You want to be a poet?


Then stand in line


Because just like every other damn poet

That ever came before you

You’ll have to write


And Twitter, Tumblr, Fumblr

Whatever, will never save

Your sorry ass


And the Pushcart Prize?

They won’t reward you

For writing a Facebook

Status that’s poetic


And just like

Emily, no one no

Publisher will ever

Come knocking

At your door

Looking for your poems


So listen;


Because there is no new

Jack Kerouac, no new Bukowski

And no new Poe


And Shakespeare?


He threw down his pencil

A longtime ago after Marlowe

Bought the farm


So just like all of the most

Famous poets of old expect

No compliments, no fortune

And no dough and learn how

To live on noodles


And believe me

When I say that

When you tell Mom & Dad

That you want to be

A poet someday?


Don’t expect them to

Embrace you or let you

Ever move back home again


Because remember


That this is the life that you chose

And if you ever finally find

Finally write that one piece

That one amazing epiphany

That says it all and that says

Everything and that has the

Power to knock the world

On its ass?


Then maybe one day

You’ll be able to look

In the mirror and say


It was all worth it.



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All poets may come and go but it’s the words that forever remain.

It is not of the body but of that which comes from the soul which touches others.


~ R.M. Engelhardt

Maya Angelou

RIP  Maya Angelou :




Selling Out The Gods…

Selling Out The Gods By R.M. Engelhardt


Lizard King lunchboxes for

Precocious children are coming soon

To a supermarket near you.

They will be next to the Jim Carroll 

Action figures and the “Rimbaud was 

a wildman” T-Shirts in isle 5.

The Jack Kerouac cereal is fortified 

And delicious …


R.M. Engelhardt 2005


NOD Moon Stars Sun Time Poems By R.M. Engelhardt 2002


Better to feel

                 (Than be)

Blood rushes thru veins

And the heart beats,

Only one-day to complete its duty.

While eventually earth and gods shall all come

Crashing down

And kingdoms & civilizations fade.

And so please, I ask you only this;

That when I leave to let me take these

Few things with me,

The moon, the sun and the stars,

And the small traces of light which

Once reflected in your eyes

That I 

Can no longer




Yours is a beauty of monsterous

proportions with the world 

Spinning randomly into 

Oblivion where all the leaves are all

Dying all the time off the trees,

Where misery makes its way into

Every small tissue stealing.

Yours is a world where 

Beauty has fled and has left town 

For greener pastures, has drowned its-

Self into the sea of angst & tears and

Has mixed its-self with alcohol & 

Cigarettes, sad poems and

Indiscriminate men & women who

Already know that beauty has left

The scene,

(And they no longer care to find her)

And yet it is good that beautyhas

Finally found you and that beauty is not dead,

But was merely sleeping

On the sofa of your



Poems By R.M. Engelhardt

From The Book “Nod. (moon, stars, sun … time)


Arm yourself …

Arm yourself with pens and imagination, the paper is the empty space between the silence and the void. Fill it with words and ideas of grand thoughts and designs, unseen moments glimpsed out of secret corners. ~ R.M.

A life in writing: Charles Nicholl

A life in Writing

‘Let’s have a look at the dark side of the moon – Marlowe as spy, Rimbaud as gun-runner, Shakespeare as lodger’

A life in writing: Charles Nicholl

The Archeology of Her Smile

The Archeology Of Her Smile Poem

” I love you “

These words that he said

A thousand lifetimes ago.

A thousand women weeping

A thousand flowers burned.

The poem,

Just written for someone, somewhere



A wife

A daughter

A love.

About the archeology of her smile,

About her hidden voice,

The joyful noise of her child

Or just the way she laughed,

Poised, in the mirror

Or running thru the grass

Or thru the fields

Of forever.

For these words

Were said, were written

 A thousand lifetimes ago,

A thousand women weeping

A thousand flowers burned.

The poem,

Just written for someone, somewhere


About the archeology of her smile,

About the way she loved

About the life she lived with you

About the world she touched

For this is her true story

Written in the voices of each life.

Civilization, man or woman

And of their rise or fall.

For without her or her

Beauty, her eyes, or her smile?

Why there would be

No “his-story” ever written

At all.


R.M. Engelhardt 2012

The Visionary …

All men should possess a ‘visionary faculty’. Men do not, because they live wrongly. They live too tensely, under too much strain, ‘getting and spending’. But this loss of the visionary faculty is not entirely man’s fault, it is partly the fault of the world he lives in, that demands that men should spend a certain amount of their time ‘getting and spending’ to stay alive. …The visionary faculty comes naturally to all men. When they are relaxed enough, every leaf of every tree in the world, every speck of dust, is a separate world capable of producing infinite pleasure. If these fail to do so, it is man’s own fault for wasting his time and energy on trivialities. The ideal is the contemplative poet, the ‘sage’, who cares about having only enough money and food to keep him alive, and never takes thought for the morrow.”

~  From The Outsider by Colin Wilson