Night Walking

NIGHT WALKING

Sometimes
We get lonely

Sometimes
We feel alone

It doesn’t really matter
In a world of a billion people
More than that inhabiting
The earth

It’s just a matter
Of the dark

And the light

We walk through
Cities & crowded
Streets but all these
People are strangers

You can get a drink
At the bar or just
Look into the eyes
Of passerbys

All with the same expression

Something missing
Within their souls
Their hearts

Broken
Or damaged

Homeless or
Rich

There’s something
Missing

There’s always
Something missing

Which no one
Even the people
Who walk these
Streets

Can
Even explain

Like a hole torn
In the fabric of
Life

So we wander
Walk at night

Looking for
Ourselves

Alone

~ R.M. Engelhardt
©2023

Shadows By R.M. Engelhardt

Within each man a shadow exists.

The shadow of his past.
The shadow of his future.

And the shadow of all the things he
Could have been.

~ R.M. Engelhardt

A POEM FOR THE FRIEND WHO SACRIFICED By R.M. Engelhardt

A POEM FOR THE FRIEND WHO SACRIFICED

ʃəˌlɒm əˈleɪxəm, ˌʃoʊləm

Aren’t you that kid
Who plays the harmonica?

The old man
Sitting in the wheelchair
Said

They had told him
That he had a visitor
But he doesn’t recall
Having any at
The nursing home
In a very
Long time

The nurse told
Him it was an old
Friend, a man with
A beard in his late
Fifties in a cap

But the old man
Now near 80 had
Lost much

Memories and loved ones
Books and all the things
That had made him
Him

Himself

Near deaf
And near blind

The loss of months
Weeks

Years

Within his
Own mind

And when
The lost friend
Walked in he could
See the loss
The sadness upon
The old man’s face

And he said:

Well sir.

It looks like
Both of us have
Lost a few things

” But do you remember the words?”

” The poetry?”

All the crowds of
People the voices
In times of
Change?

And the horror
Of how it all went
Down, the battles we
All fought for people?
The ones for all our souls?

Freedom?

But the old man
Just stared into space
With no recognition

No emotion

In silence

But then?

The man in the cap
Pulled out a harmonica
Out of his pocket

And started playing
A familiar song

And the old man
Smiled

And as he
Played a single
Tear ran down his
Face

And the old man
Softly said:

“Thank you”

“For Everything”

And then
Sitting in his chair
Quietly passed

Away

~ R.M. Engelhardt
©2022

FOR THE ANIMALS, A Poem By R.M. Engelhardt

FOR THE ANIMALS

Why does the world at night not see you?

In the fields and in the moon’s light?

Gentle, and taken away from these forests

And separated from others of your kind

Why does the world at night not see you?

Or even in the daylight care about your existence?

I will give you food in the harsh months cold
And without mercy, become the caretaker
And the sacred voice, protect you like you were my own, my kind

Undomesticated & unrecognized by the less
Intelligent creatures in machines
Who do not recognize your beauty and lives

Why does the world not see you?

Protect you?

Because they are selfish and sometimes blind
Lost in a world of their own making

Cruel
And sad

The wind whispers to them and in their hearts
They feel nothing

This is the way

This is the loss of what is all holy
And all that once shined upon us
In it’s own relevance & awe

The cars rush by as time moves swiftly

The roads & highways the divisions,
Graveyards

Where all the dead & bodies lay

Where the night air frees your soul
To another place

Wakan Tanka

~ R.M. Engelhardt©2022

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

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

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