gershon hepner Poems

He who knows just one religion can know none.
He who knows each one of them is known as One.,
and recognized as Yawheh, Allah, Jesus Christ and God,
believing that religions all are very odd.
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Fra Filippo, a Man and Woman at a Casement,
betrothed, a couple sitting face to face,
with eyes out of alignment. Leave them in the basement
until they’re ready for the marriage dais,
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Bored while they respectfully are crushed,
two women look at Degas' paintings, lost in
admiration, feeling nothing. Boston
their museum home where they've been hushed.
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Less seductive than potato casseroles,
some women don’t deserve from me a ballad,
to get one, they have got to please me with their roles,
more like chopped liver than potato salad.
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Boca baciata, a mouth that has been kissed,
does not lose freshness, and when kissed again
becomes refreshed like flowers in a mist
that wells like ink inspired by a pen,
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On a box and carpet sits a model,
her reflection in a mirror by the wall.
We know the artist will become a godol,
but the model does not care at all.
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One hundred million dollars, more or less,
paid by the Met for a small Duccio, “Child
with the Madonna, ” thus obtaining less
by far than Boston has. It has beguiled
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Derision, even when not spoken with concision,
as it should be, can be useful to
put down your nuclear family, although its fission
may lead to fallout you may come to rue.
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Some things cease to have a life
once you write a poem,
or you tell them to you wife,
and you let her know ’em.
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Hedging our bets with ours ifs, ans and buts
provides us, we think, with protection,
but when Harry Kinnard to Germans said “Nuts! ”
he showed them he had an objection
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