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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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53.
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Inspirations
Like the poet who wrote
that he ran out
of inspiration,
of words.
And he asked the Gods,
would they, perhaps
give it back to him,
this thing
that allowed him
to talk to people.
And be heard.
The Gods had mercy.
He's back,
undiminished
and forgetting his humbleness.
I knew he would
be twice okay.
And that his cry was more
a song of empty feelings.
So, he won't miss me
or my words,
because
I may have
defied the Gods.
So said the devil
when he
burned my paper
and poured
all my ink
into the fire.
'You done' he said.
Perhaps I am.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read more: inspiration poems, song poems, fire poems, people poems, running poems
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54.
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Learnings
And who will remember
the day in September,
when the terrorists struck
and New York went amuck?
Will the people forget,
with naivetι bet
that the world is now safe
for the meek and the brave?
I remember the places
and the hate-laden faces,
those who took a last breath
and then jumped to their death.
But the world will not learn,
as its heartfelt concern
is replaced like worn dentures
with exciting adventures.
We are busy destroying
(which to me is annoying) ,
what has served us so well.
And we're looking to Hell
for the answer to cancer,
like a talentless dancer
who comes, hat in his hand
to deceive and demand.
We create new diseases,
a scenario that pleases
all the powers to be.
But not you and not me.
We establish committees
in the towns and the cities,
in an effort to make
a most wonderful cake.
We, the doc's are enticing
to finance the sweet icing
for the privileged few
I am sorry, not you) .
And the way all this works
is when arrogant jerks
make dependent the masses
while they sit on their asses
and invent all new tricks
while the worker Joe licks
all his flesh wounds at once.
He's abandoned his guns
for the good of the nation.
As his own operation
is performed in a clinic
by a greedy old cynic.
So, we point our fingers
to the terrorist threat,
while the acrid smoke lingers
and the newspapers fret.
Thus, we see the smoke's traces
far away, in the distance.
And we turn our black faces
toward thoughts of existence.
Our little red engines
race to save a strange home.
Fight the fire with vengeance
on the outskirts of Rome.
Herbert Nehrlich
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55.
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On Rod McKuen
It was the sixties when he came
from nowhere in particular, it seemed.
The country was divided into haves
and have-nots, as is usually the case.
But further trouble brewed in Vietnam,
young boys were being sent to jungles,
and many stayed, although unwillingly.
His name was Rod McKuen, poet,
war correspondent of the mad Korean War,
he wandered into many lives and was adored
as idols were so very much in short supply.
So many albums, countless poetry creations,
it was the human hiding in between the lines
and looking back I say those truly were the days
when Frank Sinatra did it, like McKuen, just his way.
What makes a poet or a butcher or a baker,
who is the judge and who the final undertaker.
Two million copies in three years, and who did read
those golden words from number one in USA?
He spoke to us from heart to heart, he soothed
and took our hand on all his journeys into Awe.
He was persona grata and a trusted friend,
one who would stand out in the storm, and all alone
until the masses felt their need to be united
and to be counted as they stood in someone's shadow.
Herbert Nehrlich
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56.
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On Stress
To those who give us stress, God bless!
It took me decades, I confess
to see a reason in each mess
which is, I venture a small guess,
the raison d'λtre nonetheless
for life to bring to us success.
So, please allow me to express
the fervent wish not to suppress
this life-essential thing called stress,
lest death cause stress to effervesce,
which soon would plunge us in distress.
Though it is harmful in excess,
we must embrace it, Yes to Stress!
Perhaps this causes you duress?
It's thirteen lines above, no less!
Herbert Nehrlich
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