Poetry by R.M. Engelhardt

P O E M S  by R.M. Engelhardt

LAST  RITES

Note:

Preferred Flowers for funeral… Or one flower only please;

Kennedia … Angelica…Lilac or Iris

And upon said date of expiration,

Please inscribe names of said flowers upon heart, mind & soul

“Here”

Category….  In Word Media

Filed Under:

Lost poets, minor poets, local poets, major poets

DEAD poets living poets no longer in print, paper, journals but on inter-net

Ether-net under new title “another dead white guy” who wrote

“Poems”

Who isn’t so dead anymore… but still wearing black,

Who perhaps just pulled a disappearing act

Or a mystery which you cannot “unravel”

So look for these clues;

Search under true lives, true words & true lines,

Where there are no excuses, false critics or liars

Look for open minds & what matters most.

Burn past, burn history burn intensely into

New realm of being… dream.

Search for her & that’s where you will find

“Me”

EGO voveo delecto vos insquequo

terminus of meus dies…

_____________

LEXIKON

Initiate.

Trans-mute, Transcend
All “Matter”

Bring Forth,
And Thus Summon

All Gods … And Words
Obsolete (They Return)

Creation. Soul. Dimension. Time.

AWAKEN “The Dead”

Sound~ECHO Of Crashing Waves Entities
Dying Against All Flesh Bleeding, Bled

Into VOICE.

As the Smoke Of Her Cigarettes, Her Smell
& The Image Of Her Body All Still Linger,

Like A Poem, Perfume Instilled

Unto That One Perfect Dream

Of Youth.

Spring.

Roar.

Snow.

Moon.

Soar In & Thru

Eternity, A Song
Of  Beauty Beneath & Hidden
Between

“Days”

To Wish To Pray
To Become & Believe

In Some Vacant Thought

Un-Aware

Called “Inspiration”

_______________

YEAR OF ZERO

Trans-ferance.

Voice Of Angels
Voice Of Nothing
Voice Of Prophets

Voice … Of God

The Voice Of Self
The Waiting, (The Dead)

Receptacles…Shells

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
Obscuring~Blinding

Dark.

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
Forgetting

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

Without fear …

_______________

WORLD ON FIRE

Saxophone screaming…

Like jazz… morphine..

salvation… running, thru the streets

To:

Refrain  Refrain  Refrain

To Begin ~ To End,

Proceed.

To, Some Where Some Way

Silence.

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,
Mother-Fuckers
Who have killed the word, & the sound & whole world of grace
Monotonous with

“Hype”

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

“Nothing”

Nothing.

Fore-wards
Back-wards stealing From All the Lost Poets & the dead dark 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,
Stinks,
Reeks Of Slamming bores
Rhyming Whores for all the same crimes

Yo.

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…

“NOTHING”

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
YO.
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.

Hip? Gone. Now amongst us silent

Hop?
Dead

The very thought
That once we shit thru our veins, living
Lost,
Intolerable,
And MIA

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?

No.

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

No.

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

To Others.

Saxophone,

screaming…

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

A World On Fire

Which said something

That Mattered …

________________

IN A RESPONSE TO INSOMNIA

I awake

From a dream.

And there,

She stands in my doorway

All that is beauty

Persephone, with an hourglass in her hands

And in a whisper,

Kisses my ear saying;

“What will be will be and we shall be … In Time”

I look out the window

The full moon’s glow

Lighting the empty streets

The stars.

And I light another cigarette,

The smoke rises

As the rain quietly begins outside

And I wait.

Sit … and listen, for her voice.

And wish an eternity away for her

To return,

And to see her once more, and again

In my eyes.

For I have waited

For her

All of my life,

Days

Years

“You”

But in the morning

Lying next to me

She is nowhere to be found.

And I awake

From a dream.

_________

R.M. ENGELHARDT

Albany, NY based poet, writer R.M. Engelhardt has published several books over the last decade including Nod~Logos~Alchemy~The Last Cigarette: The Collected Poems of R.M. Engelhardt & others. His current experimental book of poetry & prose is called “Versus: Lexikon” A poet & writer, Engelhardt through his ideas & visions has helped to create a large amount of the Upstate, Albany, NY spoken word~poetry scene and is the host of “VoX” an Open Mic For Poets held @ The Fuze Box on every last Friday evening of each month. Thru his efforts along with such writers as Thom Francis he has created such groups the Albany Poetry Syndicate as well as Albany Poets (Now www.AlbanyPoets.com), which have left a lasting mark on the upstate NY literary scene. His work has also been published by many journals both in print including Retort, Verve, Industrial Nation, Sure! The Charles Bukowski Newsletter, Thunder Sandwich, The Angry Poet, Full of Crow & many others.