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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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117.
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A Poet Is A Unicorn
A poem is when it is born
a trifle like a unicorn.
It hovers in its growing stage
displays, perhaps a bit of rage
unbridled it can be and wet
just like a baby you have met
but what it really sets apart
from other godly works of art
it grows a horn perfectly suited
in which the poet's soul is rooted.
So when your inner thoughts feel torn
just think of your own unicorn.
And don't forget that all your words
have wings and fly about like birds
and comes the day the world should mourn
their poet was a unicorn.
Herbert Nehrlich
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118.
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A RIGHTEOUS DEATH
Kidneys packing it in,
fluid on the lungs,
congestive heart failure,
cognitive breakdown,
prolonging means money.
Who makes it, that dreaded
decision, based on
no vision, no reason.
Seen by some
as treason, or economics,
no cure in sight,
amelioration failing,
heavy cannons
not considered.
Somewhere the word
is uttered, barely audible,
EUTHANASIA.
It smacks of Goebbels,
is it an active death?
And if we change
the term
to a much kinder one,
KALOTHANASIA,
it could well mean
that those who die
will be relieved
that theirs will be
a righteous death.
Herbert Nehrlich
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119.
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A Strange Teacher
A teacher I adored and loved,
was seen last evening, when he shoved
illegally and with much force,
an object into a big horse.
The horse objected, he persisted
the man was fat and pudgy-fisted.
They called the cops for an arrest.
The man explained that he had blessed
this animal, to meet his god,
what struck the coppers as too odd.
But then, to end the whole confusion
and your's, dear readers' weird conclusion,
the priest poured wine into the horse.
Well then it dawned on them, of course.
Horsing around with any beast -
the privilege for any priest.
Herbert Nehrlich
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120.
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About Breasts-With Apologies
There once was a lady named Kane
she lived in Northcumberland Lane
she was a bit fat
and regrettably flat
it was driving her somewhat insane.
So she constantly went and attacked
those who had what she obviously lacked
and whenever she dressed
she was praying for breasts,
made with the old devil a pact.
Then one day in the middle of Spring
she was scratching her scapular wing
when she noticed a swelling
and hot tears began welling
and her titties began to sing.
Well the devil had kept his word
had corrected where God must have erred
within fourteen hours
she was getting flowers
and Uriah was gawking, my word.
Herbert Nehrlich
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