humor – R.M. ENGELHARDT

WITH NOTHING MORE TO SAY

WITH NOTHING MORE TO SAY

Some day
One day
You won’t reach out
For fame
Because it doesn’t
Exist never existed
Never came or stayed
or ever paid
The rent

True

Or real

Or yours

Or was ever
Truly

Like words

And then?

Someday
Sometime off
In a near distant future place you
Will find yourself standing up
On a stage older

And under the lights

All alone

Empty & Vacant
Like all the stars
You once dreamed of or
Wrote about

Yet still comparing
Yourself to all the
“Famous Ones” remembered & yet
Constantly complaining about how
Your genius wasn’t noticed &
Was over looked

By fools

As you wish to believe
You were a great part of history
The handful worth reading

When the truth is
Nobody & no one will
Even remember your name

Perhaps
In a month?
Even
A decade or just a
Year from now?

And they won’t
Recall or remember
A single word you said
Or wrote

Finding that all
The mingling &
Sucking up and the fake
Complimenting
Didn’t get you very
Far in life

At all

And that this will
Be the sad day the infinite
Day of all days
Future
And past

With no love
Soul or sentimentally

Left

But perhaps?
The artist was wrong

And the lecture
Has ended

But
In your version

You believe that
Your handful of
Blind followers

Will think
That you have
Mysteriously
Disappeared

Like Rimbaud
Or some other
Immortal legend

But instead
You’ll be found
In the drive thru

At McDonald’s

Surviving

~ R.M. Engelhardt

HARASSED BY SQUIRRELS By R.M. Engelhardt

HARASSED BY SQUIRRELS

Cold December Morning
Too early to wake up I sip
Hot coffee mumbling as the
Local squirrels harass me
For more bird seed
With evil & angry

Stares

Poet Writer Albany NY

BAD OMENS: MONDAY NOVEMBER 14TH, 2022 A Poem

BAD OMENS:
MONDAY NOVEMBER 14TH, 2022 OR
THE DAY OF THE ASSHOLE

The tarot cards have
Foreseen the horrible future

And his return

All the signs

Impossible
To ignore

The first hint
Was The Tower card
The second? A
Loud & long wailing inhuman fart
Sound eminating from the
Downstairs neighbors
Apartment

Who’s a staunch
Republican with a
Make America Great Again
Sticker

On his pickup truck

The candles

Immediately started
Flickering and all the
Dogs in the neighborhood
All took a massive dump at once

All

At the same exact time

And from a place unknown
Perhaps another dimension
Or the spirit world
A loud screaming voice came through
The walls which said in an errie, frightening &
Mournful voice

OH NO, OH NO!

It’s That RACIST ASSHOLE AGAIN!
And He’s Running For President AGAIN!

ASS-HOLE

ASSSSSSSSSHOLLLLLLLEEE …

11 … 14 … 22

BEWARE !

BEWARE THE FAT & UGLY
ORANGE ASS-HOLE !

And then?

A book on the U.S. Constitution
Mysteriously fell off the shelf

And opened up to a page
Which said:

AMENDMENT 14

Which must be read
In an exorcism

To rid him

From this world

For good

~ R.M. Engelhardt ©2022

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

Nostalgia Act

NOSTALGIA ACT

Aren’t you that
Poet who was famous
Once?

That poet
Who lived
Downtown
That wore
That old leather
Jacket & who
Was kinda like
A punk rock vampire
Lord Byron meets
Edgar Allan Poe
Guy?

I really liked
That poem you
Wrote the young millennial
Girl says
It was totally awesome
My mom has the book

Thank you

Which one?

I inquire

You know
That one about
Dying without her
Love & sadness
Loss & self
Destruction

That one

Y’know

“Come As You Are”

I smile
Take a sip of my
Coffee, excuse myself
From the room

~ R.M. Engelhardt/19

img_20190109_093235_393

A Mature, Respectfully Artistic Poem Written for Kanye West

A Mature, Respectfully Artistic Poem Written for Kanye West Or

(Kanye Is A Douchebag)

So just the other day I

Was writing a poem

About Beck

Then Kanye tried to steal it,

What the heck?

And then I was writing a poem

For Beyoncé too, but

Kanye told me I wasn’t

Good enough to

So now let’s face it

Perhaps Kanye was right,

Perhaps it’s because

Beck & Taylor are white

But masterfully I being

Quite artistic too

Say “Kanye you’re a douchebag”

So here’s a poem for you

(I just hope that you respect my artistry)

~ R.M.

POEM WRITTEN JUST AFTER THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE

No one around

Not a single sound

Quiet.

Just like in the

Movies where

The world has just

Ended, just like

The calm before

The storm

Or maybe just like

Before a

Zombie apocalypse

As I sit here alone

In my apartment wondering

Why I am alone perhaps

The last human being left,

Perhaps some zombie’s

Next big mac & large fries

Tomorrow or maybe even their

Happy meal with a shake.

But what if I too have

Become a zombie

But just don’t know

It yet?

And what if I too am the

First zombie poet ever

Writing the first un-dead

Zombie poem?

Would all the other zombies

Read it? Or relate to it? Would

They understand my zombie

Feelings or sit around at the

Next undead Zombie Poetry

Festival and make snapping sounds

As all their fingers fell off or would

They even attempt to clap with only

Their one good arm left?

And what if I’m not

Really a zombie? Would they all

Just eventually accept me for who I really am?

Or will they all just be exactly like

They were before all this?

Just like all humans with all of their

Anger, jealousy, war & hate, murder

And all their petty unfair advantages

Over their fellow zombie friends?

No.

Because I don’t believe that there

Could possibly be a better,

More loving & caring, kinder

Zombie world or universe

Waiting in the wings, and

I don’t believe that they would

All just be friendly monsters

Who just like to eat vegans,

Republicans or tea party members

Because damn it

I just believe that sometimes

That the world could use a remake

Or perhaps just a reason. And I

Believe that if we just keep

Walking around dead or alive

That eventually one day we will all

Find our way to peace using or eating

Our own brains.

In the end.

______________

R.M. ENGELHARDT, 2015

THE UNCERTAIN MUSE

Once

Long ago

She would bring me her

Gifts

Decadence

Fine wine

Fame

And Friends.

Never ending parties

And beautiful words

Magnificent and dressed in

Black, poetry written and

Cloaked in mystery and

In the eternal darkness

Of the night.

And now?

These days

She just brings me

A six pack of beer

On weekends

Sits with me

By my side waiting

Screams at me, nags at me

And tells me to

“Write!”

__________________

R.M. ENGELHARDT 2014

DAMES …

All dames are alike: they reach down your throat and they can grab your heart, pull it out and they throw it on the floor, step on it with their high heels, spit on it, shove it in the oven and cook the shit out of it. Then they slice it into little pieces, slam it on a hunk of toast, and serve it to you and then expect you to say, “Thanks, honey, it was delicious.”

~ Steve Martin, Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid

Something …

Hard pressed to

Write a poem I

Remember the illusion

Of a moment.

Something about

A haiku.

__________________

~ R.M. Engelhardt

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