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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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385.
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Xenosillyputtypills
If drugs can make well people ill
I ask you why ingest a pill?
Ill persons cannot be made well
by drugs as far as I can tell.
What is behind the doctors' script,
the illness destined to be nipped
before it kills the silly fool?
Look back, into the doctor's school,
they taught all sciences and more
and how to fix a nasty sore,
take out those bits of obsolescence
and fiddle with the body's essence.
Through magnifiers we detect
the enemy and then select
the proper medicine to fight
'till evil spirits see the light.
We cut and burn and radiate
mend bones by screwing in a plate,
and we are good at scaring folks
we tell them not to eat those yolks,
to stay away from fatty beef
lest heart and liver come to grief.
We study all the workings of
each organ, also Korsakov
and how those greats named certain ills
which we now treat with fancy pills.
Deep down we know that molecules
are really our bodies' mules,
of all the ones that Nature makes
in shades of colours and opaques,
a portion is for us essential
to live and reach our best potential.
And illness strikes when we neglect
to show our system some respect.
So it makes sense to look at food
and show the proper attitude,
treat illness following the laws
of Nature, once we know the cause.
Sadly, this is a silly dream,
to you, my friend, it may well seem
that healing needs high tech and skill
and always an expensive pill.
Now let me add why this is so
your doctor wants to be a pro.
He passed his tests to graduate
makes money in quintuplicate
but never ever took a class
on food and drink or bodymass.
Nutrition cannot make much dough
and might disturb the magic show
Imagine, telling Mrs. Flynn
to take a certain vitamin
or add some fish and olive oil,
grow veggies in organic soil
and eat two eggs each day and more
buy wisely at the grocery store
and make variety your goal
to nourish body, mind and soul.
Don't fall for screening if you're well
and pass on medicines from Hell,
but most importantly, your health
may be a factor in the wealth
of those who cure all mankind's ills
with xenosillyputty pills.
Herbert Nehrlich
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386.
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Years Cannot Erase
I see you still, just standing,
soft shoulders, slightly drooped.
It was a German train of punctuality,
a trait one did expect but not that day.
A little longer was not in the cards.
Although prepared to take the awkwardness
of a departure from the comfy present
into a future of wholly unknoweable dimension,
no tears were visible or felt, not yet.
And not a tad of melancholy seen.
As doors clanged shut, a whistle urges
when, like a gesture, no an apparition,
a ray of sunshine, just a single one
had overcome the glassy dome and settled
upon your face, where sadness now resided.
Angelic features, bathed in golden orange glow,
have stayed with me for forty years and more.
And when we met again your presence was the same,
well-age regret hung in the air like stale lavender.
It left us suddenly and vowed not to return.
Unspoken promises remain, though no farewells.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read more: sunshine poems, future poems
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387.
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Yep, Still thinking about you
I know, I know.
Chrysanthemums do grow.
I've caught the breeze my love
that fans the flames,
a male and horny dove
above the games.
I could not give a wee
about the crap,
but will you send to me
your nectar' sap?
I shall, without due haste
look for your sign
a Google cut and paste,
a single line.
It matters not, of course
they say the thought
is in the Trojan Horse.
Perhaps for naught.
So many years have come
only to fade
inside a shade of rum
and lemonade.
I talk a heavy spiel,
just to impress.
But my Achilles Heel
is YOURS to bless.
I would pay all I own
to make the time
and point ole Baldur's bone
into my wine.
Herbert Nehrlich
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388.
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Yes, You
Spit, my man, you have a need,
venom from your inner matter.
I shall tolerate, indeed
all the sounds and then the patter
of the tiny, hurried feet
that accompany your stresses,
chills and fever, welcome heat,
looking up to He who blesses
and who hears my kindly words.
Emperors in purple dresses
fly away like drunken birds.
Herbert Nehrlich
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