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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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953.
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Bless You
They stood, in little groups,
heads bowed as if about to pray,
while urgent steps strode past
through sliding doors besmudged
with tons of fingerprints, fly pooh
and squeegie marks left there to dry.
Two uniforms, well starched, appeared,
their shiny boots stepping in unison,
in rhythm of a city full of dreams,
of little secrets that would be like flies
attracted to the innocence of eyes.
A father, robed and bald, hands raised
and flaunting a worn bible to the sky,
God needs to know who still believes
and who would carry His well laden torch
down the old path, so very full of thorns
that hung suspended from thin twigs
and formed a canopy of discontent,
while silent whispers of the greatest sacrifice
descended, playfully like living flakes
to come to rest upon the icy streets,
painting the fields and luscious meadows
in virgin white, a portrait for the Gods.
There had to be, he pondered on this still,
a gaggle of the holy ones above, indeed
mankind would never be without the need.
The father now pretended to immerse
his facial bones into the holy book,
as if the truth did matter, in each verse.
He passed the group, oblivious to all,
and as they swayed and let their bodies fall
coming to rest inside their drug-induced cocoon,
he hurried past as if his presence were to be
a matter of good planning. Maybe soon.
The Bishop came to open the big door,
broad smile placed on his face, Oil of Olay,
well manicured he shook and pumped
as if to say, we are two of a very special breed.
Fig Newtons dipped into a tea just brewed,
from raspberries and olive leaf, well stirred,
and never shaken, he explained and smiled
his boyish and heartwarming crowfeet smile.
They dwelled in subject matters of concern,
and lingered over drugs within their town,
the facial tuck and cream did not permit a frown.
At five the two, one as a predecessor though,
the other with his hopes glued to the hierarchy,
did bless four hundred cons within the local jail
and praised their work; it was a fabric shop,
downstairs, on concrete floor, heavily spangled with
machines that seemed to have been salvaged
from a distant past, yet they did do the job, and well,
a stitch would race through vinyl of a certain grade
like little footsteps in the fresh November snow.
A little armless man, quick on his feet, did spring
as if on tiny trampolines, from one machine
to number two, each time attaching a small cloth,
in linen white, the Roman letters neat and raven black,
announcing both a purpose and a destination,
correctly spelled as well as starched, they said,
One Body Bag, size universal, Property of DOC,
which stood for, well, Department Of Correction
as you may have known. The father, full of hope,
glued to the hierarchy and promises to reap,
he entertained a fleeting, very much disturbing thought
about the owners' name, misnomer it could be.
Herbert Nehrlich
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954.
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Bloodshed
I had to close the book of mankind's history,
it told of many wars, of bloodshed and of torture,
describing in disturbing but extensive detail,
how one can split a skull and full-grown man in half,
right down the centre of his hapless, useless being.
As if he'd never mattered or deserved to live.
So many years and so much blood was spilled,
that fertile fields bore witness to man's greatest folly.
On page eleven of four hundred, many illustrated,
they had included a description of a gallic guillotine,
complete with animation, only light touch was required,
and in true colours bloody heads rolled to the bottom of the page.
I had now seen enough, of pages so explicit
and stuffed it back into the very upper shelf.
And out of sight was out of mind, all within minutes.
I'd closed the book on one man's cruelty to others.
But the Jack Russell's death watch in Zimbabwe
disturbed me so that I was forced to close my eyes.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read more: history poems, death poems, light poems, war poems
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955.
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Bloomin' Mongrel
I must surely confess
that this comment is true
may ye Gods come and bless
Christmas Day just for you.
As the day leaves behind
all its sounds and the light
you just rest and unwind
with sad eyes, blue and bright.
There is not on this globe
even one who could give;
like the lights of a strobe
you are mine and you live
for your master, that's me
you impose no condition
could I be a small flea
we would surely go fishing.
Herbert Nehrlich
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956.
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Blown Away
But then she could not stay,
the one with regal confidence.
She sang the song of naked innocence
and all my cares were, in the end,
just blown away.
Herbert Nehrlich
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