gershon hepner Poems

Seen as sex objects, purely
domestic creatures, wives
must feel indignant, surely,
the ones who’ve got their lives,
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We need to draw a moral line,
and give up looking for another
hopefully more caring mother
and father, as did Coraline.
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Down my ladder to my moon,
landing on my lunar berth,
I’ll descend to meet you soon,
in the sunlight, down on earth.
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Of depression now I sing:
hear the bad news that I bring,
falling arms of that great man
who says: “I hope, and therefore can! ”
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When I see the milkman coming,
I don’t experience an intending.
That logically is the upsumming
up messages that I’d be sending,
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Wages of past time,
like imperatives of sex,
unravel like weak rhyme,
compounded often with complex
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More and more now married women cheat
no less than do their husbands. Oh, alack!
In offices––no need for bars––they meet,
and very soon they end up in the sack
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When you think you’ve said enough,
and the going gets too rough,
think of Delacroix who said
it’s not enough until you’re dead,
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Hard to find for prostate rhyme, and reason
won’t always correlate with scores of Gleason,
the bottom line not length of catheter
but of survival. Don’t let math deter
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It’s a short, short time from May to November,
December to May, though, is shorter;
spring, summer and fall aren’t hard to remember,
but winter, and spring that’s so cruel in the quarter
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