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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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557.
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Ach Der Reim!
All poetry, says Greenwolfe must
be rhyming lest it's bound to bust
from deep within its heart of prose
non-rhyming stuff is on the nose!
Says Carter, let me tell you folks
most English poets (please no jokes)
wrote stuff that never rhymed at all
therefore, its logical to call
all prose of class and lacking rhyme
the pride of this, our modern time.
Lamont butts in with more astute
and somewhat sensical and cute
assessment of what he himself
gleaned from a book on his bookshelf.
The arguments resurface often
and never have begun to soften,
it seems that stubborn sets of mind
prohibit folks from being kind
and make them silly all the same
their stance both laughable and lame.
So, poetry as well as prose
may entertain and please both those
who have an ear for finer tunes
and those, who, born with silver spoons
had Shakespeare read to them at birth
so they'd appreciate the earth
and what it had for them in store.
So, later they would want some more
and dabbled, either in the sports
or other pasttime things of sorts
and some were drawn to poetry
which let them feel the harmony
of their own words and those of others
at first they'd read their stuff to mothers
much later, usually a teacher
who, bored, was looking for a feature
in class while he would rest his brain
thus poems came, would often gain
unfair advantage in the crowd
especially if read out loud.
So let me close with this my friends:
You don't know how the story ends,
meanwhile enjoy both both prose and rhyme
since neither really is a crime.
Herbert Nehrlich
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558.
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Ach Du Liebe Zeit
Einst, zu Hause, auf der Tenne
sass ne wohlbeleibte Henne.
Sagte zu sich selbst: Ich reibe
mit den Krallen mir am Leibe
um den Koerper anzuregen
denn ich soll doch Eier legen.
Eingeschlafen ist die Henne
auf der haeuslich schoenen Tenne.
Drueckte, rieb mit allen Kraeften
doch mit inneren Geschaeften
ist kein ewig Bund zu schmieden
Henne schlummerte im Frieden
als, mit fuerchterlichem Krachen
uebelriechend' braune Sachen
aus der Hinterstuebchenpforte
flog, da gibt es keine Worte.
Herbert Nehrlich
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559.
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Across The Main
She floats.
Above old shingles
and windswept tops
of lonely trees.
She wears a gown
of pure chiffon,
it helps her fly
and carry on,
but what she bears
in secret pouches
it's words of poetry
to soothe the soul.
She's one of us
but by default.
And if she steps
across the stream,
partakes of juice
badly fermented,
she tastes the cheese
with its own 'music'
and dreams away,
tshunkle asway.
Herbert Nehrlich
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560.
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Across The Turbulence
And may I whisper,
words, musical sounds?
Hoping that you will know,
and understand the shyness
and the consternation.
And will you hear me?
Yes, what I'm sending you is love,
a purple flower in the desert,
a butterfly that you can't miss,
a greeting meant to look so casual.
A bright reflection from the sun.
And will you see it?
Thoughts, some fragments,
and others more mature,
are on their hopeful way to you.
To find and take up residence
deep in your mind.
And will you notice them?
Kisses, I send this (X) kiss to you
to find you and caress your skin,
the privilege is overwhelming,
but unearned.
Perhaps you will stand motionless
and smile a little.
And will you welcome me?
My dreams - I gladly would
dispatch them off to you,
but heavy is my heart to see them go,
and would you cherish them?
So, love and kisses,
thoughts and sounds I send to you;
it's all I have except myself.
But will you ever ask?
Herbert Nehrlich
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