gershon hepner Poems

You’ve wasted time if you have asked,
inside the cities of the plain,
for meaning; truth in them is masked
by vices that conceal their pain.
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The stories of the bible that you know are
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When Abraham was weak and old
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For deadline poets, I suppose,
like William Deede and Calvin Trillin,
a poem’s like a daily dose,
effective more than Penicillin
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Ken Livingstone has got religion,
a private war against the pigeon.
Although these wildfowl love to coo,
Trafalgar Square’s their Waterloo;
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Nostalgic always, often disenchanted,
I feel I am a wine that’s been decanted
and left around to breathe, not being stoppered,
my bouquet fading, bottom left uncoppered,
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The enervated, dignified remoteness
in subjects of the artist Christian Schad
appeal to my base instincts and my goatness.
D’you think this proves that I'm extremely bad?
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Though ratcatchers mainly are paid by the rat
we poets aren’t paid by the word,
in fact we are not paid at all, but my cat
catches all of the words she has heard,
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The kings of Arakan, in ancient Burma,
would make their concubines stand in the heat,
to find which one would of them would make them firmer
when smelling them, their sweat his favorite treat,
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Where does God’s spirit dwell? I wonder;
in me, does it, or you?
I haven’t heard the heavens’ thunder;
Is that your problem too?
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