gershon hepner Poems

While some believe they need a title
to make their poetry ignite,
I find the first line to be vital
in every wordsong that I write,
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Instead of great totalitarian eyes
controlled by an Orwellian Big Brother,
we’re all observed, and can obtain our highs
by making videotapes of one another.
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Dividing, as the Panama Canal
divides the continent into two parts,
what’s evil from what’s basically banal,
implies some monsters are not off those charts
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For President Ford chewing gum was
a problem while crossing the road,
but surely a man far more dumb was
the prince who was kissed as a toad.
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“Let’s seize foxes that destroy
vineyards, ” say the ripe young maids,
each one anxious to enjoy
boys they call in serenades.
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Bending backwards, disobedient,
can be lots of fun, the bum
exciting he who finds expedient
spanking of the bowing bum.
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I do hope this poem won’t shock or offend you,
it’s not my intention to do you such wrong,
but this is the last one that ever I’ll send you
if you are not naked when I end my song.
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Harps and martyrs, peasants, saints and civil wars,
bar-maids, red-heads, emigrants, and singers, writers,
priests and politicians, laborers and whores,
always ready for a drink and to be fighters.
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Britney’s song called “Baby One More Time”
played backwards reads as, “Sleep with me, I’m not too young.”
Am I perhaps too forward in my rhyme
when I say, “Don’t be backward, baby, look—I am well hung! ”
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With yellowed paper, stiffened ancient glue
my paperbacks are falling into pieces;
without a cover for the things I do
the chance of survival that decreases
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