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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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957.
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De Ribbe
Die Rippe ist schon wieder gut
kein Schmerz behindert nun das Leben.
Zum Rolfie geht's mit frohem Mut,
es heilt noch mehr der Saft der Reben.
Und brichst du jemals eine Rippe
egal ob vorne oder hinten,
dann denk an Deine grosse Sippe
die ohne Panzer, ohne Flinten
sich auf den Feldern blutig schlugen
nur um des Egoismus willen,
Da sind wir heute doch die Klugen
doch unser'n Durst den woll'n wir stillen.
Herbert Nehrlich
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958.
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Dead In Bed (Haiku)
He stayed in his bed
on that beautiful morning
because he was dead.
And no matter how
they had yelled and screamed loudly
he stayed dead, proudly.
Herbert Nehrlich
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959.
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Dear Fag
Dear cigarette, are you my friend?
Your lovely smiles, are they for me?
The filter on your other end,
does it protect, is it the key
to disallowing noxious gases
from occupying healthy lungs?
I see, when wearing reading glasses
small cuts that look like ladder rungs,
inside your smooth and shiny filter.
The number of those cuts decides
how toxic, let's say out of kilter,
the puffs will be to my insides.
So tell me, handsome cigarette,
could it be true what I have heard,
that I should think and smoke instead
a colourful, though dried out turd?
Cause cigarettes are coffin nails:
You smoke enough, they close the lid,
and turds originate near tails...
I'm talking to my youngest kid!
Perhaps my words for smoky ears
will penetrate the haze,
prevent a tragedy through fears
that years cannot erase.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read more: friend poems, smile poems, fear poems
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960.
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Dear John
The postman rang,
not once but twice,
his Irish Twang
sounds pretty nice,
delivering to affluents
beats 'cross the tracks
where they have stashed the effluents.
Dear John, or Max,
the letter read
when you read this
our love is dead.
Sealed with no kiss.
I won't be ringing on the phone,
though writing sucks
without the tone.
Well, here's some ducks
and pelicans
and John Greene Deere
chews jellykins
and sprays the weir
goes round and round
and squints his eyes,
it's not the ground
but pale-skinned thighs
and curves attract
I see he's mowed
now once again,
and barely slowed
thus are the men,
testosterone,
brain in a bag
Potomkin's bone
lifts up the rag.
Well, see you John
it says in bold
Methinks a letter is too cold.
Herbert Nehrlich
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