The World Doesn’t Stop

THE WORLD DOESN’T STOP

The world doesn’t stop
If you’re angry

The world doesn’t stop if
You’re old or tired

It doesn’t stop

Regardless of your love
Or humanity

The earth spins

Keeps turning despite
Your lack of conformity
Or caring, your belief or
A non belief in a God or
Charity against war or
Poverty

The world doesn’t stop

Even if someone pulls
The trigger or sets a church
On fire

You can love or not love
Live or stop living
Hope or not hope

Dream or stop dreaming

It’s all up to you
The choice is yours

And no one else

You can protest
Write endless songs or
Poems or be whoever
You want

But in the end?

The final verse
Falls upon us all

An act of infinite
Gesture or a passing
Without thought or
Voice

And the earth
Shall still carry on
Without you

The birds shall still
Chirp in morning light
& the trees shall still
Sway in the wind

And the world
Doesn’t stop

So the most you can do is
Write your name upon
The rocks

And leave your message
For the lost

With instructions
For a better world

And hope
They listen

The World Doesn't Stop Poem R.M. Engelhardt
The World Doesn’t Stop

~ R.M. Engelhardt ©2022

The Last Real Poet

The Last Real Poet By R.M. Engelhardt

THE LAST REAL POET

The last real poet
Sits alone by himself
Somewhere in a cabin
In Upstate NY
Around the age of 95

Still alive

But they all forgot about him
Years Ago

The prizes
The many lives many
Loves he had once

His memory fades
From time to time
Unsure if it was all real

Meeting Kerouac
Was just like yesterday
Reading upon the stage
Drinking beers & whiskey
Meeting all the Beatniks &
Ferlinghetti

Ginsburg was just
A smart kid, Corso a punk
Who swore alot
And clammored
For everyone’s attention

Whining

He remembers
The applause and the hip
Hot beautiful girl with long brown
Hair who took him home
That night

Only to receive
A long distance call
From her nine months
Later

Hey
Daddy’O

What gives?

Where’s the
Dough?

So
He wrote
And wrote
And wrote

Was published
Everywhere
His books now rare

Recieves letters
Every now & then
From college kids
Who found one of
His books at a library dollar
Sale, praising him
As a genius, a poet

But the literary cannon

Doesn’t
Never cares
Or gives in
Or gives a shit

Recognize
Beauty or sadness
Street poets or
Vagabonds
Madness or unformalist
Poetry

Far too consumed
With the fear of
Honesty, cancel
Culture or a frightful
Reckoning

When most
Of his kind are
All dead

His legacy
Torn from the days
The pages of true
Freedom & non censorship

We were all labeled ” Communists”
For publishing

The Truth

Stood

Behind
Martin Luther King
And at Jack’s
Grave the same
Decade

Saw
The world
His words helped
To create only
To be betrayed
By all those hippies
Who traded in their love
For the mighty dollar

“Sorry”

But we can’t
Publish you

Your work
Just doesn’t
Seem to fit

We just want
To hear another
Version of the same old
Shit we just published
Last week

“Fuck Off”

His rough voice says

Fuck. Off.

With your
Boring trite mighty
White ass kissing
Journal of garbage
Packaged in flowers
That follows trends

Do you have a Facebook?
An Instagram?

Fuck no.

Poetry
Is meant to live
Upon the page

And not
On some ridiculous
Flavor of the month
TV screen

Takes a shot
Of whiskey

Goes to sleep

And dreams

Where he and
Mingus are
Shooting pool
In a NYC dive bar

And
He smacks
Some faux celebrity
Writer in the head
Smoking a diva stick

For talking too much

And being
Annoying

The last real poet
Sat alone by himself
Somewhere in a cabin
In Upstate NY
And last night he died
Around the age of 95

A small obituary
Appeared in the NY Times

And thousands
Of writers & poets
On their computers
Put up memorials with
His poems claiming

He was a genius
And I’ve read all
His books

Which
Two months later
Appeared in all the
Bookstores

Published by
The boring trite mighty
White ass kissing
Journal of garbage
Packaged in flowers
That follows trends

Who bought
All the rights
To his life

With the sales pitch:

He was friends with Kerouac
And Bukowski before Bukowski

He was The Last Real Poet

Buried now

In an unassuming pauper’s

Grave

~ R.M. Engelhardt
©2022

EXTREMUM VITAE SPIRITUM

AURAL SUPREMACISTS another worthless war, war of words, weapons substituting the mystique of false authority in secular motion. Do not attempt to decieve these shadows … Death is death. Pain is pain. Violence is violence. The waves of voices, strangers screaming from far off distant lands we cannot fathom or ignore. We stand in rebellion. We stand as one. We are the future as we watch your crumbling empires fight like ridiculous children over the remenents of land, control in desperation. Pathetic & immature. Ruthless & sick, twisted like the mindset of all primitive things unwanted and unloved. It’s always the same. Old men & cowards believing they are powerful. Sending the young off to die because they are too weak to fight themselves without courage, genitals. But your time, lives end here. We have outgrown you & your outdated ideas. “Control Control Control”. We do not fear you but laugh at you knowing you have something to hide. We stand in REBELLION. We stand as one. We are THE FUTURE. Your time is done. And we are ending it NOW. We are RESISTANCE. You are nothing and shall be forgotten like the dust. Beneath us, like the earth. Extremum Vitae Spiritum

Give Up The Ghost.

R.M. Engelhardt 2022

~ R.M. Engelhardt

*Coming Soon*

WAYLOST

WAYLOST

 

There upon that intent star:
Trust of wandering men: of truth The most reminding witness: we fix our eyes also: waylost: the wanderers:

~ Macleish

 

Something is
Different

Something
Has changed

Perhaps
We are just
All worn out

Tired


From the fight

And we want
Peace


Sleep

But the enemy
Is still there

Waiting

And we
Are losing
Sight of
The dream

As we stare
Through vacant
Eyes

Lost ourselves


After losing
So much already

Lives &
Trust

Depth &
Meaning

We are
Waylost

Without a
Plan

Or vision

We must
Find America
Again

Find ourselves
Once more

And again

And rise

 

~ R.M. Engelhardt

10.09.20 ©

 

 

#freedomandwhiskey

AND YOU WILL REMEMBER

AND YOU WILL
REMEMBER

Once.

There is, was
Nothing

Is, was
Nothing

At all

But the
Dead

Who
In their
Final moments
Their last
Breath were
Surrounded
By panic

And fear

Politics

And despair

Struggling
To live

To survive

Unable

To scream

Where black
Orange &
Yellow
Bodybags
Lined the
Hospital
Hallways

Across nations
Across the world

Where
Photos, media
Flashed
Across giant
Internet screens

Confirming
Loss

And the
Doctors &
Nurses
Essential
Workers

Fought on

Some died

But there
Is, was no
Prayer

No anger

To a missing
God or a
Tyrant, the
Monster of all
Hate, lust  & greed

Envy

And sloth

Who ?

With a
Casual smile upon
His face

Lived on

And we ?

The survivors
The angry
The broken
The hopeless
&  the poor,
The weak
The powerless
The middle-class
And all the old
And all the young
Of the world

Did nothing.

We

Did nothing

We

Did nothing

We

Did nothing

“At All”

#coronavirus #death #2020 #rmengelhardt #poetry #poem #youtube

In The Burning Light

IN THE BURNING LIGHT

All animals
All creatures
All beauty

Dead.

How could
God let
This happen?

People asked

And then
God replied

“Men did”

And put
Out the
Fire with
Rain

As he
Opened
A door between
The clouds
Of smoke

Where the
Souls of all the
Creatures

Went

~ R.M. Engelhardt ©

Retirement

RETIREMENT

Someday
I will be an old
Poet an old man
In an old suit a tie
And a fedora hat
Reading old poems
About the old days
To young kids who
Won’t appreciate
Poetry or jazz or
The silence of the
Mind nature or
Music the mystic
Or the magick of
Life

And it is
Then at that
Very moment
When one of
Them makes
Another fart joke
In the middle of
My reading that
I shall pause
Smile & then with
A magick incantation
Turn into a fifty foot
Serpent & eat them
All in the school
Auditorium telling
The school principal
That they all just
Hated my poetry
And left as I let out
A loud & infinite
Belch and I get on
The bus
& leave

Retirement

~ R.M. Engelhardt/2019

Of God,Father & Soul

OF GOD, FATHER & SOUL

And it is written:

That the 3
Wisemen followed a
Star in the southern
Sky that brought
Them to South
Carolina

And there
In 1933
They found
The child
James

The 1st
Wiseman
Gave him
Rhythm

The 2nd
Wiseman
Gave him
Soul

But the
3rd Wiseman
Gave him
The most
Important gift
Of all

HAAAA- Y !

And it was
Good