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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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713.
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A Minute
'Just wait a minute, ' that is what I hear,
I'm an impatient one who doesn't have much time,
yet it has been my lot to be quite far, not near,
from action needed prior to the clock's next chime.
And when you ask, my friend, what really is a minute,
ain't there a lot of them, an awful, countless number?
As a comedian would describe it 'Bear and Grin it',
and in the morning you would gladly add one to your slumber.
It's a commodity of pretty small dimensions,
consisting, as it does, of only sixty seconds.
If running late for work you're feeling added tension,
but at the dentist you don't like it when he beckons.
It must be unimportant, cheap and easy money,
this timely measure of a person's detailed life.
If in a minute it could rain or be blue skies and sunny,
your wife could whisper 'it will be just one more minute'.
But as so often is the case, when people pay attention
to stupoid, unimportant, obsolescent matters,
they fail to realise a truth that I must mention:
No minute does repeat, that is a myth that quickly shatters.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read more: money poems, running poems, work poems, truth poems, rain poems, friend poems, people poems, time poems, sky poems
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714.
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A Need For Words
Nothing said. But,
trailing close behind you
is my farewell, though a bit late.
And when we meet again
there will be
the uncertainty
of happy smiles at last.
The need for words, it was
my shadow, but not yours.
And what we talked about
was always introductory.
As if the main meal
still could wait,
perhaps the guests
would break the ice,
and change the thaw
into sweet wine
to loosen stubborn tongues.
And of the promises
expected and directed,
was there a plan
that could surpass
common convention?
Will we,
when crossing paths
then walk together?
Make up for time
you did not have,
and would not take
on this God's earth?
Will there be wine to drink
and time to dwell,
is it the company
to fill a need?
Creating what turned
into little 'you'
was rather easy
and perhaps coincidental.
But when you left
you tore the stuffing
out of hearts
that were
but ill-prepared
to see you part
so very soon.
Things left unsaid,
undone, unfelt
and unbeknownst
will be my luggage
when we meet again,
my son.
Though time will drag,
as you would know,
its clumsy feet,
I'd call it Bliss
if you could send
a tiny sign.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read more: farewell poems, son poems, change poems, together poems, happy poems, time poems, god poems, smile poems
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715.
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A Never-Ending Tease
Well, there was nothing else to do,
homework had been assigned
to late tomorrow, after lunch,
and this was just a day, too good
to stay inside and let the world go by.
I walked, which I would never do
without a cause, toward the edge
of our small town, where students
of the arts and sciences co-habited.
There was a pub, about two miles away,
it was the logic of the destination
which attracted me, a sunny day it was.
A rhythmic sound disturbed my mind,
it was created by a hoe between the stalks
of golden corn in a small garden by the road,
and God had seen to it, a maiden with red hair
had been commanded to be waiting just for me.
I struck, not being shy beyond my horniness
up a small talk which quickly led to conversation.
She had a smile that would have told the weeds
to seek their pleasures in the field, somewhere.
Strangely enough I never offered her my services,
but there was talk all afternoon until the night.
Turned out her dad had been the mayor of the town
for twenty years and he was tough with his two girls,
he was a gentleman and had a heart of gold,
but there were canons standing by at City Hall.
We were just children of a time that you will miss,
there was a sweetness to humanity to please
our expectations of a world that saw a kiss
as celebration of the never-ending tease.
Herbert Nehrlich
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716.
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A New Day
Let dawn arise and send the dark away,
dew drops of silver cling to budding leaves,
reluctance marks the rebirth of the day
as spiders search for victims near the eaves.
Sun's rays grow stronger as they singe the mist
a splash of gold slides off the village cat
while each petunia dreams of being kissed
by happy robins wearing tassles and pink hat.
She fills the basket while the cock objects,
he seems to be a fan and an old fool,
a silver star, a trifle late, briefly reflects
its image in the pond they call the pool.
And now he crows, the sound cuts through the town,
a hundred children scramble out of bed,
a little boy who wanders off to drown
and from the bakery a hint of bread.
Herbert Nehrlich
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