gershon hepner Poems

If only I could hang upon
the present just as transient butterflies
hang on bright flowers, songs the swan
is said to sing before it swoons and dies
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They say that’s David harp would always wake
the psalmist king at midnight. Like a clock,
it would alarm him from his sleep, and make
him turn to thoughts of God, so writer’s block
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When monks made St. Jerome put on a dress,
they made a monkey out of him, but not his gender.
Vulgar virgins caused him no distress
performing this pre-Vulgate gender-bender.
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Lusting after sensuous lips,
landing on soft shoulders
as welcoming as heaving hips,
I become much bolder
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While you’re lying on a couch,
hiking skirt so you can to bare
your most delicious derrière,
I head for you, not Hedda Gabler,
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Far better than the sun that shines
each day in California, where
I've fallen for its food and wines
idyllically in western air,
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Chagall liked chairs and tables overturned,
but not the right way up. I think that old
ideas should similarly all be spurned,
because they lead to paths that are potholed.
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When my girl sits in the bleachers
catching carefully my balls,
she becomes the best of teachers
in the sweet pedantic halls
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'The deed is done! '
Elektra ends.
It’s kinda fun
the way it bends
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Please give three loud cheers for Ebonics,
and pass on sour grapes, Hebonics;
Ebonics is the mamme loshen
of shvartses who say they’re from Goshen.
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