A Thrum Poem by Herbert Nehrlich
A Thrum
As all those parts made up a sum
to be admired or ignored
he heard a faint soprano hum
low instincts told him he had scored.
He wrote a poem, fourteen lines,
covertly sprinkling into it
the fragrance of erotic wines,
the chalice of Teutonic wit.
She spoke, with honesty and poise
a woman holding her own drum
her eyes a shade of soft turquoise
deep in her womb a steady thrum.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/26/2024 8:54:22 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Always amazed by your ability to phrase....almost like you were playing a piano.