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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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3033.
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Who Pays
The impotents and pitiful they walked in single file
and sucked the perspiration off the sly bibliophile.
Brown uniforms and swastikas now rowing 'cross the Nile
we simply must take charge of them and holler our Sieg Heil.
No novel intipiculum can ever pay my way,
man has, in his basilicum, found ample time to pray.
Throws values to silicium, where everyone is gay.
Ye Gods have lost the plot my friend, the Devil wants to play.
Herbert Nehrlich
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3034.
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Who Promised
I'll see you, was the sound she heard
when death came without mercy in the night,
and all was dark, there was no sign of light,
no shadow of the hoped for silver lining.
The tunnel led to outer space, in a straight line
ascending swiftly, through forces unknown.
She'd known of course, signs had been there
for quite some time, though it was not,
as others had assured her, a sweet serenade
oh no, dear friends, she did not miss your grins,
smirks of relief, that day the focus would be hers.
That night she did appear to him, who sat and read,
while laughing now and then, she had been right,
Sacks was to him a new companion, male at that
and it was really all he had, now she had gone.
The clock, its dancing gnomes alive, in Loden green,
announced the hour, it was late, time to be sad.
She, a million miles away, she spent her time
to keep the places tidy, helped the others out,
and listened to the never-ending stories every night
of lives that never had been lived despite those years,
of humans that were skin and bones, but had no flesh,
and one could hear the hollowness inside, she too was sad.
She'd promised, though words were never heard,
and they were fine without convention or veneer,
she liked the views up there which reached so very far,
and on their special days she'd peek and wear a smile,
at his great earnestness and how he carried on.
Twice, right at first, she felt a chill and shed a tear.
The leap year came and he walked home and drove a nail
into the frame above her door to hang it there,
a bunch of numbers and predictions for the time;
calendars had been her thing, she was the first in late July.
He marked important dates in blue, when tax was due,
a dozen birthdays and the special one in pretty pink
and then he slept with her last pillow, navy blue,
that night it was his time, and peacefully he died.
She waited there, all groomed and filled with joy,
she'd fix his pallor, she would show her man around,
and when he woke she took the hand of her dear boy
they walked away tuned in to music without sound.
She brought it up as it had troubled her good mind,
it was the taste he never liked of those ground nuts,
made into butter it would nauseate in-kind,
then there were cigs for those who loved their blood and guts.
He drew her close so that their cheeks could re-unite,
sweetheart you watched me do my duty from above,
(he gave a nibble to her ear and a small bite)
there is for us a single word and that spells LOVE.
And from the depth of Heaven's forests they could hear,
the sounds of Figaro, they stood, there in the sun
it was a marriage made in Heaven, a nadir
between two spirits who had seen it all and won.
To CR, whose only fault is a love of peanut butter.
Herbert Nehrlich
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3035.
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Who Would Vote For Old Brittlebones?
Could it possibly, really be true?
that it matters not just what you do?
Blue of collar or white
it will be as of right
that you choose from your mates the IQ.
Take the man who has reigned with his fiddle
with a pin for a brain in the middle
made decisions at once
with a face like a dunce
each new day was for Dubya a riddle.
Who would vote for a man of such might
in the chandelier he's a dim light,
Let me tell you my friends
you could pick up the Bends
just descending to that lofty height.
He attracts the severely neglected,
that's the ones who the gods have rejected.
There they sit and they stare
with no brainstorms to share
as no gray cells were ever detected.
Just a word about brittlebones Cane,
he is close to the edge though still vain,
as he dances his dance
in high hopes of a chance
he's oblivious to all the disdain.
You remember the words of Da Gama?
I am here he pronounced, without drama.
And he died on the day
that his Lord came to say
there will be a black man named Obama.
Just to clarify, God wrote quatrains,
he had Gallic blue blood in his veins.
Nostradamus he was
and he wrote 'there is cause,
that your time is all up John McCain.'
Herbert Nehrlich
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3036.
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Whose Bloody Business?
Logic said.
I was to follow my head.
Not my heart or
the whispers
of little old witches.
My brain said
that it had all the facts
at disposal.
And, that its job was to think.
My heart was more timid,
so it accepted that it was
to beat only,
and to mind its
own bloody business.
Yet, at night sometimes,
my heart cried,
tiny tears of blood,
which were real
but didn't attract any stares.
And my heart realised
that its priorities were
different from those of the brain.
And that there was no one to judge.
So, it turned out
as it always does,
when the crossroads
appear out of nowhere.
You choose with your head,
laughing about it
as you step right into it.
And, across the miles
and years of fulfilled expectations,
you notice, one night,
and it wakes you
from your righteous sleep:
A rumble.
And with ears hardened by pain,
ears that stifle a yawn,
you listen at last.
And only your heart can tell you
if there is still time.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read more: sometimes poems, heart poems, sleep poems, pain poems, night poems
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