gershon hepner Poems

Miró, Miró, on the wall,
Who’s the fairest of them all?
In all the land though there are lots
who're fair, your lines connecting dots
...

Investment now has lost its luster,
securities’ portfolios despised like porn,
capitulated all like Custer,
diminished, little like Big Horn.
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Poetry is born out of the quarrel with oneself,
said William Butler Yeats, but though it’s hit or miss
once it has been born no one should put it on the shelf
without considering that it may need a bris,
...

Martinez that begat Martini
must be made from Old Tom gin
and sweet vermouth. Stirred, the genie
will emerge. Say chin chin,
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Within the fall the power lies
to rise again,
for in abysses we revise
the mise-en-scène
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On “L’Intransigent” a watering can,
a sign that if you irrigate
intransigence, if you’re a Catalan,
the avant-garde find hard to hate.
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Money’s always very sweet,
but may be less than sticky,
yet when your partner gets a treat,
because you’ve not been picky,
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Were our primal parent’s errors not their own,
by God’s omniscient mind foredoomed, foreknown,
as Shelley claimed? Omniscience of God
is not a reason we should spare the rod
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Dark energy has stunted growth
of galaxies for many billion years.
Could it be this that’s me loath
to burst forth and expand my own frontiers,
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Everything good is easier to lose than win,
like money and a loving mate,
while everything bad is easier to win than lose––
consider enemies and weight––
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