Black N White (Cloak N Dagger Poem)

I've always been a man who treasures black and white.
One either is still breating or one must be dead,
all cats are gray due to the colour of the darkest night
so black and white is king and that is what I said.

Be flexible said he whose bow was made of pine,
there came a point when nothing could extend it more,
the splinter took his eye, he fell into the vat of wine
his ship was lost at sea and never did return to shore.

A friend named Malcolm Williams, Nigger though to me
was quite ashamed of being black, me being white,
went through Chicago after curfew, it was hard to see
I figured it could be an asset to be dark without the light.

poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Friday Is Limerick Day

There once lived a poet named George
near the Falls of Carnarvon Gorge.
He ran out of ideas
and to us it appears
that he secretly started to forge.

So he copied from Chaucer and Suess
which of course was a blatant abuse.
When he went to the printer
in the middle of winter
he'd manufactured his noose.

In the bookstore he sat, smugly signing,
many copies, the people were lining
all the streets from the park
until way after dark,
with the moon and the streetlights shining.

At the stroke of the midnight hour
from the clock of the old Limerick Tower

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poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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What Could It Be?

At birth it is a rather small
and barely visible at all
identifier for the folks
and butt at times for silly jokes.

It grows, of course, in later years
and on occasion it appears
that it will stand up to attention
though few will point to it or mention
this feat of physiology
some girls do ask 'how can this be? '

The decades take their deadly toll
and if you were to have a poll
you'd keep the size of middle years
because, that's when those little gears
still function freely, cog on cog
and rarely get into a bog.

It's funny, says the narrative

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poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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A Threesome

It is nice to observe how two cranky old foes
join together to write a collage,
then decide whether rhyme or that modern day prose
may I mention the French word menage?
It can be any number of poets or duds
who collaborate using their skills
you will see the appearance of early spring buds
as the sun comes to visit the hills.
Let us grab the papyrus, the Metaxa as well
so a poem will rise from the earth
and before we are called to the Heavens or Hell
to a poem of beauty give birth.
A Menage - à - Trois, between H, L and G
ought to bring a new wind to these parts
either limerick or other, but authored by three
may produce a great work for the arts.

poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Raynette

I was resting my bones and my mind
as my e-mails did get far behind,
when a message came through
and did come from you
it was something worthwhile to find.

I did have no reason to fret
as they said that it was from Raynette.
It could always be seen
on the slow motion screen
and I'm glad that we met, Raynette.

And I thank you for taking the time
to construct that old limerick rhyme
just for me, no one else
it brought whistles and bells
to the time of the 'you got a dime'?

If you know what I mean I'll be glad
as some others will, doubtless, be mad

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poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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You Speak I Answer

Sometimes, love is a very quiet breeze
Gently swaying May cherry blossom boughs.
Pink cotton candy drifts cool waves and tease,
Softening paired footfalls on stony paths
To forgiving ground, where, as if by chance,
Eyes meet, lock and know the hearts tidal roar
Of secret aching need in one seismic glance.

Sometimes, one misses quiet breezes,
and does not see the swaying blossoms.
And does not taste the cotton candy
until the roar of Tsunami, urgently knocks,
and joins, as if by chance, the aching hearts.
And eyes that meet are hands that grasp,
and closeness locks the hearts in one,
where time and tide respectfully
will stand back for eternity.

poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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A Devil Called Hurricane

So many faces
this turbulent devil
possesses,
seemingly,
without logic,
or justice
or fair-play...
it strikes.

And maims,
even kills
with abandon
and deadly skill
and its own
logistics.

Tsunami
shook the world
and the masses
flew into

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poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Lesson One

A poet named Paul Apicella
while as prickly as Nelson Mandela
has politely declared
that his skill is impaired
though he may be a jolly good fella.

He likes limericks, well so he states
has presented a taste to his mates.
It insulted the ear
and I worry and fear
it's a dinner without any plates.

I shall be your new lim-e-rick teacher
let me warn you, I'm really a preacher.
If you do earn a FAIL
I shall send you an ale;
to the Irish a limerick's a creature.

As you see you have had your first lesson.
Look at poems as delicatessen.

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poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Saturday Limerick

There once was a man with no soul
in his life he saw only one goal.
He would stomp, screw and pound
others into the ground
but he dug himself into a hole.

When he found that he could not succeed
and that people like him could be freed
from their nasty affliction
and in-NATE dereliction
he decided to chuck all his greed.

But the devil was very much present
and he knew how to make things unpleasant
when he reached for the soul
there was only a hole,
'cause the man with no soul was a peasant.

Well the peasant's name really was Neville
he was soulless but quite on the level

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poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Risqué Limerick # 2

From the top of Niagara Falls,
far away from the big city malls
jumped a tough-talking bird
soon her screams could be heard
as she banged on those rocks her big balls.

There are women, genetically tough,
fully able to fight and play rough.
Though they may play with dolls
they are fitted with balls,
be advised that they do strut their stuff.

So the one who had jumped from that height
gave the onlooking folks quite a fright.
When the balls started banging
and bouncing and clanging
they felt sorry for her in her plight.

When she landed way down in the wet
it was clear that she'd now won her bet.

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poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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