gershon hepner Poems

Saudi Arabia has a popular psychosis:
Some people think they’re covered up with sand;
scientific name of this psychosis, turabosis,
is hardly known at all outside that land.
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Our lives are all translations made by God,
by age, injustice, sickness and by war,
of lives whose pagination may be odd,
but may match even numbers like fourscore.
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A house in which one knows each room
is not worth living in, a golden bowl.
Lives also must have gaps; assume
you understand the body, not the soul.
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Luscious, and in body lithe,
Salome takes off seven veils,
a ten whom Herod wants to tithe
before the headless Baptist wails.
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Future memories that we create
when celebrating what is here and now
are often lost till we investigate
how they came to be stored, and we allow
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Memoirs of a former child
often drive an adult wild;
tales of strangers whom they've jilted,
snows of yesteryear that melted,
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So many femmes fatales the bible
describes, the first one Eve,
for she could not refute as libel
the story men believe.
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Claiming to have done due diligence,
Harold Pinter, being prized, derides
Americans, who suffocate intelligence
voluptuously on cushions supersized.
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“There’s no miraculous escape–
Shechem’s synonymous with rape, ”
they told their father, in his camp
where he sat sweating, hands cold, damp,
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A sad wine lack complexity,
like empty skeletons exhumed,
or men without perplexity,
who never seem to be consumed
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