gershon hepner Poems

Each sentence is a susurrus
that softly from the grave he whispers.
Analeptic, Lazarus
is sermonizing during Vespers.
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Everyone knows where the sun must go down
but yet in our easterly dash
we swim to the west without lifebelts and drown
like Johnny, the man they called Cash.
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Some people listen to the song
while others listen to the voice.
The audience often gets it wrong,
confused, because it has the choice
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Your are the beat that my heart skipped.
You cause my ventricles to pump
my blood into my brain, which is the crypt
you enter speeding past my bump.
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Buttered buns are banes to hearts
in cars that, even hybridized,
are worse than horses and their carts,
though leather customized.
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Asked what he did yesterday,
Johannes Brahms replied:
“In the morning I made hay,
and put a note inside
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Believing six things to be wrong
before our breakfast has been made
occurs when coffee isn’t strong
and toast is lacking marmalade.
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Your tears you thought would fertilize
the lemon tree will flow instead
to give the desert a surprise,
renewing blossoms that aren’t dead,
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Trees are poems from the earth,
whether very short or long,
even when they’re large in girth,
they enchant us like a song.
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I love love, the poet said,
though with wings it flies with speed
of light and with a cat-like tread
engages those who don’t pay heed.
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