gershon hepner Poems

Near the human race are layers
of nonsense, Thornton Wilder said.
Worst of all are the naysayers
reminding us that God is dead
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Femme maison, woman with a house
where normally you find a head.
This is not a perfect spouse––
I would rather see a bed.
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Faceless lovers, one who has a leg
that’s an above-the-knee prosthesis,
in the missionary position beg
for sex that must be anesthetic
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INSPIRATION

It isn’t where my motivation
comes from, but how it survives.
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Art, a guarantee of sanity.
Under arches of hysteria
we search for our humanity
to which we tend to be inferior.
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When shove comes to push
I pull for Brancusi,
whose muse when asleep
is more than skin-deep,
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She has turned into a lair
the fortress where she once could not
be harmed, and lies within it bare,
while hoping love won’t hurt a lot.
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Thoughts with sense not recognizable,
horses running behind cart,
like squiggles that appear derisible
till they’ve been turned to works of art,
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Perishability provides
an opportunity to relish
the moment. Time won’t wait, and tides
force us to move, so we embellish
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Just thinking of our ethnic dishes
can make digestive juices run
and Jewish holidays such fun––
chopped liver and gefilte fishes.
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