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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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125.
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The Hospice Nurse
'You have been', said the matron
'assigned to Valhalla Hospice,
you'll like it there, I'm sure.
No one will really ever bother you
for very long, you know their time
and what comes with it, is limited.
New faces, most are old, of course,
come in each week, none smiling,
but listen to my little secret now:
All of them know it is end of the line
and have a habit of restoring peace
within themselves, so here I go,
they'll give you little trinkets, watches,
necklaces and fancy dresses,
so flash a smile at them, and talk, just talk
you may get lucky when they sign,
the document that often is contested.
I am retired now, and what you see,
this house on the canal, the pool
the Daimler Benz and tennis court,
it's all because I was available,
and knew just what to say and do,
so, best of luck, my girl, go get it. '
Herbert Nehrlich
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126.
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The Last Days Of WW II
It was an early bird,
this straggler of the sun,
a ray of gold with millions
of teensie diamonds,
suspended like a milky way
and warming the old pane
and then her wrinkled
ancient but so thoughtful face.
She had been sitting there
huddled in well-worn comfort
and safety of the Biedermeier,
with buttons of authentic pearl
cords woven by young hands
in times long gone but sorely missed.
Her teeth were smiling at the morning
from well within the mustard glass
their own sweet shelter, on the sill
and Grandma drifted off again,
a pleasant snore now echoed from
the yellowed wallpaper into the room.
She'd had this strange affliction,
since the day when Russian tanks
and men with felt and dirty nails,
and worn-out boots and frightning guns
had commandeered so many things
including women, and teenage girls.
They always came at Dawn, just like
the Indians she had read about
they took no scalps but stole your soul
and there was vodka in the streets
a breeze of it, it lingered everywhere
as if it were a disinfectant which could
clean all the sins and make things right
for beast and man, and for their God.
Grandpa and youngest son were busy,
they had been sent into the Lab to make
more booze to kill the pain of war and peace
for all the soldiers, officers had now decided
that drunkenness would be the order of the day.
So, from the lowly beet, and old potatoes
they were distilling potent medicine for those
who had not been out of their clothes
since leaving Leningrad in late September.
Grandma had been assured a privileged
and almost royal, privilege, yet had no trust
in what the 'Russkis' pledged at all,
she sat, well-huddled inside her chair
surrounded by the fumes of fermentation,
her Sauerkraut was almost done, another day
or two, she would air out the crock downstairs
behind the barn away from rays of sun.
She worried, with her stoic face and hint of
a very trace of Kaiser Wilhelm's petit moustache,
but things turned out alright until, in May of forty-five
the Russkis were chased out, by fire bombs,
of phosphorus and Yellow Kalium, a strange melange
left over from the Wehrmacht's stocks and dropped
in quiet desperation upon the innocent and on the dead.
A different breed rolled into town that day in May,
trailed by a horde of screaming boys and girls,
few words exchanged, but many smiles and tears,
sidewalks soon littered with the silver paper
of chocolate bars, and cigarettes for all old men.
Grandma was sitting still upstairs, inside her chair,
a brand new batch of Sauerkraut fermenting,
she'd put her mirrors out again in both directions,
and nodded off, warmed by the sun's first rays,
Her teeth were smiling quietly inside the glass
and pleasant snores suspended, drifting toward hope.
Herbert Nehrlich
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127.
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The Real Racists
A racist is one who intends
to harm others in that he sends
clear signals to the world around
in kinesthetic and in sound.
The aim of course, must be to harm,
cause in society alarm.
The perpetrator points to traits
and -using words- he slyly baits
his fellow citizens so that
they'll don their prejudicial hat.
No question that bad mouthing can
do damage to the average man.
Consensus though is hard to reach
and even scholars, those who teach
are in a quandary to define
exactly where to draw the line.
Just as important, it is true
is what racism means to you.
Let's state that you would seek as mates
tall people from the Northern states
or folks of alabaster skin?
And that you treasure next of skin
who educate themselves and slave
from cradle right into the grave.
Or that your touchy nose will sneeze
at odours that remind of cheese,
say, all the citizens of Rome
use brushes, razors but no comb,
that Inuits stew every night
in their own sweat and think it right,
to offer to a guest their wives?
Must we condemn their wayward lives?
Ah, Savages, a fertile matter
a gender issue, when to batter
is not a question to arise,
for man is lazy, strong and wise.
All Germans, generations back
(though none were Savages or black)
would beat the living smithereens
out of their toddlers and their teens.
By saying this I'm judged by some
who tend to be, well....challenged, dumb
and ignorant of clever thinking;
they go around their colleagues winking
and pointing fingers at those humans
who stand erect and whose bright lumens
throw light upon the differences
that we observe with our senses.
And while they may be unaware
of what is proper, true and fair,
they have what we must call intent
to foist a vile predicament
upon the few who seem to differ
by using their perverted sniffer
to seek them out and then condemn
and spit them skyward like green phlegm.
I am convinced that you can see
that some are born in misery
and that there are but two main groups
(surrounded by their moron troops) :
the ones who parrot what they hear,
the others will instill plain fear
in order to incite a hate
which may just soothe their envy state.
Equipped with mediocre parts,
not up to science, even arts,
he sets his sights on tearing down
and he is called the RACIST CLOWN.
Herbert Nehrlich
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128.
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The Recluse
'Hepatomegaly, my friend',
the doctor said to the recluse,
'will turn cirrhosis in the end,
lay off that godforsaken booze.'
But Albert, the recluse went back
into the park that was his home.
He'd built himself a little shack
complete with a small garden gnome.
Inside a hollowed-out old tree
he kept a stash of Moonshine's best,
and battled there his misery,
a cough had settled in his chest.
The doctor was a silly fool,
he had not helped him in his plight.
Had sat there on his shiny stool
and squeezed his liver very tight.
Of course, like any good recluse
this one decided on his own
that he would keep his right to choose
and later on, could get a clone.
Thus he would live inside the park
forever and another day,
and drink until the sky was dark.
From doctors he would stay away.
Herbert Nehrlich
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