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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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129.
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The Russian Bride
He had, at last decided
that she would have to go,
his Russian bride, the trophy
who had willingly become
his bride, you should have seen
the envy, he had been the king.
The day the card arrived, so green,
permission to remain forever
in the land of greatest freedom
she'd packed her single bag
and left, at dawn, to seek her liberty.
He'd been awake and trapped
her on the steps to the garage,
quickly his necktie snuffed her life.
They never missed her anywhere,
no friends or family at home,
no one to cry, or call her name.
Herbert Nehrlich
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130.
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The Vicar's Laxative
There once was a Vicar named Groon
he was raised with a true silver spoon.
And at bedtime he'd take
for his haemorrhoids' sake
a large dish of a stew made from prune.
When the sun said 'good night' to the moon
and arranged itself like a balloon
he would run to the loo
without further ado
and discharged juice of prune very soon.
Herbert Nehrlich
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131.
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Three Limericks
There once was a poet named Stu,
he would write 'til his fingers turned blue.
When he searched for a rhyme
he committed a crime,
they said only free-versing for you.
In the greatest of rivers, the Nile
lived a six meter crocodile.
A reptilian purist
he would eat only tourists
you could tell when he had, by his smile.
My great uncle Dan is no more
he would sleep standing up and would snore.
With his mouth open wide
a huge roach crawled inside
and it left through the open back door.
Herbert Nehrlich
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132.
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Trainstation
I see you, standing in the station's light, my mother
a frigid wind blows, cruel accomplice of the night
your loving arms hold tightly now my little brother
a few stray glances linger, leave our sorry plight.
I see your shivers, mother, it is not just cold,
you know that parting is a bitter little death.
There comes a time, you said, for all to leave the fold,
you seem so fragile now and small and out of breath.
But now you smile to me, a trick to lift the mood,
it is the misty smile of camouflage, you weep.
It's early evening and folks appear subdued,
the stationmaster's whistle lets my brother sleep.
White, silver gray your hair, tied in a formal bun
and much too thin inside your flimsy overcoat,
yet now you joke with me, we're having so much fun
it is hilarious, that man looks like a goat.
And only now your face gets dark and very gray
a thousand moths disturb the light with crazy joy.
There is so little that the two of us can say,
the final whistle blows then, 'come back soon my boy.'
And as the train pulls out and gathers farewell speed
I can see her standing, brave face and oh, so small,
while I must leave to fight my battles and indeed
some thirty years did pass, I did return that Fall.
Herbert Nehrlich
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