gershon hepner Poems

Common Era, around Fifty-five,
vivid portrait on encaustic,
looks as though she really is alive,
far too early to be Gnostic.
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Wine, women, song, religion, meditation,
for Leonard Cohen were all an expression
of points he made with major exclamation
to hide relentless progress of depression.
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A Briton, not a Teuton, he
on physic’s laws made mutiny.
For falling apples avid, he
discovered laws of gravity,
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Turned into a stag, then torn by hounds,
Actaeon has no time to wonder
how he offended, gazing out of bounds,
the virgin goddess. For his blunder
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Zeus finds Europa playing with her hand––
handmaidens some say, pulling wool
over eyes of people who demand
that she be modest. As a bull,
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Richard Strauss the composer was born
to the sound of his father’s old horn.
All his life well disposed
to its sound, he composed,
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Though poets spend their lives in spying,
invading inner lives and feelings,
and, word-addicted, prone to lying,
with double-meanings double dealing,
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Our interest being on the dangerous edge,
we think we’re able to see more
in truth than those whom we deplore
because they do not plumb the depths and dredge
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isn’t interesting enough
to be put into poetry it’s not worth saying;
if writing poetry makes life too tough,
you cannot solve your problem writing prose or praying.
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Waiting for a footstep that will never come,
we sit immobile round the holiest of holies,
distracted by our mindgames with a zero sum,
and though we do not have a ball, we act like goalies,
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