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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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141.
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A Devil Called Hurricane
So many faces
this turbulent devil
possesses,
seemingly,
without logic,
or justice
or fair-play...
it strikes.
And maims,
even kills
with abandon
and deadly skill
and its own
logistics.
Tsunami
shook the world
and the masses
flew into
action,
giving,
grieving,
praying,
and hoping
for mercy.
Shall we now
sit back
and await
the veritable
storm
of protest
and
righteous indignation
while the millions,
now recovered
and basking
in new-found,
gladly-given
comfort,
while they
come rushing
with their own
turbulence of
altruism
and love of
fellow man
meting out justice,
fair play
and money.
Surely,
there will be
no doubt
and not a single
excuse?
Herbert Nehrlich
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142.
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A Howler
On badminton and tennis courts
he wore his flowered boxer shorts.
His life, consumed and wrecked by sports
he howled, a plaintiff sound, of sorts.
Herbert Nehrlich
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143.
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A Little Bit Of Darkness
It had gone dark in my world.
An invisible sadness, one of substance
drifted in, from a horizon so far
and so unknown to me,
yet it sought me, only me
touching my skin with
those underworld sounds,
those that we don't seem to,
or want to, understand
and acknowledge.
Though still standing,
my head was firmly
and perhaps cowardly
pulled in between sagging
and defensive shoulders.
Eyes closed,
ears perked,
hackles up,
abdominals taut,
fidgeting for courage.
Like a missile of fog,
of odourless, colourless
but noisy and palpable
condensation, yellow a bit,
but mostly white, a most
unsuitable hue off from
the rainbow of her.
Yes, it was her rainbow,
and her substance,
she has now,
after some time
of mourning
become a Hoverer,
or is it Hoveress,
being there, at all,
including the most
inconvenient times,
looking down,
with an expression
known not to me,
but no raindrops
have fallen
and the breeze
continues to breathe
softly and silently.
Purple it is,
this haze
and the violets
with only their petals,
all green leaves gone,
torn off
or whithered,
petals intact
and pulsating
they are.
For others,
for Gods,
for lovers
and for those
who, by way of merit,
and by their nature
do not earn
but own,
the trust and the
sweaty hand
of this thing
this unicum
called love.
And perhaps,
or inevitably,
the fog,
which has the ambience
of cobwebs,
crafted by
the spiders of
human strugglings,
traps that catch
nothing but hot air,
in stinging puffs,
and that can't snap,
can't provide due to
their utter uselessness
perhaps it will,
like a bad smell
remain for a time,
all the while
labouring to engrave,
to etch itself into
my soul, with a vengeance,
as it senses its mortality,
and wants to survive,
hopeless, unhelpful,
disturbingly real.
Yet it stays,
only governed
by its own rules,
by its innate logic,
received from Gods
who hold the strings
of us puppets,
wiggling them,
tugging,
for their own purposes,
mostly to while away
a heavenly boredom.
Oh, do I wish
that my ears could hear,
my eyes could see,
and my heart would,
just this once,
tell me, reveal to me
what it feels,
what it knows,
and what it beats for.
I hope and pray,
that it is,
after all
is said and done,
for me.
Which, in the end,
it must be.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read more: fog poems, rainbow poems, courage poems, purple poems, trust poems, nature poems, green poems, hope poems, dark poems, time poems, world poems
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144.
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A Sense Of Justice
A timid boy, that's what he was.
A nerd in school, though into sports,
observing all his hometown laws
but drifting laterally, of sorts.
His senses had developed well,
but with his parents being strict
he felt dependent (all could tell) ,
much like a dog that has been kicked.
But something ripened in his mind,
it was a curious mix of fairness
and urgent need of being kind,
in conflict with acute awareness
that justice always must be done.
One day, while riding his new bike
in sweltering midsummer sun
he came upon a skinny tyke
in confrontation with a brute,
much older and more muscular.
The situation looked acute
and had progressed to vascular,
traumatic force, I mean red blood,
dripped from his nose into the mud.
The pair were totally mismatched,
the brute was known in town as tough.
The little guy, he must have hatched
twelve years before, it was enough!
Our nerd put on the stand his bike
and ordered Brute to stop the fight.
The answer was 'go take a hike
or I will crush you with my might.'
For those of you who've ever felt
the presence of adrenalin,
you would have loved that first quick belt,
which landed on the big guy's chin.
Without assistance from the kid
the daylights were then beaten out
of one who worked and lived amid
God-fearing people as a stout,
and tough and overbearing fellow.
His failing was lack of respect,
his colour as of then bright yellow.
He'd seek the weak and then select
the time and place where he could meet
his victims for a knuckle dusting.
Had never once met with defeat,
and on that day his eyes were lusting
for blood and glory, lots of tears.
But his opponent had decided
to shed all shyness and his fears,
and, from that moment he was guided
by Justice and the rights of man.
There was a rather quick conclusion,
our hero mumbled 'Yes, I can',
the case was clear, with no confusion.
The Brute had lost his reputation,
for, in the villages and valleys
the outcome had been a sensation.
And in the dark, sinister alleys,
the Brute was never seen again.
He had become a laughing stock
and never scared another man.
Much later Nerd became a Doc.
Herbert Nehrlich
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