Poetry in any language old or new is the voice us all. A reflection of humanity. Even perhaps a note, a prayer, a mantra or a sign to future generations telling them tomorrow holds what today has lost. Through these voices find yourself.
~ R.M. Engelhardt
Without a photo these days what is a poem?
What matters. The poem itself.
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.
THE RAIN POETS
It seems that all the rain poets
Are weeping again tonight,
In words, that rain down
The living, once more pretending
To be the dead, the waiting and
Wanting of it, just above their heads
Like false prophets.
The art of
Voices & rants
As all of the dark clouds gather
And they ask, demand
As their world is ending once again
As their world is in pain in the
Black black black abyss of the DARK DARK NIGHT
of Apocalypse again and again
And of themselves.
In a world that is a mess
In a world that suffers war
And in a world that is slowly dying, starving and well
As they read their poetry brought to life by an attitude
That attempts living where shock value incurs some glimmer of truth at all.
The rain poets are not reading a
poem or writing a poem about that,
The rain poets are too busy writing
What their own selfish little lives are all about,
The whining & the bitching and the
ME ME ME LOOK AT ME I’m angry
Or I’m FAT, life is so unfair & no one wants to
Have sex & I can’t find the right pair of pants
Yes, the rain poets are all weeping again
Up unto the masses & unto the general consensus,
Rhyme it : And keep the tragic flowing,
Slam It : And shock again whats been shocked so many times before
Oh ever so popular (as usual)
Oh, ever so the same old song
And oh ever so amusing
So all about an attitude and
All their poems that never change
Never … Change At All.
Or even acknowledge
That somewhere out there
In a real world where there are
No poetry slams or malls that there is
A desolate place where a child is dying alone of starvation,
That somewhere out there
In the real world there is a killer
Who really kills people with guns & without words
And who doesn’t give two shits about your attitude or your poetry
Or your wonderful comfortable happy thoughts ideas about
Peace or what’s right & wrong with your life, your relationships
Or what you had for dinner as he kills another person, another human being
For as little as
Yes, tonight as in every night somewhere
The rain poets are performing & whining once again about
The “I” & the “My” & the “Me” & “Why” & Are The
Who who are saying that I AM THE SHIT
When in the real world, and not in their own egotistical minds
Their convictions and words are merely artificial
False anger, false masks & false words
That hide the real fear of the real world that they
fear the most.
But some advice?
You cannot save the world with a poem
But it is far better to try than to not try at all
And if those words are your only weapons?
Make them “REAL”
R.M. Engelhardt 2011