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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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33.
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COCKY
A woman's job it is to gather
the eggs at dawn on our farm,
while hubby whips up shaving lather
and grandma keeps the woodstove warm.
The rooster sounds an early warning,
both to the flock and to the thief,
that's the routine for every morning -
but I'll keep this cantata brief.
Our crafty chickens try their best
to let their offspring have a start,
constructing many decoy nests
whenever they're not laying hard.
The rooster is a real cock.
He struts around the barnyard, preening,
picks favourite hens within his flock
and shares with them - you get my meaning.
What happens in the morning after
he doesn't care about at all.
When he is sitting in the rafters
to plan another 'service call'.
The moral of the story is:
If men were charged with crucial duties,
the world would be a sorry mess.
Just ask our little chicken beauties.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read more: warning poems, sorry poems, woman poems, world poems, women poems
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34.
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God's Error
And God did know
the time would come
when all the birds were silent
and rivers stopped.
When flowers died
and overnight
the earth went mad
and showered all
with pure abandon.
And man did never know
how he had plundered
and happily exploited
all that had been bestowed
upon his soul to follow him
throughout a modest life.
It was the seventh day,
when God discovered
that he had failed to add
the spark of sheer appreciation
to those who would not be
inside the Paradise called Eden.
Regardless of the heavy blame
He never changed his mind
and locked the gates of Paradise
to all his humans, for all times.
Yet humans still persist, untiringly
to search in desperate hope
for one small key.
In vain.
Herbert Nehrlich
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35.
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Just TimelessThoughts
I am an atheist, thank God.
Oh no, my friend, this is not odd
as, after all, He knows me still
as one who would ignore His will.
Yet, here on earth, I make my rules
for butchers, bakers and for fools.
Thus, hear me boy, as I explain
lest you end up another Cain,
just climbing Promise Mountain is
in my view (and perhaps in His)
no license to stake out a claim
in Carnal Valley's hidden shame.
So tame your odd and eager shrew
be happy with the current view.
As later on, just having been
down near the river (though no sin)
confers few rights and does not mean
that waves await your diving in.
Sure, go ahead and reminisce
enjoy the inner pictures too,
and taste again that lustful kiss
near where that big bald eagle flew;
Dwell in your thoughts up on that mountain,
descend to where coarse bracken grows.
And rest awhile there, at the fountain
where man's eternal river flows.
Unpack the checkered picnick rug
set up the table on the ground
uncork your bottle, with a shrug
and listen to her forest's sound.
Then feast your eyes on Cleaver's Ridge
just look, don't touch the memories
thank God now for the privilege
and for the thoughtful bumblebees.
Some things don't follow any trend,
eternal life is all around,
so, let this little poem end
I'll treasure all that I have found.
Herbert Nehrlich
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36.
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Limericking For Jerry H.
There once was a poet named Hughes,
he was singing the Wednesday night blues,
he received a new scar
but his budgerigar
stayed at home and he drank all his booze.
So when Jerry returned from the docs
he unravelled a pair of great socks.
Then he stuffed him inside
and he quickly applied
a blue label which read: To Fort Knox.
Mrs. H. who had put up her feet
and was sipping his Penderyn neat.
heard the telephone ring:
'Here speaks Jerry the King,
would you please bring me something to eat? '
So she rushed to the place at high speed,
then he wanted some papers to read,
and the puter at once
so he could show the 'sons'
who should be in the forum to lead.
Then the bandage fell off of his chest,
which exposed a symmetrical breast,
and the 25 stitches
the descendants of bitches
had installed there at Jerry's behest.
Where's my Vegemite, said he with scorn?
Don't you think that a jar should adorn
this big tray which is meant
for the staff to repent
on their spongebath for him in the morn.
Well, he asked for the sister to be
at his bedside at five fifty-three,
she would use Mister Sheen
to scrub Jerry H. clean
a bit risquι, that's if you ask me.
All the rest you must wait for a bit
as he'll write a new poem, a hit.
And his very first post
guarantees him a toast
maybe not at the words that are writ.
Herbert Nehrlich
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