Russell 'R.L.' Ohlhausen more »
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R.L. Ohlhausen Poems
Poets Are Losers
The art of the word yields little fruit when it's first conceived; It must take root and grow in passionate minds if ever to be received. A craft much learned of sadness from this world we’re in, As we suffer right along until our solemn end.
Blue Faerie Moon
I search by envied pond, by light of this blue moon, Heart fanes to see my nature’s nymph in all full glory’s bloom. My faerie love once met me here but now has gone away. I wait to see her once again as blue light fades to grey.
Lost in Thought
(A fun little diversion) I thought I thought a thought, a thought I thought I thought.
A rough rain falls on the river running as a fisher casts over tainted water, and Black blood burns as the wars are raging and the soldiers argue who’s hell is hotter.
I melt with the snow on the tops of mountains I babble with the voice of the humble waters I sip from the lake on the open plains
Envy the Common Man
How I envy the Common Man, To live in the world that we create. To drift on the winds with no debate.
Song of a Shallow Dream
Dream of love, rise to sorrow, Seek another's bed to borrow. Fickle heart fleeing mine, Once to me that love divine.
A caramel sunrise bursts in my veins, I breathe in my butterfly dawn! Quilted in magnificent rays warmth wakes me. Reaching, almost touching the yellow joy,
A Poem of My Death
Mouths do honor these lips grown cold, fall On the deaf the words not told. While among living, dare none so bold, Broken hearts, no silence said.
These days Smoooooth as a chocolate mudslide Bright as a beach on the coast of Spain Easy days.
Dance of the Bohemian Priestess
I spied in a forest of psychedelic trees, The figure of a haunted goddess, Upon which my eyes did seize, Her bare feet and bare breast,
All My Brothers
I walk with my brother the Christian, But I do not believe as he, I am not his Christian brother. I walk with my brother the Jew, Not born to his name, I am not his brother.
Birth of Peace
no religion will bring it to you no merchant can supply it. no king may decree it. no empire implores it
We enter the dance, my kinsman and I. We chant with the sacred sounds of the Earth, we sing the ancient songs of the people.
Comments about R.L. Ohlhausen
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Poets Are Losers
The art of the word yields little fruit when it's first conceived;
It must take root and grow in passionate minds if ever to be received.
A craft much learned of sadness from this world we’re in,
As we suffer right along until our solemn end.
Heroes of a future day but rarely of our own.
Most to be remembered only by ink and bone.
Our souls fulfilled when our words echo from the page.
And so we are merely losers until another Age.