|
|
|
Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
|
|
| |
|
|
1677.
|
In Memoriam To A Stranger
I know I would have liked the man,
his facial features show him as he was,
a man of genuine humanity,
it's one who always can
be the charisma that we need,
would you permit me to imagine
that he is just as sad as I
about the squandered opportunity
we could have had, just to shake hands.
Herbert Nehrlich
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
1678.
|
In Praise Of Woman
I am, let it be known, a man who sleeps at night,
never had cause to take a pill or count those sheep.
Yet just one moon ago I woke and switched the light,
it would be hours for my morning clock to beep.
It had to be, I needed to discern
which creature I could nominate to be the best of all.
I figured living things would stand in line to earn
their place in life and where the winners would stand tall.
I searched the deserts, Kalahari end to end.
I searched the oceans, to the bottom of the sea.
I flew the skies in a small plane (it was the trend) ,
I sat and contemplated all in a tall tree.
There was the rhino and the elephant, the ass,
the pompous hippo and the lion as the king.
So many beautiful creations, some were crass,
I met a bird and fixed its badly broken wing.
I travelled far and wide and searched for the big star.
Met critters silly and extremely, looking strange,
and started thinking who they'd be and who we are,
I fell asleep there near my tent, out on the range.
I had a dream that told me more than I had known,
there was no creature in the universe that would
on close inspection (and I did perform my own)
be even near the goal that might and hoped it could.
I woke bewildered, sat up straight and did feel faint
She came with coffee and a tray for us to share.
A look at her told me that nothing is or ain't
more than a woman it is futile to compare.
Ten hours later, after much deliberation,
I am the wiser, once again and I do know.
You cannot beat the depth of human titillation,
I am reduced to utter nothing more than 'Oh'.
So I have searched the world and found the number one.
It's not an animal, it's really a surprise.
Please take it now and rest assured that I, The Hun
was never mesmerised by two hypnotic eyes.
Of all the critters that live on this holy earth.
None would be anywhere near what I call the 'it',
From neutral molecules in line to go through birth
it's woman only who has soul and real grit.
I do adore the female form and its plaisir,
there is no structure in this world that could exceed
luck may be mine to always hold a woman dear,
I'd be a nothing without woman, yes indeed..
Herbert Nehrlich
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
1679.
|
In Response To A Fay Slimm Poem
May I tell you my dear
that the love of veneer,
imitation and opal from glass
is the cause of much grief
and its loveless relief
I would urge you to polish the brass.
If you know what I mean
just imagine the scene
where the lover straps on a balloon,
serves Madeira in bulk
dresses up like the Hulk
and suspends from the ceiling a moon.
Start the new Dee-Vee-Dee
add some rum to the tea
get your signals from brain to the crotch,
I myself like the scent
of a woman, it's meant
to make felon rise up by a notch.
Why go out of your way
when at home you could stay
you have genuine flesh AND a heart
if you look for new land
then you don't understand
that true love is your state of the art.
Herbert Nehrlich
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
1680.
|
In Schlaraffenland
In the land so aptly named Schlaraffenland,
he slaved all day and searched each moonlit night
deep in the forest for the treasures of the Gods.
His name was Hickelfloggendorp, a Nordic specimen,
he'd dig with callused hands the forest floor
for truffles, under bushes and the roots of pine.
He could not see inside the silence of the mound,
he felt a gap, a horizontal port of call,
half hidden in the curls of moss, it beckoned still
until he entered into darkness, it was brave,
the great unknown surrounding, rivulets of dew
fell on his skin and drops of rain slipped from above
off convolutions at the crown of this dark cave,
exotic fragrances like London Mist adrift
he felt pure velvet and his ears took in the cries
of urges dissonant and baritone to shrill,
a desert wind without the sand but bearing heat
blew onto loins and dried pudendal skin at will.
There was a softness of pure velvet, a small teat
now swelling quickly and he realised that eyes
were now as futile as his hands beneath this bridge
he left him standing there, a warrior and a fool
there would be time to use his services and size
but until then he would be left there just to drool.
He spoke in tongues now and was watched with envious eyes
by a chameleon and owls in handsome trees,
this was new territory, whispers in its throat
he'd entered stone-henged walls and smelled the breath of bees,
and found a silence and the promise of a moat.
He felt it rising now, the sap from secret tubes
released by aches and tiny spasms from the ground
and only instinct led him, welcome Rubik's Cubes,
a froth of liquid oozes, all without a sound
before he catches it, spills slowly onto hips
and there is movement now, the sails of floating ships
Herbert Nehrlich
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|