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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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269.
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Heidelberg Revisited
And in my dream I was
just halfway up the Holy Mountain
of homesickness called Heidelberg.
I had just crossed the Neckar river
and, dripping wet was climbing what
the travel agents without culture
keep calling the most lovely promenade.
A Schinkenbrot right near the fork,
I've missed the Philosophenweg
as well as what is called the Schlangenweg.
I munched and chased the food
with generosity straight out of Baden,
a potent Kirschwasser, Schladerer,
and watched, while nodding joyfully,
the river and the Altstadt, as well as
in the shadows, the town of Mannheim.
Now, freshly strengthened it was off
to try the Drachenschlucht, precarious
it is and not for the faint of heart.
Then, lovelier it cannot get, the Garden,
the one made for exclusive use of the Philosophers.
A beam of light, some quick reflection
now beckoned from the distant shore,
it was the Koenigsstuhl, the restaurant,
I smelled the Sauerbraten now. And in the blink
of philospher's keen vision, I flew, a bird
whose real nature comes to life in Heidelberg.
Who needs a cable car to taste the wine
in ancient barrels, made of sacred wood.
I woke with the sweet taste of Neckar wine
still on my lips and to the voice of one Professor,
who's been up in Valhalla for some forty years.
It has been good to pay a visit to refresh
my memory from student days, so long ago.
I will be in demand once I get up above the town
where all are happy, just looking down upon
the scenery, while drinking wine outside all seasons.
Herbert Nehrlich
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270.
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Hormonal
It was a whisper, really.
Perhaps a bit metallic.
A voice suppressed from freely
expressing something phallic.
Okay, so, call it hoarse,
gravels of adrenalin,
which infiltrates, of course
tissues behind the chin.
The masseter, a muscle, which
just moves the jaw around,
and when you reach into the fridge,
at last a tasty morsel found
it helps you chew as well as speak.
Yet when testosterone gets going,
you're up the 'only-human' creek,
with hair and skin supremely glowing,
but what affects boys and their toys
makes salivary glands unstable,
at first they drool, (that soon annoys) ,
right after they become unstable
can't squeeze a lousy, single drop.
This state, when there is liquid missing,
while other structures stand right up,
is not conducive to much kissing.
Though time makes honey for the bees
and is a rather patient tutor,
some mice are caught with cheddar cheese,
a special one runs my computer.
I hope you get my latent drift.
Speak up. Forever hold your peace.
The gab can never be a gift
that epinephrine lets you seize.
Herbert Nehrlich
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271.
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Horseflesh
Was it the devil resting on
my rubber booted foot?
He drank for an eternity,
his mane reminding me
that flies abound in sulphur air
the weight was overwhelming now,
a hoof so sharp, of Clydesdale size,
a gentle, crushing giant.
The memory of that event
has lingered now for years,
the more I live the more I fear
it was the foot of Satan.
Perhaps the horse, for just one day,
a kindred spirit unbeknownst,
to both of us, but devils scorned,
sees wooden stakes aimed at the heart
of evil aimed at beast and man.
There was a scent that made me stand
in warming touch, unspoken words,
so close that it attracted him
a grimacing mad face.
Yet in the face of balmy heat
and feral understanding
two souls so distant, under par
unite in harmony.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read more: horse poems, evil poems, memory poems, fear poems
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272.
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Hospital Patient
Jim had been operated on,
and was what they, with optimism,
call in recovery, back on the ward,
had telephone and operas of soap,
suspended from the ceiling.He snored,
most of the day and slurred his speech
all other times. I called him yesterday,
they would, it seemed release him,
end of week for sure, weather permitting,
another specialist would see him in four weeks.
To do what this one was too chicken to reveal.
Tonight I called him, to say hello and howdydoo,
an ancient voice devoid of substance said Hello,
so could old Jim have made the trip down to the,
what-you-ma-call-it place with its own chill,
or was he home, sent there by God's good grace?
I wished him well, the fellow with the whisper voice,
and heard him clearly, very lucidly express,
the inner wish that my welcome intrusion
would have an answer for him, one
he could not do without, but it was not to be.
Herbert Nehrlich
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