gershon hepner Poems

She taught me laughing, rolling on the floor,
acronyming it as rofl,
salad days with her I think are more
than merely mayonnaised kartoffel.
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Not raped, but seduced,
a sister became
a cause that unloosed
a battle of shame.
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He gave the book the title: “After
the Madness.”
What happens after isn’t laughter,
but sadness.
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My words are slippery as slime
that snails and hagfish ooze,
but should they trip you up in rhyme
I hope they will confuse.
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Injustice is the cause of terror,
so liberals would have us believe;
they sadly make a fatal error,
as of their senses they take leave.
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Known formally as ahuacates,
the change of name to avocados
made them better for all parties
than potatoes or tomatoes.
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A duster with feathers cannot lay an egg,
but a woman who’s gorgeous but hasn’t much brains
can achieve by exposing a breast or a leg
far more than an ugly one when she complains.
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Love’s the burning boy, exquisitely was said
once by a lady poet called Elizabeth;
it cannot be extinguished till we’re very dead,
so do not let a bishop diagnose its death.
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While some believe they need a title
to make their poetry ignite,
I find the first line to be vital
in every wordsong that I write,
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Arms and legs I now am singing,
and clothes that cover flesh and, clinging,
inspire poets more than Muses,
because bare skin provides excuses
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