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Poems By Poet Herbert Nehrlich  2/8/2012 10:52:46 PM
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  Best Poems From
  HERBERT NEHRLICH (04 October 1943)
 
 
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  429.     

A Crash

She'd fiddled with her face,
applied a half a pound
of beige foundation from
La Maison de Charleroi,
two hefty blasts of bland dιodorant,
smothered two nipples with
a serving of Chanel, numιro cinq,
removed the bags of ice beneath
the mammaries, which now stood firm,
lit candles made of real wax of bees,
poured into crystals a beloved Beaujolais.
There was a flash of news from ARD,
a plane had crashed into the river Somme,
windshear had crashed her plans
and cut the promise of a life to silly shreds.
 
Herbert Nehrlich
   
 

   
   
 

  430.     

A Critic's Fate

The officer who would not like the name of borderguard,
took his green passport, open at the photo page.
Flipping his fingers while one eye was kept on Mitch,
and chewed a wad of chewing gum that threatened to escape
from fleshy lips beneath a Boston gray Moustache.

'It has been brought', so said the voice in Texas Drawl,
'to our attention at the proud DOHS,
that one -so far elusive- perpetrator, has
besmirched the character and lily skin of this great USA!

The name's the same, so would you possess an alibi,
and 'Banson', might it be a clever cover
for Hadshi Halef or some other smelly name,
I bet your turban's hid' inside your scrawny ass.'

'So, out with it, you marked a score of ten
onto an Irish so-called poem, work of treason,
we've just invaded Northern Regions with our allies,
it took an hour and a half to wipe out Dublin!

You askin' me, they're friggin' Muslim lovers,
green camouflage is for the desert, don't we know it.
As a collaborator in this time of war
you are as guilty as them Afghans with their rugs,
and brand new powers make quick work of all them matters.
So have a seat, they will be here to pick you up.'

And when he asked about his now intended fate,
the wad flew out this time and landed on his shoe.
'They'll make it easy, after all we're civilised,
a single bullet and you won't know that it's coming.

I'm dropping your green passport in the shredder,
can see with my own eyes, you lousy spy,
en route to Krautland, which will be invaded,
by dawn tomorrow they will eat no sauerkraut.

The way I see it, if you ask me, this whole globe
is round and ball-shaped, which is what we stand for,
the balls to do things that need urgent doing,
and round America, as pure as Apple Pie.

I figger all them sheiks and mullahs do need cleansing,
all kingdoms and those nations of suspicion,
will be contained and then re-structured our way.
So, in the end we'll have America and Crawl,
which is the name that comes, directed by the White House
and encompasses all the filth not our own.
The land of Crawl will be what's left of populations,
that showed some promise and their role is one of service.

Oh, yes, of course, this is the New World that was needed.
We will sit back and all the Crawlies will be slaving,
and after all we have the mandate of our people.
It is a pity that you won't be here to see it.'
 
Herbert Nehrlich

Read more: america poems, green poems, work poems, poem poems, fate poems, war poems, house poems, people poems
   
 

   
   
 

  431.     

A Day In The Life Of God

God had some time, it always did turn out that way,
before his lunch which was the highlight of the day.
He'd twiddle fingers, thumbs, of each he had eleven,
and made new servants in a blink, routinely seven.
He called the servants by their given names, of course,
that's how Bonanza's fatso had been christened Hoss,
all wore suspenders and green lederhosen from Bad See,
and a small swastika with flowers on each knee.
Each new arrival was recruited by his skill,
and all would bow their heads and pray, it was His will.
He left no doubt that all His enemies were dumb
and so the time went by until His kingdom come.
 
Herbert Nehrlich
   
 

   
   
 

  432.     

A Death Notice

A letter from a friend
arrived today.
Tidbits of news,
the local flood
and all results
of football matches.

A clipping fell
from in between
the pages,
it caught my eye.

And it was you,
my friend
of old,
we could not ever
forget you,
'Dickerle',
named Robert.

It took some time
for printed matter
to reach the shores
of my small island.
But I am happy
that it has
now landed.

And now I sit
and plan
the trip,
that was not on
until
twothousandsix.

We need to
have a talk
at your new home.
 
Herbert Nehrlich
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Herbert Nehrlich