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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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1593.
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His Final PVC's
His distant friend,
so well respected
by all, had written
that there was nothing
that would, in the end
reverse the weakening
of the histology,
(he put it nicely) ,
and that the DNA
would not take
kindly to all the stress,
would certainly
and with a vengeance
recall the whipping.
Disturbing news,
he found,
are dealt with best
by metamorphosis,
and so, against
the truth itself
he dithered,
and procrastinated,
and in defiance
created endorphins
and did persist
by telling this,
his tired horse
that whipping
had to be endured,
in fact it would improve
and make immortal
those very cells that,
in the nick of time,
in days forgotten,
had pulled themselves
out of the grip of...
the one they call
the reaper of cardiology.
'Myocarditis', he'd said
will never leave
the heart unscathed,
one cannot now,
or in the future
ignore this fact
and then persist
with playing to
an audience
of youngish, braless
women and the like,
and run the marathon
as if the tide had turned
and youth been resurrected.
But, there is always,
on this cruel earth
a choice, speak up
and come to me,
it is essential now
that words to the effect
of myocardial balm
be offered by the voice
of great authority.
It is subjective,
after all and one must,
to rest assured,
decide which truth
would be authentic,
and thus, convenient.
A brilliant man,
lives in the land
where Longhorns roam
came to the party
armed with smiles
and reassurance.
It sometimes helps
to ask the question
in a way that pleases
both ear and mind
as if it had suspended
accountability.
And so it was
that, like Jim Fixx,
he ran and ran
until the day arrived
where only cirrhus clouds
were witness to the tragedy.
A painful fistful of PVC's,
those squeezes that,
in any circumstance
no heart would want.
They are the ones
that choke you heartily,
with excess kindness,
with which they kill you.
When they dropped in
to visit him just once
he knew the truth
and reaped its punishment
though only for a minute.
Then he was gone.
And rumours have it,
that on the other side
of cirrhus clouds,
there is a runner,
a stubborn man,
who still defies
all odds,
and utters only
those words of wisdom
that suit.
But, on the other hand
the laws of cardiology
do not apply up there.
Herbert Nehrlich
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1594.
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His Green Thumb
He disturbed her well earned and deep slumber,
on the telephone, calling her number.
He said, please darling come
I have grown a green thumb
and it's yielded a giant cucumber!
Herbert Nehrlich
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1595.
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His Job
It squeaked each time it rocked,
as if it needed a small squirt of WD,
the church had given him this chair
to sit within embroidered cushions
and contemplate, that was the key.
These days it seemed that all the weight
of human misery had somehow dropped
onto his shoulders, to be dealt deciding blows,
and he had drawn from inner strengths
the wherewithall, to be His adjutant on earth.
Yet this was different now, the message came
out of the blue from distant shores, a cry it was,
was there no man who would and could be there
to spell it out, the word of God, for those who sin?
There was a soccer game to go and cheer the lads,
the sermon for next Sunday, in anticipation,
the dinner to make peace with family,
and this would be a test, that much he knew,
of who he was, and what he wished to be for all.
He took the can of lubricant and sprayed the chair,
the opportunity belied a silence of the mind,
there was no conflict of the soul, nor would his God
expect convention and convenience, dear to man
make its appearance now to sift through what was true.
A human being, though not known to be a friend
or one who'd dropp his silver coins and would confess
in foreign lands, perhaps a stranger to his God,
enduring overwhelmingly, the bitter pains of grief,
there was no wavering, no sudden consultation,
he stood in awe and felt the feeble hand's relief.
Herbert Nehrlich
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1596.
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His Little Secret
And there it was again.
Eight months without
and hope abundant,
his faith, which was
needless to say, things,
real things hoped for,
such as dreams
also necessities,
the foul essentials
of a life he had not wanted.
The bloody pain.
The hospital had seemed,
those years ago
indifferent, yes
because he did not have
a proper policy
nor dog-eared cash
to pay for tests
and 'management'.
No one could tell him
about the nature of
the menace that would come
a couple times a year
with a ferocity
that rivalled death itself.
So, in the end he did consult
the latest books on medicine,
for diagnosis and the lot,
it could be, so they said
diverticulitis, or polyps,
or some type of colitis,
such as Crohn's or IBS,
he also found that, in the end
it was too likely to deteriorate
and turn itself into malignancy,
as if you needed that,
Oh Modern Medicine, he chanted
give me your pills, and potions.
I'll swallow them for peace
and for a cure that does defy
the books and all the learnings,
I do not give a stuff at all.
Just take that friggin' pain away,
and I will pay you with my soul,
when all my money has run out
and crazy devils still persist
in sending missiles straight to me.
He hid the blood as it appeared,
and left no trace for her to find
inside the tub or anywhere,
it was his little secret only now,
the first and so essential
perhaps the gods would show
a bit of mercy.
Herbert Nehrlich
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