Cherryblossoms Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I told the world about my past,
that I hailed from the old and dusty,
and after many steps, at last
I could discard my filthy, musty
rags for the riches I desired
and find this emperor's new clothes
that I had spotted and admired
all those except the pantyhose.
Have carried excess, heavy cases,
with remnants that were once quite dear,
and managed to escape those chases
that are designed to bring us fear.

Back for a visit to remember
what age forgets and youth ignores,
I could not wait until September
to see what on our distant shores
does not exist, one must construct
an image of that day in Spring,
when blossoms, starting to erupt
caress each other, smile and sing,
thus I am here to reminisce,
to take for granted that those times
when Springtime meant a borrowed kiss,
that was payed back in awkward rhymes,
that all is well and nothing's died
we are all waiting for each other.
Time has stood still, unlike the tide
but has not spared my aging mother.

I well remember all of you,
you skinny little long haired birds,
I watched them daily, as they grew
and found those soft, persuasive words.
Oh if those trees who watched our hikes
could speak of lame pathetic moves,
and in exchange for shade, the likes
of which we badly sought, it proves,
that we desired to have cover
from prying eyes and pointed ears.
Though none of us could be a lover,
we had too many inner fears
about this whole confusing age,
So all we did was talk and look.
Also at times we would engage,
one at a time, with a new book,
that way one might come right across
a scene where kissing was portrayed,
and we would lean back on the moss
so full of hope and yet afraid.

My mind has etched that day in June
when we had wandered through the hills.
The sun was perfect and the moon
could be observed among the frills
of cirrus clouds, politely waiting
for fragrant dreams to rise to heaven,
when both of us, forever dating
came to the orchard number seven,
twohundredthousand trees in all,
the sandy soil was food for cherries,
the fruit was juicy, trees grew tall.
But harvest was not 'til September
when guards and dogs patrolled through here,
how clearly I do still remember
those times when we were high on fear
up near the stars and stealing boldly
all eyes alert for men with sticks,
who, not afraid to beat us coldly
and call us rotten little pricks.
That day the fragrance made us woozy,
while holding hands we made our way,
that is, my precious girl named Susie
up to the giant pile of hay.
And rested on that pleasant bedding
and talked and dreamed and snuggled close,
she raved about her sister's wedding
while I was hoping that a rose
would help my stalemate to collapse.
The problem was that none of those
could grow within these mountain gaps.
So with my cleverness and wit
I gathered from those lovely trees
climbed to the top, I was quite fit,
a thousand blossoms in the breeze
and took them to my resting beauty,
whose upper button of her shirt
had opened up a glance at cutie
forbidden fruit, oh what a flirt!
My path was clear, I stuck those flowers
into the attic of her dipples,
and then we lay there for two hours,
she dreaming, I was thinking nipples.
Then we went home, in time for dinner
a hasty brush of lips on cheeks,
and that whole day I felt a winner
and told myself that he who seeks
will get rewarded in the end.
That shyness has no place with females,
today, of course, I'd gladly send
her ninety-nine strategic e-mails
just paving future roads to take
but then I was content to dream
about this lovely sweetcreamcake.
I think my love was not full steam.

So, thirty years have added rings
to cherry trees and pretty things
I did succeed to get her YES
to roam the orchards, oh God bless
the night before I climbed those hills
and never mind late evening chills
and placed my ninety-nine sweet petals
right near the hay where she would settle
so nicely wrapped with ivy green
would she remember once she's seen
this sign from God from ancient times
and should I make some special rhymes
for the occasion so romantic
on these cold shores near the Atlantic?

The afternoon was full of fragrance,
we felt a bit like straying spouses
and walked at first like Eastern vagrants
until we'd passed the last of houses.
Came to the orchard, and the pile
of fresh made hay among the trees,
and rested there a little while,
surrounded by some nosy bees
we could not stay, the threat was real,
so wandered off without the treasure
had boysenberries for a meal
and did enjoy this special pleasure
of our childhood resurrected,
and shared with lovely memories.

This Sunday walk, it has affected
us deeply, and those pesky bees
who had prevented the detection
by her of my erotic bribe
were sent, I say, upon reflection
not for a nasty diatribe
or fingerpointing for prevention
but simply to remind us two
that we subscribed to the convention
that brought us Cinderella's shoe.