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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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2233.
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Professor Dr. W.N. Zum Geburtstag
Ich hatte eine Flasche Wein
wollt schicken sie an's Bruederlein.
Die Post war an dem Tag nicht offen
so hab' ich ihn dann selbst gesoffen.
Berlin, das Pflaster von Herrn Zille
die Stadt der rosaroten Brille,
ich wuensche Dir 'ne schoene Fete
wobei ich gern mitmischen taete.
Nun bist Du wieder ein Jahr aelter
das Haar wird grau, das Wetter kaelter.
Doch wuerden wir es gerne sehen
wenn aus dem Osten Winde wehen
und diese Winde fuer uns bringen
nebst Regen und den and'ren Dingen
ein Brieflein ab und zu von Dir.
Das wuensch ich Dir und uns und mir.
Herbert Nehrlich
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2234.
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Professor Wolf R.
He did not listen.
And, come to think of it
he never had, or could.
There was a blockage
inside his stubborn skull,
strictly inherited, no doubt,
just look at his old man,
there isn't anyone who would
give him the time of day,
though no one's chased him
which they shoulda done, away.
The jump had to be executed,
if one expected to survive
in a slight twist from near the top.
The balustrade was sturdy,
the distance fifteen metres
and landing surface one-ten square.
The trick was to immerse, at tempo
nearly top speed of motorcars,
between the pylon and the concrete base,
one could quite easily avoid the cross-arch.
The undertow was known and much liked,
it hightened the great thrill of the experience.
Wolf did a corkscrew, which looked crafty,
but as he fell there was a cry, though hushed,
he'd pushed off hard, too far toward the side
and would not make it, even with a miracle.
He crashed into the raggedness of concrete,
so unforgiving yet so neutral, unconcerned.
There was a crack of human bone that moment,
and he went under, sucked below by undertow.
We dove like buzzards to retrieve the bloody mess,
his brain exposed, half hanging on his ear,
there was no blood to see, only some drops,
we carried him up to the Doc's, three flights.
Who sat in a dilapidated chair, smoking a pipe
that reached from his moustache down to the floor.
A glass of Asbach Uralt, the country's best brandy,
got to unsteady feet to help where help was needed.
We did get sick a bit when he, with patient hands
stuffed Wolfie's brains back into broken skull,
while the Frau Doktor boiled the needles on the stove,
and sterilised the bandage with the suntan lamp.
They fed him egg yolks mixed with cream, and broth,
made from the best the town could spare in forty-nine,
it was a battle that his mother had to win, her only son.
Two decades on old Wolfie honoured her, of sorts,
when he took up his post at Charitι, the trauma unit,
he followed Sauerbruch and Koch and Rudolph Virchow,
They say that shaking up his brain had been essential
and that the special food had made him what he was.
Herbert Nehrlich
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2235.
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Prognosis
McCain says a stent will serve well to prevent
sudden death caused by atrial fib,
let us hope that it works as some folks are hell-bent
to vote Caribou Mom (I ad lib) .
Well a stent is a tube that will never repair
a defect caused by collagen lack,
without nutrients often the plaque will just tear
and the man has a major attack.
There is cortisol too, it is triggered by stress
and it sets in a body the stage,
my prognosis is poor, this I'm here to confess
and the biggest confounder is age.
So, quo vadis my friends, where will liberty go
when you've truly run out of the oil,
bankrupt paupers no longer are running the show
and your war chest is way off the boil.
I suggest that you find lots of courage inside
and the way back to listen to God,
it is time you get off this weird mistletoe ride
lest they shun you, a country so odd.
Herbert Nehrlich
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2236.
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Promise
Hush, hush my love, and let me drool
inside the time-worn and exotic pool
of molten lava, made by horny elves
where time stands, strangely, still for ourselves.
Abandon reason and the thought of all tomorrows
and look to me as one who humbly borrows
the thought of you, the touch of apparition
and slithered helplessly into this passive mission.
Born with a strength of ego and worldly autonomy
renounce the bonds to what it is a mortal be
by giving in to whims of those who rule
and being without self the proper fool.
Thus I am you and you must hold your hand
halfway across the swollen river, catch your breath
and either dropp our heart of hearts to certain death
or weld your fingers to my palms and I shall be
the one for you, forever, you the one for me.
Herbert Nehrlich
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