Like The Book? Support It On Facebook.

Then join the new “Resurrection Waltz” Book Page On Facebook !


~ R.M.



The Zero Year 2045



Voice Of Angels
Voice Of Nothing
Voice Of Prophets


Of God

The Voice Of Self
The Waiting, (The Dead)


Of No Certainty. Never`Land.

Stuck in denial,
Traffic, Chaos

To tell the tale,
Trans-MIT dim echoes
Of ancient lies, eternal
Of night-sleep


For Forever Is Never A Forever
No Absolutes
No Signs
No Mistake

That upon this precipice
You dwell like the haunted man,
Year Zero Once Again
Handed down by the
Great King
Of Kings, rising falling

That upon this earth
Somewhere a child awakens,
Joyful & naive

Without fear.


World On Fire

(From “The Resurrection Waltz, 2013)

Saxophone screaming.

Like jazz… morphine.
running, thru the streets


Refrain Refrain Refrain

To Begin ~ To End,


To, Some Where Some Way


In Dead Lights And In Hyper-Space
And Unto The Holy Light of the
Last Cash Machine
As the Utopian Prophecy bleeds
Magnificent, Malevolent
In-To Thine Youthful Eyes Which Hears- Seas
Of Majestic rhymes & urban schemes,

A Salvation… Of Gun Shot Megaphone Deliverance

And Oh Unto Thee, We Deliver Great Hopes Of Miracles… Mercy.

Illuminations As Thy Cradles Rock Falsely
With The sad Arrogance Of Label Made Kings,
Offering Up All Your Dead sons,
father, mother, sisters, brothers
used up,
Who have killed the word, & the sound & whole world of grace
Monotonous with


With the smiles of Money~Greed Messiahs
Sampling Out Salvation, A Promise, A Lie,
All Their Words Now,
Just An Epiphany,

In A “Box”

Moving on down towards
South Of Heaven
Non-Transcendence Dead Enlightenment &
The Dead Roar Of Time
That says



Back-wards stealing From All the Lost Poets & the dead souls
With a weak childish snarl that says, “ME’ “MINE”
A place where no philosophers need apply.
With No More Gods To Worship &
No more new myths to create

As The Vessel Sinks,
Reeks Of Slamming bores
Rhyming Whores for all the same crimes


Pants Un-Fit With weak words that will not survive
The Tides Of Time
And that shall never ever make it
Unto The Shore.

As one-day they will all say:

Kill Roy was here
And he wrote a poem upon the WALL
Which said this


Except that he was here.

With his Bling Props No Props No Echo Your Masses Asses Making
Hip Gang Signs & Buying Up Your Video Product


No Rebels left But Cowards Who just Sing The Song Of Thy Puppet Selves
Little Boys Of Violence With Little Swords That Cannot & Will Never Plow The Field
Of Men.

Because, with weapon in pants, they are shit. Who do not mend.

Now amongst us silent


The very thought
That once we shit thru our veins, living

As non aware un-alive
Follows when time is measured
monosyllabic and in waning days
For death recurrence
And numbers on papers, not soldiers
Become A Waste Of All That Is-Was Life.

But Can such an Armageddon
Accidental circumstances exist?
Life? Made of location and color
When the door of words is finally broken
With All levels un-covered
And Boring sets made of dead set repetition?


Because every man
therefore may whisper in the wind,
tend to the madness,
up to him-self,
in thy-self.


That these are all faults
because every man
therefore may whisper in the wind,
Unto the vast world
Which is Now Dead

To Others.



(Once like jazz… morphine.. salvation… running, thru the streets)

A World On Fire

Which said something

That Mattered

Now dead.


~ R.M. Engelhardt

2 Poems




Your keys were stolen by the devil; she used them to open all the doors of

distortion and sound, to turn out all of the lights living in the waking moment when

all of the young gods had grown old. Club Extinction, where life is blood & pain.

Reality, a new dialect of language & seasons, harmonies of invention. A new

industry of human consumption. Where did you leave those keys? You had

everything to gain and nothing to lose. You had the emptiness of an over

agonized poetry and a religion of your own that served the one. And in the dark

you wept cold bitter tears for a god that never cared or even remembered your

name. It was as if all of the life upon earth had just vanished in a moment or had

suddenly developed an expiration date. Hiroshima Mon Amour. Goodnight &

goodbye. Still hiding behind all of your intellectual armor, still fighting all the

infidels of time, the thought Gestapo and the killers of the sacred word. The

emperor of ignorance and all of his angels of destruction still pretending to be the

heroes, like the dead skin flaking off ourselves to become the new. But you

remained timid, docile. Stood back & behind and watched from up on high while

all the rest of the world attended to their dark responsibilities techno-fucked by

the man to become the last piece in a puzzle of intricate nothingness, the

universe. The dead phallic worship of a ghost who can’t find his own way home.

To be mortal, to be human to eat, to sleep, to shit….to fuck….to love. With your

heart, you’re head and your balls. To feel when within the night maybe you will

think of daylight, a longing for some long forgotten stranger or hope. To want

something that means something, or something that just matters. For somewhere

beyond the sea the singer sings about you and me but leaves out the part where

you became a pain in the ass. And I remember the day that the romantic died

and became the angry man. Was it suicide? Or was it murder? I guess we’ll

never know. Because when you fell the sound came down deafening like some

overpowering pop overture upon your knees and you finally came to the

realization that you are nothing but a moth to the flame in the afterlife, another

peacemaker sent gone bad. A transcendental agent of the temporal wake who

can’t remember even who in the hell he is. Wednesday… your keys were stolen

by the devil who sells real estate on the side and who can suck on a soul like

there’s no tomorrow. Make a note; never do shots with the devil, she’ll get

everyone else killed and will make you question your own existence, not to

mention, she’ll break your heart every time, in every time, if you just give her

half a chance.



“And all the light of the world surrounded her, and in her eyes there was

salvation. As the world and she slowly drifted off to what seemed like a million

miles away. Where all time stopped, streets seemed empty. And the world was

no longer there. And in her eyes there was still beauty, light…salvation”

‘How did you get here?’

I ask.

She smiles politely, and then says,


She had to cross the River Nile & a few other places,

Made a few deals with the Gods, and the Oracles and had to apologize just to

get the night … ‘Off’.

A few past lives & a bottle of wine,

But this time without all the poison.

‘I’m just sick of passing romances’

She cries, then smiles at me like a cat and asks; by the way,

‘You don’t know a guy named Mark Anthony … do you?’

To which I reply ‘No, not at all.’

As she touches my hand and stares into my eyes unwavering.

And then says ‘Thanks’.

Seduces me with all her wiles & and all her false innocence,

Her beauty still there, lasting & full of centuries of lingering pain

And hope.

And then she talks about her job, her life and all of her endless

Responsibilities. Asks me how my day went and wonders if she will ever stop

being so wild, and one day finally settle down

With a couple of kids … and a house.

Tells me about a number of all her failed past relationships.

Not based on love but only on power, appearances & success

That never ever quite work out.

And then we talk about the pyramids, empires and poetry,

Says she likes jewelry and wears a scarab necklace that she tells me that she

bought … at Macy’s.

But all the while I still keep staring in those eyes,

Where all memories and all histories last but all finalize, as they take me off

guard and once more willing to take another chance.

Knowing far better, than I should.

As we walk into the her bedroom, her skin like ivory

A beautiful tattoo above and yet below covering the

Length of her back, and her long black hair that sweeps across my body as all of

my angels watch.

For in Cleopatra’s eyes

I remember all time

Like emeralds

In the darkness

Shining in their light

Where I too tonight

Shall dream of all the mysteries

In this moment that is mine

Stronger than any romance

Or love

Now faded.


 ~ R.M. 


New Evidence Of The Resurrection …

New video of me reading the poem “Silence Falls” from my new book “The Resurrection Waltz”
at The Book House in Albany, NY. A special thanks goes out to my friends Murrow (Thom Francis/Keith Spencer) & Albany Poets for helping to create such a great night of friends & poetry.

~ R.M.

An Interview With Albany Poets :

The Resurrection Waltz – The New Book of Poetry from R.M. Engelhardt

Poet R.M. Engelhardt finds hope in words ~ Times Union 3/14/13


Poet R.M. Engelhardt finds hope in words

Engelhardt expresses hope in power of language

By Amy Biancolli Published 2:11 pm, Wednesday, March 13, 2013


The poems of R.M. Engelhardt don’t assert faith in much. Not religion. Not a society that ignores the plight of the downtrodden while glorifying the rich.

As he writes in “Burn,” a reflection on a homeless man in winter that appears in his 13th book, “The Resurrection Waltz”: “…the george bailey in / this story has no clarence.” “It’s a Wonderful Life” this isn’t.

But the works of this longtime Albany poet holds some faith in a few things. Late-life love, for a start. (“…happiness/That came later/and not sooner“). Smoking, too; he did, after all, title his 2006 book of collected works “The Last Cigarette.” “This is actually part of who I am in general. I’m smoking now as we speak,” he said, chatting on the phone recently.

But he has faith in something else, too: poetry. In “Saint Poem,” he addresses the form itself as a carrier of grace or salvation. “Dear Poem/Saint Poem/I ask you/To please see us through yet another day,” he pleads, coming around to a state of exhausted resignation. Both the faith and the exhaustion pop up throughout “The Resurrection Waltz” (Infinity Publishing), an 82-page tract of succinctly expressed disgruntlement flecked with hope.

“Poetry is very much like a religion. I wouldn’t say my complete religion,” he said. Nevertheless, “It’s the poem that saves you. You write the poem, but it’s catharsis, and what’s what brings you into being — what makes you stable, balanced.”

Engelhardt will read and sign copies of “The Resurrection Waltz,” from 7 to 9 p.m. today at the Book House of Stuyvesant Plaza.

On April 11, he’ll kick off his School of Night open mic, to be held from 7 to 9 p.m. on the second Thursday of each month at the Pearl Street Pub/Dirty Martini Lounge. And then, on April 19, he plans to read at the open mic as part of 2013 Albany Word Fest, set to run from April 14 to 20.

He dates his interest in poetry to childhood, when he composed a myth about a forged Bronze Warrior that wowed his sixth-grade teacher. His appreciation for the power of words never waned. Now a deep-rooted fixture on the poetry landscape, Engelhardt runs open mics, edits a journal (“The Literary Rogue”) and, in 2000, founded the Albany Poets collective ( A year later, he started the Word Fest.

“He’s been around for a long, long time, and he’s the one that took me under my wing when I was in high school almost 20 years ago. And he’s always trying to innovate and come up with ways to get new people involved,” said Thom Francis, current president of Albany Poets. As for Engelhardt’s writing, “It’s very personal, and yet sometimes spiritual. And you know, it runs the gamut.”

Engelhardt is not a fan of slams — open mics with a competitive format. “You have people judging the work of new poets, people who have never read before. So the problem is people are just getting out — they’re discovering their authentic voices, and they’re being judged by people. I don’t believe that poetry should be judged.”

He draws his inspiration from a variety of sources. One is the woman in his life, Kali De La Cruz, the photographer (credited as Lona Cygnus), who designed the cover for “The Resurrection Waltz.”

Another is the city of Albany, where his family goes back six generations. After a stint in the Florida Keys some years back, he returned with a newfound appreciation for Albany’s creative vibe.

“It’s the place itself,” he said. “It has a great poetry and literary scene — a great writing scene — it has a great music scene, a great arts scene. And if you can’t find inspiration in that, well, you’re in the wrong place.”

What about those cigarettes? Can someone be a poet without smoking? “If it’s for them, sure,” he said. Then he clarified: “If they’re a nonsmoking poet.” • 518-454-5439

At a glance R.M. Engelhardt

What: Reading and signing of “Resurrection Waltz,” new book by Albany poet When: 7-9 p.m. today, March 14

Where: The Book House of Stuyvesant Plaza, 1475 Western Ave. Info: 489-4761;

Coming into being


Coming into being
By R.M. Engelhardt

Midnight. Domestic violence and hip hop shaking the
windows free of sleep.
Disturbed creatures laughing & singing in the
hallways with the echoes of drunken stupidity.
Jack’s old angels don’t come here anymore, barren of
all love and jazz, exulting no happiness or
joy but only decay. City televisions blare with
overseas casualties, games of hide and go seek with
terrorists & madmen manifesting themselves as heroes. But would
death answer all of your questions?
Wasting all of your days away trying to figure out a
reason why? Small minds put politics into
everything and steal our most sacred lives over & over
again and throughout time, evolution not withstanding.
But beyond all this is the quiet serenity of coming
into being, a place where they can never touch you, or
your dreams.

A place called “peace”


The Resurrection Waltz – The New Book of Poetry from R.M. Engelhardt, An Interview With Albany Poets


R.M. Engelhardt
R.M. Engelhardt

This coming Thursday, March 14, at the Book House of Stuyvesant Plaza local poet R.M. Engelhardt will be launching his brand new book, The Resurrection Waltz, with a special reading and a performance by Murrow (Thom Francis and Keith Spencer). R.M. has been a a big part of the local poetry scene for over 20 years. In that time he has hosted many open mics and events including Saint Poem, The School of Night, Ghost in the Machine, VoX, LISTEN, and P.R.O.P.A.G.A.N.D.A.. His works has been published in Retort, Rusty Truck, Sure! The Charles Bukowski Newsletter, Thunder Sandwich, The Boston Literary Review, Full of Crow, Fashion For Collapse, 2nd Avenue Poetry, and right here on

We recently sat down with Rob to talk to him about the book and some upcoming projects …





Such words,

Poetry rare

Exulting reality

Into voice           Expression

Into being

Being       into form.

From out of ashes

Out of seasons

Years time and reason

And from out of every man

Woman born


All truths   shadows   And all loves

Destructions and voices


Complete and thus returning

Like Angels

Like Gods

Again to tell their stories

Or to tell the tale

The myth, the verse or the prayer

The hymn manifested


For here is your


Your villain

And your Goddess renewing

The world

And here is your song:

Their song

Our song

All songs

Beginning &

Then ending again

These poems and these words

A dance     A waltz

These songs remaining, returning

Like every prophecy foretold in

The past   The present  & The future

Born from

Every sun

Every star

Every moon

And every daughter

Within every universe


For this place, world

Is a universe made up

Of dust & words, language

And resurrections






And sorrows


Such words, such voices

Poetry rare

Exulting reality beyond

A human heart

So human, so frail

This song which never ends.



Copyright 2013.