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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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2017.
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On Humour And Homer
I was asleep but only just
dreamed of a local poet's bust.
Upon awakening it seemed
that poet Hogg, himself esteemed,
had answered in poetic ways
his style appropriate for plays.
I rubbed my still reluctant eyes
and could, in time indeed surmise
that words of beauty, even ballads
had been presented like a salad
and filled so many forum pages
(perhaps they'd opened all the cages?)
that I decided on a log
to wade, barefooted through the bog,
keep track of who did say which words,
of friendly fire from the nerds
alas, the effort was in vain
I had to find a blind man's cane!
There was the usual jealous hissing,
behind the paragraphs were kissing
(those with a debt outstanding still)
glutei maximi at will.
My fellow peacocks, I regret
I was not conscious, don't forget
we Aussies need more rest than Yanks
but to Elysabeth my thanks.
She mentioned me, which is quite fair
next to a fellow named Homer.*
I had distinctly heard a rumour
that he possessed MY sense of humour
which occupies both hemispheres
and catches people unawares.
However, lest you miss the point
when humour to the truth is joined
it ought to trigger happy laughter,
internal dialogue thereafter.
Perhaps next week I will be funny
relay some humour from the Dunny.
For those who don't know Aussie slang
it's shitty, shitty, bang bang bang.**
* My HS Greek teacher insisted that Homer be pronounced Homaire
** Idea borrowed without permission from (I believe) TDF
Herbert Nehrlich
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2018.
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On Manners
The world, it is a silly stage
each day it adds another page
though I, the fool I missed the day
when nudity was on display.
Today, I pray to higher powers
about hard cloak and dagger towers
I come, four-gallon hat in hand
and stake a claim on this here land,
awaiting one, a gentle wave
pray for admission to the cave.
Should I be judged as far too fresh
keep me away from fragrant flesh,
instead a bit of imagery
may introduce me to the tree.
Herbert Nehrlich
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2019.
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On Poetry
A site that features poetry
is heaven to the poet,
the owl lives in a hollow tree
only the mice don't know it.
So if the owl would just recite
a poem now and then,
and in between swoop for a bite
I'd take my trusted pen
and write about the owl as well
as of the mice and vermin,
how squirrels open up a shell
I'd give you a big sermon.
But most of all I'd use the time
to sort the words, dear friends,
so you will listen to the rhyme
and like it (it depends) ,
I think the arts are better still
than all the science matters
though life itself, for poets will
quite often be in tatters.
Herbert Nehrlich
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2020.
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On Taste
He'd lick your fingers, one by one
caress in turn each eager bun,
and within seconds he would slide
to find his welcome deep inside.
There, like a boy, he'd romp and play
and, due to ambience would stay.
Until deflation bids good-bye
and he withdraws without a sigh.
Behind is left a small deposit
a skeleton within her closet.
It mixes with her geyser's fluids
and all his fishes now get to it
they travel to the Northern section,
meanwhile he feels a new erection.
She pulls, with nails so sharp they hurt
and soon they energise and spurt,
a smile takes over her red lips
while there is movement in their hips
and taste is all, you don't or do
from Southern lands the swallow flew.
Herbert Nehrlich
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