A Potpourri Of Everyday Rhymes Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

In thanking you I must agree
that rhyming gives me pleasure,
and that it adds, by some degree
to people's reading treasure,
to those who must show their disdain
go get a magic pen
slip on the mood to entertain
and try and try again.

A storm came up and off it fell
into the waves, into the swell.
All rhymes were blown into the sea
the sailors were in misery.
The captain, though, forever proud
and with a voice forever loud
he turned the ship and asked the crew
to jump into the foaming brew.
Each person shall get one more lime
if anyone retrieves the rhyme.
All sailors jumped, no hesitation
the boss remained right at this station,
they swam and fretted 'til they found
the cache of rhymes, still leatherbound.
Then up they came, (not one perverse)
threw overboard all other verse.
The limes prevented the disease
the rhymes now fluttered in the breeze,
Each poet needs his substance 'C'
and rhymes lest he is not to be.

If adding sheer sophistication
to rhyme it makes for pleasant reading
it seems as if such a creation
can hold one's interest, thusly leading
to hunger for more of the same,
some poems are too short - a shame.

I can see the advantage of having a plum
in the mouth if the atmosphere's hot
if the critics are active and label you dumb
and the one-givers do want you shot.
In the days of the masters like Goethe and Schiller
they used horse apples with a great skill
for the speakers of nonsense it did make a good filler
though some critics got violently ill.
If you give me a choice between apples and plums
I will take all the plums just for me
but for others it's apples, they pamper the gums
of the ones who love misery.

Oh yes, it's YOU down in that grave
and I who stands alone
in brazen wind, your son, so brave
just polishing your stone.
It took me years to understand
that you had gone away
and left me in this world, so bland
with work and bills to pay.
Today it has at last sunk in
how lucky are my friends
who dance and drink until they spin
and life itself then ends.
They figure, though, as long as she
is still alive and well
the Reaper's cruel misery
when finally it fell
would hit the old one, pre-ordained
and gave you a reprieve
your stone, dear mother, it is stained
from tears, and I must leave.

Oh sadness, leave my heart at once
I shall not be your silly dunce.
I fly, a dove, onto the moon
and have in tow my pink balloon.
The sun has told me, close to dusk
that all true love is fragrant musk,
thus when I find what I do need
I shall surround it with pure greed.
And lock it into my balloon
forever grateful to the moon.

How can it be to have a woman who is new
to be expected as a long-term guest to stay,
and as a buddha for the pleasures of the crew
he'd be the wherewithall of all that I can say.
Don't be afraid, I say, just be yourself and more
it isn't sex that stirs the embers in the fire
there is a magnet, a connection to a whore
of all that lives in you and that you can admire.
Why would you shave the head, is there a secret need?
And why the stones and all the words that paint your death,
if you are happy when you grab her and you breed
perhaps you'll notice in the dark her final breath.

This proves that if you have a ditch
with running water and in which
opportunistic, sleepy weeds
wave back and forth and spill their seeds
it really, simply stands to reason
that boys will, during summer season
observe how Nature does her chores
and, since they're itching in all pores
the thought of building now is heard,
and all agree, as does the nerd.
A dam will change the course of fate
though temporary, and the state
of water as it does traverse
the land, is altered for the worse
by man's amazing arrogance
so boys who may know impudence
will build a dam because they're free
and to escape life's misery.
Now we all know, so do the boys,
that it's the devil who annoys
the souls who dream of laissez-faire
he gets them later, in his snare.
Since booze and water do not mix
disaster strikes, like tons of bricks,
and once again, there flows the stream
and takes along a pleasant dream.

I have now studied, you will see
arithmetic, philosophy
and other subjects I shall probe
as long as I am on this globe.
And if I find just misery
upon arriving in the sky
I think that I shall never see
the answer why we all must die.

I think we know you mean to say
that you won't leave, prefer to stay.
But brother, can you spare a dime
I did not see a single rhyme?

We may yet charge an entry fee
for those who are too loose
with rhymes and write in parody
you should read Mother Goose.

I like it when a poet has a voice
and uses it for subtle words of choice,
to hammer home to all a sly reminder
that every city needs its justice finder.

Yes, dreams can turn into the best-made plans
and come to life, by God, through earnest fans.
It is the gang of imbeciles who dwell on greed
who squander all of ours and make us bleed.

Perhaps an error happened in creation
allowing evil spirits in this nation,
and when the time comes where the folks must vote
turn off the set and throw out the remote.

Use three percent peroxide, dear
first in the nose, then in the ear.
Those nasty germs will run and scatter
and from the nostrils greenish matter
shall seek its freedom now outside,
just watch it drip and run and slide!
Remember noses don't need lube
out of a can or from a tube.
Peroxide, also used on hair
cleans out the sinuses with flair.

There is silence engulfing this board
and the absence of voice strikes a chord.
While I'm making a cup
will you poets wake up
and write poems (well something) , good Lord!

The snow comes down so lilywhite
I wonder what it means
it is a most delicious sight
I love those frosty scenes.
And in a while I do suppose
I'll build me a big mate
a snowman with a carrot nose
before it is too late.
For when the sun comes out in force
and looks at all the snow
it's time to get my hobbyhorse
so we can watch the show.
I'll sit upon my hobbyhorse
and watch my snowman die
it is a shame that in due course
all friends must say good bye.

The snowman had almost expired
he had, while melting, been quite tired,
when arctic winds came from the Pole
(these winds do play a crucial role)
and all the drops reverted soon
to snowflakes under a full moon.
Lo and behold here is the tally,
the snowman was revived for Sally!
He stood until the Easter bunny
came by with eggs and thought it funny
that in the Northern balmy Spring
when crows wake up and robins sing
a snowman would be found alive
well something really didn't jive.
Well, it is simple, I'll explain
a snowman doesn't grow from rain,
it must be real snow as such
and even then he won't be much
in terms of sheer longevity
so, God, who saw the misery
decided that he could do magic
and thus prevent the usual tragic
and sudden end through subtle change
in physics, so he did arrange
that snowflakes, once they hit the ground
would never melt but stick around.
Thus from that day when Sally spoke,
they turned immortal, it's no joke.

And now that the contest is done
and a few of the poets have won
I must say that all others
were adored by their mothers
and I'm damned if we didn't have fun.

So I thank all the ones who wrote in
who alerted their friends and their kin
I must say that your stuff
although not quite enough
topped my day like a tonic with gin.

Repetitio est mater studiorum
and each poem can have its decorum
you will never be blind
if you're helpful and kind
you can practice right here in the forum.
Each poetic submission
like a nuclear fission
be a simple decision
not a nasty collision
with the free-versing vision.
If there is superstition
or a quick apparition
you must send a petition.
Pay attention to metre
and not Sally or Peter
but as soon as you teeter
on the much hated ledge
you can write down your pledge
and thus drive a sharp wedge
between you and the edge,
but there are no strict rules
for the poets and fools
you don't write for the schools
but when somebody drools
over what you have written
and he's totally smitten
you can purr like a kitten
or a lover just bitten
it will make all your days
and you need no more praise.

When the bender of the fender
who is normally quite tender
saw the notice from the lender
(though she didn't know the sender)
I must say it did offend her
after lunch she did surrender
to another liquid bender
and a bigger fender-bender.


Rusty was overheard to mutter
something about a leafy gutter.
A ladder, made from metal sticks
and rotten leaves just never mix.
And once you enter into regions
where spiders pledge their proud allegiance
you've taken things a bit too far,
the spider is the gutter's Czar,
and since he does not ever bark
and weaves his webbing in the dark
he comes at you with all his might
and let's you have a painful bite.
There is no forum in the gutter,
exclusively one finds a clutter
of rotten, smelly, stubborn leaves
which reach eventually the eaves.
Now, rumor has it that the plans
to have discussions in advance
of each new poem in the gutter
which makes the biggest spider shudder.


The sadness of this funny place
where egos waste their silk and lace
where often one who's misbehaved
is first encouraged, later shaved
promoting gays in forum's haze
would fuel yet a different blaze.
I think that in the end the forum
is given, by the mess, decorum.
Your poem, Angie, is a play
I like it, though. What can I say.

Yes, you are my little star
twinkling at me from afar.
Wow, you are a precious sight
let me give you some more light.
And you little asterisk
did you see the giant whisk
in the street called Milky Way
also I would like to say
you don't need to twist and fret
it's been years that we have met,
what you really need to know
is that I put on a show:
in the dark I am the moon
hours later, way too soon,
I commence my daylight fun
when I change to be the sun.
So, your soul to me is true
there is me and there is you.
Menage à trois is not for us
others do create that fuss.
My farewell until tonight
watch when I switch on the light,
come then, rest here, in my middle
listen when I play the fiddle.

Stumbleman bought himself China-made shoes
hammered and glued by those infantile crews.
Cry little children, on the Great Wall
don't wear those sneakers, you're likely to fall.
Stumbleman's stingy, has always been cheap
ought to buy Dunlops, it's shoes he could keep.

I must wholeheartedly agree,
we've never learned from history.
Old men will sit at home, all limp
and call the war-dodger a whimp.
They say the phallus symbol rules
all wars and miserable fools.
Just look at rockets, every shell
for rifles, other guns from hell
they're shaped like something known to men
and seen by girls too, now and then.
My favourite is that if you choose
to stay at home, perhaps drink booze
it makes of you a people's foe
you will have sunk extremely low.
You help us to be proud and free
if not you are the enemy.

Haven't met you, though you smell
like wildflowers, I can tell.
Worry not about clichées
listen as the fiddle plays.
Rhyme is for the common masses
some would call us silly asses,
and your poem's music sounds
egging on the forest hounds.

Poems can be dissonances
that's when rhyme is bad and dances
or they are a symphony
played when poets have their tea.

Each day you wake to feel the breeze
upon your skin, a mellow tease.
It gently, with its awesome powers
for many free and precious hours
suspends and carries you to land
where kindred spirits understand.
Only the Gods are now aware
that you have Lorelei's long hair
and that the blue, majestic sea
sprays salty tears so you can be
at home and showered as you fly
in search of your own lullaby.

You are right of course
and there is no dead horse
and no need to debate
the precarious state
of all rhyming and prose,
but of course there are those
who could NOT tell a rhyme
from a lemon or lime.
So let us play footsies
and remember their tootsies
be it known now that onions
cause more teardrops than bunions,
in the poetry scene
only critics are green.

What kind of man will see in you the sexy bun
in you my girl, no matter how you wear your dress.
Will he be serious or hilarious, full of fun
and will he take you out to dance or just play chess?
It is a well-known fact that we can not select
what was created just for us by Gods who knew
we are embarrassed of the tiniest defect
and oft forget that we are aching to be true.
He will, of course, take up his station in your bed
next to your aura which will quickly reach his soul
and as he whispers with his lips against your head
you will start dreaming of your never-ending role.

Yes, rings are like small memories,
they nap most days, as if to please
the owner in his hopeless dream
which is half filled with whipping cream.
A piece of someone's heart breaks loose
and wanders off, becomes a noose
for what brought two kind souls together
a ring of gold, light as a feather?

This poem's made of many bits,
does not respect the its and it's.
No matter how your rhymes seduce
this still makes you a spelling goose.

I like your text as it depicts
for poets, monks and derelicts
what's good in rhyme and otherwise,
you've come to sweep away some lies.

Inside a star struck, see-through bubble
a vacuum has just occurred.
Absence of rhyme will cause you trouble
through ancient power of the word.
A bubble does not have a door
also, profanity stays out
will you take off to distant shore
as an Italian astronaut?

If adding sheer sophistication
to rhyme it makes for pleasant reading
it seems as if such a creation
can hold one's interest, thusly leading
to hunger for more of the same,
this poem is too short - a shame.


Note:

This rather short poem is not a poem. It's all the comments
from the rhyming competition and could serve as an aid to rhyming practice.