Our New Journal Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

As time goes by the knowledge tree
grows little thorns,
to pierce the hearts of what may be
dogmatic horns.

So many books and journals too
on human health,
yet, here another cuckoo flew
to face the wealth.

So many strategies to heal
the countless sick,
is there a guarantee, a seal
which do you pick?

The search is on to find
true healing hands,
please doctor, heal the blind
traverse the lands.

Take your empiricism,
your road to fame
and wear your optimism
then stake your claim.

Epidemiology,
a pregnant word,
conjecture set to be,
the message heard.

A whisper reaches you,
you need to win.
So, can you cure the flu
with Gordon's Gin?

You hear the voices, all
must disregard
the quack's persistent call
and draw your card.

You hear the anecdotes
and see the sheen,
you write your hasty notes
(what do they mean?)

And then you see the man,
a man of wealth,
you wonder if he can
bestow good health

upon the little guy
or his good wife,
and will you let him try
to save your life?

Meanwhile the learned men
talk double blinds,
a pompous mise-en-scène,
watch their behinds,

talk of placebos plays
in heady air,
the spoils of means and ways
go to the heir.

Oppressive costs discussed.
No single hand
raised up above old dust,
the mood is bland.

What victims, asks a voice
eighthundred grand?
Count those we save, rejoice!
It is not sand

where the foundation rests,
our base is strong,
the war on deadly pests
cannot be wrong.

Our way is chemistry,
potions and pills
we trade you liberty
for all your ills.

Just see the graph up there,
our Honour Roll,
lines pointing up to where
we'll meet our goal.

It is, of course, the sky,
a limit drawn,
and no one sees the lie
just born at dawn.

Come, those who have the means
it is our way,
averting fatal scenes
for those who pay.

Thus, bumbling musketeers
have gained the trust,
kind words go into ears
because they must.

Take this, the holy script
and get it filled,
as Bertolt Brecht once quipped:
'life gets you killed.'

Ignore the RTC's
and ADR's,
those who must rest in peace
their numbers sparse,

have paid their silver coins
to purchase health
we covered well their loins
and took their wealth.

May science circumvent
the treachery
and the predicament
of those who'd be

at the receiving end
of dogma's wrath,
believing that a friend
has done the math.

This journal sets its sights
so far offshore
it validates the rights
forevermore

of humans in their need,
of chemistry,
compassion's tiny seed...
(or not to be) .

We are not linear
so what are we?
A mix of vinegar
and Linden tea?

We must, the experts say,
be screened for it.
Sinister forces play
to take the fit

and those who dare be well.
Persist, invent
machines to show and tell
and get consent.

No one will thus escape
the probing eyes
recorded on their tape
the modern lies.

You say Holistic, Sir
you've taken leave
if you do not concur
that a reprieve

can only be approved
by industry,
it was the earth that moved
to spite astrology!

What does the future hold,
will it be kind,
and may we be so bold
to lead the blind

out of the valley's mist
to meadow's edge
and raise our angry fist
to make a pledge,

that no man ever will
be sent to die
misfortune made him ill
and makes us cry.

Let's open all those doors,
let charlatans,
fat preachers and the whores
with words to mince

join others and embrace,
discard the greed,
we are the human race
we have the need

to honour life itself
and to preserve,
so place it on the shelf
not to reserve

our judgment, lest it fail,
a treasure trove,
an ancient human tale
born in a clove

or in a deity
sent from above,
to give humanity
its share of love.