gershon hepner Poems

They used to think that it was drought
that drove the Anasazi out
of southwest cities on the mesas,
to die there, like forgotten races.
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Turning on a paradigm,
I have tried extremely hard
to be godly in my rhyme,
hoping to be avatarred,
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Fun and frolic, fashion, flash,
lechery and chamber pots,
lots of women seeking cash
from the men who have the hots,
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There’s more than one way to perform
Bach’s St. Matthew Passion,
there’s no right way, or even norm,
for style resembles fashion,
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Bars that keep a felon in,
keratin and melanin
trap the colors on the tail
that a peacock loves to flail.
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If you’re accustomed to a constant ream
of cyberinformation, you’ll be bored
when digitally you’re deprived. Your stream
of consciousness won’t be restored
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Regard me, one side and the other,
each side is not the other’s brother,
for usually each side’s in hiding
behind my artifice, the siding
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Hard on her saddle now riding her cycle
my lady engages the road less than me,
and seems to be frozen in thought, an icicle
for those who don’t know that her feelings are free.
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With a smell we disinter
the past, as with a madeleine
Marcel, notorious pasticheur,
once did. Words never can explain
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When a candle in the thighs
inflames my woman, lucky men
like me respond without surprise,
allowing the equestrienne
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