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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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513.
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Perestroyka
There once was a fellow from Syria,
he would play on his harp the Valkyria.
Said an Orthodox Jew
is this musical new,
said the Arab, I really can't hear ya.
Herbert Nehrlich
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514.
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Perfection **
Perfection, seldom seen or heard
is similar to a rare bird.
It hides away from man and beast
and ripens lke the baker's yeast.
Improving on it asks for heat
a breath will do, its measure neat
and blown with gentleness upon
the miracle so oft withdrawn.
If you, my friend should catch a glimpse,
hold on before the sunshine dims
and guard with all you have inside
against the dark and stormy tide
when failings spring from man's sad mind
and he must leave it all behind.
Herbert Nehrlich
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515.
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Persistence
A humming sound, though almost still.
Something he'd never heard before.
The likes of it! Oohm, oohm, and scary,
he could not find it in his mind,
his comfort yielding to frustration,
when so far up the old shit creek,
once dunked, twice dripping, also smarting
from nagging curiosity.
And inner voices aim to badger.
Oh yes, the hubby mantis lusted,
then only said, 'What the....', no less,
when finely chiseled hands proceeded
to tear his handsome head clear off.
The rest was blatant mystery,
though not to him because of timing
and public utter headlessness.
So, is this the ideal weapon,
sophisticated warfare tool,
and activism driving waves
of sound that can't be recognised,
yet hums persistently in dissonance.
Humming is best, as frank pulsations
would signal familiarity.
How often, after all, does one
encounter Nature's hummingbird?
And when it happens, ooohm, ooohm, ooohm,
well, what the heck, what do you know?
So you start looking, hoping, praying,
for perfect versions, yours at last.
You muster patience, stick around
'til someone quickly tears yours off.
And afterward, some sordid creature
will likely have their way with you.
Until that time, however, know
it's still your game of heads or tails.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read more: nature poems, smart poems, hope poems
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516.
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Personal Injury
How clumsy I had been.
For me, the strapping athlete,
to fall inside the supermarket.
Feet up, right near the cucumbers
and with a gaggle of tomatoes,
a cache of brussel sprouts,
twelve hundred leaves of iceberg,
and Bimbo with green apron,
all looking on, observing, on edge
of breaking out in raucous laughter.
The smirk was building now,
so, with a funeral director's face,
I picked myself off the slick floor,
composing all the systems as I rose,
and then pronounced, and just in time
as the greengrocer manager arrived,
full blown and chalk-white devastation
in a face that knew, this was the USA.
'It's a P.I.', I said and all knew what I meant.
Herbert Nehrlich
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