gershon hepner Poems

Paragliding with huge Californian condors,
our passion is so high no cloud can dim it,
and when we take the open road in hybrid Hondas
we feel there is no highway code and no speed limit.
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Are you the man who pulled the trigger at
the top of Bethel's Bab-ilani’s ziggurat?
If so, pray tell, why are the heathens ragin'
today in Arabic as in Akkadian
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Babylon fell as the writing predicted
in the midst of the feast of Belshazzar.
Such prophesies rarely can be interdicted,
though few can have sounded much crasser
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Architectural power is in vogue.
Architects are never vague,
which is why they are so close
to power centers. They have class,
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If only there were some slight chance
of our transforming into dance
our song––our song then into laughter,
and laughter into what comes after:
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Narratives we tell to show
who we believe we are deceive
the listeners who are forced to go
with that one version they receive,
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I’ll be author, you’ll be drama,
both of us will be directors,
thinking less about the grammar,
or production and prospectus,
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Like the burglar who distracts
the guard dog with a piece of meat,
the poet, serving meager facts,
intends the words to be his treat.
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I wander, aimless as a ghoul,
apart from the incurious crowd
where all the madding people fool
around, and see in clouds the shroud
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Some people once to Martin Luther turned
and asked: “What would you do, sir, if you learned
the world would end tomorrow? ” to which he
replied: “Good question. Plant an apple tree.
...