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  • Jimmy Broccoli

Spotlight: R.M. Engelhardt

Hi All

It's a great day to feature the work of an individual I find highly talented. Today, on the Jimmy Broccoli page and website (to be posted later), I'm am thrilled to share the poetry of R.M. Engelhardt.

I was first introduced to R.M.'s poems a few months ago - and have enjoyed everything I've read. His latest collection of poems, "R A W" (2023), by title, is an accurate description of R.M.'s verse - he "tells it like it is" - which is a quality I highly value in poetry (and in all writing).

Here is R.M. in his own words:

R.M. Engelhardt is a poet, writer & author who's work over the last 30 or so years has been published in such journals as Thunder Sandwich, Full of Crow, Rusty Truck, Writers’ Resist, Dry Land Lit, Rye Whiskey Review & many others. He currently lives & writes in Upstate NY and his new book of poetry is entitled "R A W" Poems (Published By Dead Man's Press Ink 2023)

Now Available on

Here is a poem by R.M. Engelhardt - and I know you'll enjoy it as much as I do! ______________ ANACHRONISM

I was there when They started slam

I was there when Mark Twain Changed his name from Sam

Long before he hated God

I was there when Rod McKuen sold A million copies Before the social media Age and Rupi came Waltzing in with her period

And once heard Lord Byron secretly Profess his love for poetry Then Shelly & then, finally worn out


Watched them bury Marlowe in a pauper’s Mass grave without his body

And then

Anoint William Shakespeare Without any words

To say

As their boat sailed off into The night under the stars For Italy with no God


Far away

Long ago

For Instance?

Sappho didn’t like The figs at the buffet And preferred oysters

And Lucan was a handsome Young man with a bowl haircut Who opened up his Veins looking for omens & words But in his final moments

Only saw blood

Screamed And then shit his toga

Realizing that Death equaled fear And not myth Or glory

As his old ex friend Nero Played the violin


And Walt Whitman?

Never met him But I heard he had a beard And spoke of multitudes And sang a lot

Like no one had ever heard before We could have been brilliant

But I once bought Bodenheim a beer Sitting in the Village While he bitched about All the bohemians Becoming famous

And James Dean Once let me drive his Car as I told him:

(Get the brakes checked out)

Ah yes

To live To breathe To speak

Of poets & vagabonds Drunks and saints


And child molesters

Junkies Fascists And racists

As a young Bob Dylan wrote His songs trying So hard to be a troubadour

While Dylan himself Hit the pub floor Spinning

And I heard a rumor that when Burroughs died he Awoke in a dark barren field Full of fallen, rotted apples

Looking for Neal

And not Eve

But Jack? No worries

He still went to heaven

And It looked a lot like Lowell Growing up

While Thomas Wolfe Wrote of angels

And Steinbeck Wrote about the Woes of man

Never solved Always repeating

Someone once said That time was Relative

Someone once Said that poetry

Is dead

But Like me?

It just simply Goes on

The echo Of an echo of an Echo of A broken record

Of soul Of grief Of love Of hate

Maya Had no comment Except nothing’s changed

And you can still Hear the ghost of John Lennon singing On every radio station At any time of day

The same words The same songs For the same fight

For you see I’m a very old man

Who started out As a voice only To become a memory

Some ? Knew me well

While others Saw me as a An agent of fortune

But every now & then I come back around To try again

To try to feel again

To express Something For without words We are not here We are not there We are Just missing We are nothing

Without the spirit Of ourselves

In our hearts

As Sid Vicious Sang “ I Did It My Way”

Before Walking off the stage Forever

I hope that You will remember

The poem

~ R.M. Engelhardt ©2023

Image: Photo of R.M. Engelhardt.

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