gershon hepner Poems

Not raped, but seduced,
a sister became
a cause that unloosed
a battle of shame.
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“Fort a shliten oyfen shney.”
It’s unlikely you will know
the meaning of these words, which say,
“A little sled glides through the snow.”
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He gave the book the title: “After
the Madness.”
What happens after isn’t laughter,
but sadness.
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My words are slippery as slime
that snails and hagfish ooze,
but should they trip you up in rhyme
I hope they will confuse.
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Injustice is the cause of terror,
so liberals would have us believe;
they sadly make a fatal error,
as of their senses they take leave.
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Known formally as ahuacates,
the change of name to avocados
made them better for all parties
than potatoes or tomatoes.
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A duster with feathers cannot lay an egg,
but a woman who’s gorgeous but hasn’t much brains
can achieve by exposing a breast or a leg
far more than an ugly one when she complains.
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Love’s the burning boy, exquisitely was said
once by a lady poet called Elizabeth;
it cannot be extinguished till we’re very dead,
so do not let a bishop diagnose its death.
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With telepathy I hope your heart
translates for you the words that I’ll encrypt
in every message while we are apart
so you can read the meaning of the script.
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Arms and legs I now am singing,
and clothes that cover flesh and, clinging,
inspire poets more than Muses,
because bare skin provides excuses
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