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Best Poems Written by Jay Herman

Below are the all-time best Jay Herman poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Blood Brothers

Blood Brothers

As one, in life, they tug their craft
Over the sun bleached sands 
Salt air fills heaving chests 
The tide beckons with friendly waves.

They float over foam, spray in their eyes,
Laughs mix with the great loon’s cries
ruddy lads on Harbor Cork
empty hunger left ashore

The fertile land that fed their folk
Has naught milk from withered breast 
A dusty tomb in barren ground 
all that’s left to give her poor.

With greedy eyes they absorb
The last stand of their youth
Amongst millions who abandon Erin
For hope of work and bread

From Hibernia they descend
into stinking metal bowels 
rife with waste and vermin;
a place for many of last rites 

Cruel, Ellis Island casts them apart;
Tagged as sick one cannot debark 
Until the final port-of-call,
New Orleans, Dixieland.

Each finds solace with a lass 
To liven his spirit anew
Numb the pain of brethren rived
quell the hissing in his soul.

Cries of squirming newborns 
Comfort two lads far apart;
tears shed for a lost brother 
bedew yearning hearts.

Shrill calls to war pierce their lives;
A nation torn in two.
Swept up in jingoistic storms,
Slaughter joined, kith forsook.

Blue and Gray, sent forth to kill,
Our lads march inexorably nigh
over hills of limbs, hasty graves;
past rivers of guts and blood.

In a massacre at Fredericksburg,
fated, they meet again.
Amid blindness borne of night and smoke 
they dance a macabre embrace.

Deathly wounded Blue cries out 
in Gaelic born of County Cork.
The other hears an unforgotten voice;
drags the body to the light.

As he sees the dead tormented face
mortal anguish breaks his heart.
Arms entwined is how they’re found;
as one, once again, in death.

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Danse Macabre

Danse Macabre

Twin Old Glorys jitterbug above the hoods as silent heralds; the motorcade 
congas three-abreast along the Stemmons Freeway sleek in shiny chrome.
Long honks and short beeps unite in harmonious homage 
to the office that cradles a nation in her oval skirts. 
Dallas, late November blue sky framing puffy clouds, is a cabaret 
bobbing in frenetic throb to the glam life-beat of its honored cortege.
As they swing onto Main, the image bounces off the dark glasses of the austere 
men that line the parade route like lampposts, and beams to an adoring world.
With a blast and a life-tearing flash, a keen emerges from the 
back of the shiny limousine that jumps through the light 
implanting itself into the intimate memories of a generation. 
The suits whirl about in impotent rage as the surge of flesh 
undulates forward in grief, back in terror and commences a final march
while a distant freight train avers its dolor with a mournful whisper.
As night falls on a blood-soaked plaza the wind whips up and 
the leafy trees on the grassy knoll sway a spectral dance.

By Jay Herman
For Nette Onclaud's Let's Dance contest

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On the Street

On the Street

“Hey mister, you have something for me”?  
Flat words emerge in the late autumn dusk from the 
hollow where her heart had been before it froze to death.
Face full of life’s dings, her blank eyes expose deep pools 
in which swim vile serpentine figures of her past. 
Her upturned hand is mummified in a shroud scented with coffee, smoke and pee.  
Around us, the annual migration of leaves from their roosts has begun.
Through their swirl on the streetscape, amber post-modernist splotches, 
I perceive a troubled daughter; perhaps a failed but still loving mother.
She often prays for her untimely release from unmerited purgatory, 
even as she thrashes about in her struggle to survive.
A man wearing my clothes, nausea etched on his face, 
is already moving past the unwelcome intrusion on his ordered world.
I bid the man to stop.
He does; takes out some bills, lays them gently on her palm, smiles as he feels her rejoin the living and wishes her a good day; 
his world less tidy but his walk a bit taller and he a bit wiser.

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Sanity

Sanity

At a interview with a well-known Greenwich based hedge fund, 
my corporate destiny hinged on the man across the desk from me.
From pierced ears protruded tufts of wiry hair stained by yellow wax.
He seemed civil enough but his ringed pinky was shy.
It burrowed and hid way up his nose; I was sure it was lost.
I pretended not to stare.
He proceeded to speak only in rhyme.
“The employers need to pick your brain;
to ascertain if you are sane.
The following will tell us what we need.
Should we hire you? Are you rational, indeed?”
Eyes opening wide, my heart raced;
my very compos mentis was in doubt.
“Your bathtub is filled with water to the top.
You need the tub empty of every single drop.
All you have are spoon, cup and pail.
What would best help you prevail?”
Sweating profusely, I replied, 
“the pail (I think), would be my choice”.
Mr. Hairy Ears smiled with glee.
“That’s wrong. You’re not meant to be.”
“There’s the door” said he smarmy and smug.
“You are insane. Why not pull the plug”?

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The Rose

The Rose
For twenty-one decades harsh
Her bush begat just thorn;
Bereft of fragrant petal sweet
her time-honored adorn.

She came with hope, dignified;
amid pomp and revelry.
Righteous sons, absent long;
leave her bare for all to see.

Unable to further bear the
grim burden borne so long
She weeps in piteous despair
My Beloved, yea I’ve done wrong

Recall, tho’, I was your bride;
The solemn oath You swore.
Our love can suffer no wane
exile me no more.

Your pain is mine o precious one
Her beloved doth proclaim;
Our devotion has ever burnt
A love-kindled flame

To all eyes it did appear
Your beloved turned aside
I clung to you, your broken heart,
all the while, my precious bride.

Your tormentors I shall avenge
Ten plagues of recompense
Over the threshold of our love
I will carry you hence.

Eternal love endures the sting
Of doubt’s bitter embrace.
Stand now with lifted head
at my side; your rightful place.

No more tears of sorrow spilt;
joyous laughter in their stead.
Accompany me to Sinai;
With sacred gift I thee wed

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Philosophy 1

Philosophy 1

Our side-by-side desks were acquainted. Sadly, we were not.
Sassy and blond, Tammy Sue was a philosophy freak.
Afforded by Macon, Georgia she idolized Julia Kristeva.
I idolized Tammy Sue.
Near the end of the semester at NYU, desperately intrepid,
I dragged my suddenly torpid legs towards Tammy Sue 
and blurted out a line I had just read; 
“Metaphor fashions a doorway from language, leading out”.
Tammy Sue regarded me.
Cringing, I anticipated painful rejection.
“Oh, Eric” emerged from her precious lips.
“That is so CLEVER!”
she drawled; drawing out her words to last, it seemed, forever.
“We” lasted two months; then the magic of that line wore off.
“Eric, you’re so sweet” she began.
Unhinged by the dagger in my heart, 
I heard only her finale,
the Lord Tennyson classic,
“I am a part of all that I have met”;
then a kiss and goodbye;
a fitting close for philosophy class.
Whenever I repeat those words I feel her part in me.

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The Search

The Search

I push my neck beyond its reach,
contort my achy back; lower my 
face til it’s horizontal to the 

pocked wood floor. With an ants 
view of the world, like a miner I 
prospect; small bits of bread 

my treasure. Wax dripping off 
stubby candle blister my hand 
as I peer into unlit corners. 

My grandfathers who died of 
hunger watch me; the crumbs I 
burn would have fed them days. 

Beyond, my wife and girls, holding, 
incongruously, white wax-covered 
paper bag and wooden spoon, sigh 

as they await release from the ritual 
that isolates them from their cellphones 
and laptops; no insight as to why 

a decidedly non-fanatic man 
inches around on his belly for hours. 
Wheezing from the dust covering my 

mouth and nose, I ask the same 
question. My mind jumps forward 
a night to a table laden with food 

and finery. Erect amid the china and 
crystal, is the just poured silver Cup of 
Elijah. The wine, trembling above the lip, 

awaits the prophet himself. Eyes on 
the open door, we laugh and cry hoping 
he will herald an end to the numbing exile. 

Jerked back to reality by a hot burn on my 
cheek I accept that at my deepest core I 
crave and am comforted by illogical belief

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Slipping

Slipping

Ed Barton’s head hurt and his chest pounded. Or did his head pound and chest hurt? His problems were sucking him up like a dizzying vortex. “It’s money”, he thought bitterly; “lack thereof, more precisely”. His wife and kids called him “loser”. Knowing that more caffeine would make the pounding worse, he defiantly held the Starbucks latte grande in hand as the Bluetooth unlocked his Beemer; his lone remnant of the “old, happy Ed”. Grey all day, it began to teem as he opened the car door. Sliding in, intent not to spill the coffee, his slick loafers slipped. Down Ed went. Soaked, he lay there watching his coffee run; a muddy river carrying away his hopes. He though of his lost job, unpaid bills, the putrid turn life had taken. He decided to not get up. A crowd gawked. “Call 911!” a woman shrieked. Ed decided to will himself to die; end his miserable existence. A familiar voice intruded; “Barton, is that you?” “Hell” Ed muttered; “my nosy neighbor”. The interlude over he rose to face the world again; wait for the repo man to come.

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Peace

PEACE

I had a mate; his gentle face a marred reflection of the pain he divined in others.   
When a new kid in heavy leg brace hobbled into class we chose to stay away.
Shunned, he glowered; his face a doleful veil.
My friend sang to him, read to him, lunched with him, danced with him; 
gave him back his life.
When my friend was seventeen noxious chatter poisoned his mind.
Relentless, it drove away his joy.
An astronomy lesson turned bizarre; “fourteen 
planets”, he insisted; he named them all.
He fled from school certain it was the source
of the inescapable clamorous war whose Ground Zero was in his head.
He ran from his family.
Bewildered, they sought desperate remedies in sterile, guarded places with padded walls.
“I want to go home” he moaned in anguish.
Frantic, he bit; roughly, he was restrained, tied to his bed.
Broken, he withdrew; alone with his despair, wide shocked eyes;
his hell worsened by those he trusted most.
I visited him for the final time;
tortured soul visible through vacuous eyes.
I hugged him tightly, kissed his downcast head.
It felt like I embraced stone; cold, lifeless.
His heart beat, yet, felt aught.
I spoke his name; unresponsive, he stared.
In tears I fled.
Later on I heard, he just closed those eyes;
relinquishing his hold on his beautiful soul;
at last silencing the voices.
He found his peace

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The Editor's Hats

The Editor’s Hats

Part 1

Executioner

I seize 
the instrument of 
death and with 
savage strokes 
and red gore 
purge the 
curse of banality
that is to me as 
nails on a 
chalkboard.

Part 2 

Surgeon

I probe
painstakingly insert 
the edged tip
into bloated subjects
as my tool resects
necrotic sections
to expose
lusty vitality 
that warrants 
display

Part 3

Bouncer

I sneer
at groveling
wannabes 
as across 
a velvet rope;
crazed 
puppet of 
the ruthless
self-preserving
status quo

Part 4

Sentry

I select
with vindictive
brutality,
only the fresh;
zealous guard
of the zeitgeist
impatiently 
dictated to the 
idiot masses
by the ruling elite