

But some advice?

You cannot save the world with a poem

But it is far better to try than to not try at all

And if those words are your only weapons?

Make them “REAL”


R.M. Engelhardt 2011

Ruthless Gravity

Ruthless Gravity

Sound Wisdom ...

Tonight on television
there is an actor talking about his battle with
drug addiction, sex addiction and life.

You would think that by the way
the host is interviewing him
that he is wise & worldly, an
ancient sage from his
battle with the curse

of “celebrity”

And there are a billion lights
in the great big city, a million lives
that get up everyday and go to work like
everybody else. And their addiction is food,
their addiction is rent and how to somehow
get thru the next day and make sure that
their children are dressed, educated & well-fed.

So the question is is that when you
look at the world do you see a gift? Or do you see an
enemy? Do you have faith or do you pretend that
all of these famous people are like you or your friends?

The constant partying,
the good life, broads & booze,
high fashion, money and
Paris Hilton bending over your
patio bench just waiting for
a piece of what you’ve got to give.

But there are those of us who
happen to live in the real world,
those who believe in more than just
the shallow trash that all the others
seem to admire.

And they call us the survivors who don’t
need the shit or the television to fulfill our
needs. The survivors who don’t need the
drama or the fake religions of the moment,
the meth or the cocaine, a little dog or
a brand new $400. dollar purse.

~ R.M. Engelhardt

Two Poems More Than – Evening



More than just this;

A hand, a halo, a tryst,

Swallowed up in imagery

Synergy … the electricity

Of a single.. simple …. ‘Word’.

Phrases given by divine intervention,

Ecstasy or the need for flight,

From God or Buddha, Mohammad

Or the night.

More than just this;

Your love, your voice exists.

Re-invents astrology resists where history, temptation has been,

Genesis, or the temporal servants of the momentary rhyme,

Or a monumental pause … of the mind.

More than just this;

Poetry must be

Can be

Much more than just a drunk

Or a mere critic, a contagious madman

A martyr, a saint, your youth, your death, or your age.

This crime of sincerity

More than just an eternity


R.M. Engelhardt




You kill me.

Slow pulse, slow your image still burning



As all these voices come out

Into the dark, at night.

My love, my sadness… ‘Night’

You, more than just another dance

With the moon.

R.M. Engelhardt