gershon hepner Poems

Single combat with shape-shifting
untruths is the constant battle
poets fight while plates are rifting,
quaking while they preach and prattle.
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From human speech when moved by muteness
I make my odyssey in verse,
criticized sometimes for cuteness,
lively as a speeding hearse.
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When the sun hides behind clouds
you should not waste time by grieving;
leave this to the madding crowds
who are stuck on disbelieving.
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MY GUIDE WHEN I’M PERPLEXED


I sleep a lot, don’t read Maimonides:
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Human beings, fickle, liars and deceivers,
shunning danger and for profit greedy,
while running from the truth as fast as wide receivers
oblivious of all people who are needy,
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A frown that greets a thought becomes a noose
which, pulled, will strangle all unstiffened styles,
but when you loosen up you can reduce
the risk of ruining a thought with smiles.
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There is a God when joy begins,
but when it ends He disappears;
it isn’t that He hates our sins,
but that He cannot stand our fears.
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Religion, when it’s being spilt,
creates a dreadful mess called guilt;
it can’t be cleaned up with a mop,
but may be by a Yiddish kop.
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They’re selling off a bunch of Hebrew books
From Paris, Leiden, Izmir and Bombay.
Bibliophiles all cast their tenterhooks
into this heritage, but few can pay
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Some think that death that comes by leisure,
lasciviously opulent,
can be a most delightful pleasure,
a Liebestod if copulent,
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