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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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781.
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Bumping Into The Past
I was so tired when we landed
two hours more at Honolulu,
before the onward flight departs
Vancouver, I can hardly wait.
An argument now with the barman
the whiskey was a blend of sorts
and not what I would always drink
welcome to cheats, they own Hawaii.
I turned and stared at what appeared
behind the counter CP Air
and lightning struck, that's how it felt
I had to know her, it was life.
And in a moment we were laughing,
she had commanded in the past
the desk of Frankfurt's ancient uni
and now she flew the freedom skies.
I was upgraded to first class,
and watched her splendidly round ass
as she came cruising many times
with twenty year old Bourbon Whiskey.
We talked about the very smallness
of our big world where people bump
into each other and remember
old times that need to be refreshed.
It was a real act of kindness
I stretched back in the first class chair
and when we landed in Vancouver
I met her husband, and the kids.
Herbert Nehrlich
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782.
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Buns In The Oven
There once was a candlestickmaker
whose own daughter had married a baker.
Well, the baker died young
he was dark and was hung
and while dead met the undertaker.
Soon the widow took fancy to Clare
whom she met at the Bΰllina Fair,
they designed a new bun
if you'll pardon my pun
and created from flour an heir.
First they mixed a small bucket of flour,
added yeast, let it rise for an hour.
Then they squeezed fom the breast
of an innocent guest
some colostrum to make the dough sour.
In the oven the dough received heat
(baking things makes them ready to eat) ,
when the loaves were all done
(each was shaped like a bun)
they were in for a very strange treat.
Soon each bun grew a pair of white legs,
(this was due to the use of four eggs) ,
add two arms and a face
all attached to the base
in the shape of a carpenter's pegs.
All the buns remained steady and still,
so they fetched from the garden some dill,
which they sprinkled on one
(a formidable bun) .
Pay attention now, folks, if you will.
There are mystery powers in greens
which includes all the herbs and the beans,
when the power unfolds
it will break sturdy moulds
and revives aging crap in latrines.
Well, the bun had been switched on to life,
so Miss Clare turned to say to her wife:
As it looks, it's a girl
let us baptise her Shirl'
and she pulled out a pastrycook's knife.
Now the candlestickmaker appeared
looked at both and their buns, then he sneered:
You will need a boy bun
if she wants to have fun
and he scratched his two meter long beard.
Well, his son who had been the town's baker
had a dad (yes, the candlestickmaker) ,
he performed a neat trick
by implanting a wick
which was tied to a live circuitbreaker.
Added dill to the bun that was cut,
placed them close, overnight in a hut.
Then nine days in the sun...
she gave birth to a bun
and they named the new baby King Tut.
Here the tale gets a tiny bit shonkey,
while the little one liked Honky-Tonky,
he was sterile of course
like a hee-haawing horse,
which the candlestickmakers call donkey.
Herbert Nehrlich
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783.
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Burial
Churchbells remind me
to this day
of innocence and home.
I hurried now to reach
the ancient rust
and eerie squeak
of what you'd call
a sacred portal.
Townfolk had filled
the chapel room,
it was the final stop
for all, though not today.
Framed by the rustling
of proud growing junipers,
forbidding walls
relieved by shades
of purple velvet
over hand-blown glass.
It would provide
the quick escape
for any soul that had,
now been recalled.
An act of God, they'd say,
and somber nods
like reassuring waves
hung from the rafters,
rough-hewn oak,
a single ribbon greeted,
I was nearly sure
just me, the one still young.
There, near the coffin,
a spider sat, alone
and seemingly all lost.
He startled me
as he now stared
until
we both appeared to smile.
I knew he could not be
part of this world.
Herbert Nehrlich
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784.
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Buried In The West
They had expected it,
that greasy, yellow fog
zigzagging from the one
then to the other lamps
out on the silent street.
The would, of course
be vigilant tonight,
it was their only chance
and the alternative was death.
Tomorrow all would dance
in celebration of the first of May,
the day that workers had,
through Lenin's grace
gained freedom all at once.
There would be, for some time
the sound of guns, more distant now,
as stragglers came to grips
with their own destiny and fears.
It was not theirs, would never be,
this paradise designed in Hell,
let others stay and dance
and kiss their masters' feet,
and listen to the Kremlin's brazen bell.
Berlin had been too far for them to go,
one needed proper documents and guts,
there was no moon tonight but bloody fog,
all three could clearly hear a barking dog.
Pines swayed and creaked as if to shout
a warning and to hurry them,
a rabbit out too late in frozen fear,
the freedom whistle of a foreign train
as terror crawled into heroic hearts.
They'd stitched the fabric over many weeks,
Bulgarian canvas, just imported, but for tents.
A harness borrowed from the country fair
and handkerchiefs to button up the leaks.
Propane had been the worry all along,
they'd stolen just one tank from the old school,
the gas hissed out, igniting as a flare,
and now it grew into a circus tent and more,
each man strapped tightly to their chairs
then they were off into the darkness of the night.
The wind had woken now and helped to make them go,
there was the image of a happy Milky Way,
full steam ahead they sang and watched the giant flame
when shots rang out from fellow citizens of shame.
Too soon they crashed, an urgent, wild descent,
into the river that had promised liberty.
It was the territory of the bold and free.
Four lifeless souls pulled from the water's icy cold,
but the true story, it was never ever told.
Herbert Nehrlich
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