gershon hepner Poems

In our memories we always play
the leading role, although our parts are merely walk-on
in those of others. We are poor sommeliers,
selecting memories like wine that we uncork on
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The cognitive inferences processed by senses,
unconscious as clocks to the notion of tenses,
create the perceptions embraced by the mind,
reliable timepiece we don’t need to wind,
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Better, deeper, more intelligent,
and sensitive than us, Jane Austen
provides a literary environment
in which we all, by getting lost in
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You have to leave a space for thought
to heal the wounds nonmeaning causes;
they won’t recover as they ought
if you attempt to close with clauses
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For the writer, as for God,
the process of creation can’t
be drawn precisely, far too odd
to make clear to a confidant,
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La femme, sings Offenbach, dont le coeur rêve,
which means a woman with a dreaming heart,
is disinclined to give this heart forever,
but always will––as soon as her eyes dart
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We can tell more by implying
than by being quite explicit.
Though it always is illicit
to elude the truth lying,
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Sick in fortune from the surfeit
of own behavior, we
are crashing now, as we deserve,
most excellent in foppery,
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As sybaritic as a Turkish bath or shvitz,
the cosmopolitans pronounces their consonants and vowels,
but when they leave the ballroom of the Ritz
they sound like borborygmi of the bowels.
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The trouble with me is that I’m not shovel
ready, and don’t want to move
from my cottage mansion to a hovel
where I will be forced to prove
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