gershon hepner Poems

Endless halving, argued Zeno,
won’t help us to reach the end.
Similarly, we can’t wend
our way to veritas with vino,
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I could see Barack Obama
to a wall (street) being pushed.
If slammed this way by a slammer,
he could claim he’s been amBushed,
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With London Transport I won’t cavil,
although their message seems most odd,
declaring to the folk who travel
on buses that there is no God.
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Getting out of cul de sacs
where I’m often forced to stop
sometimes makes me think of Sax
Fifth Avenue, and want to shop,
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LA isn’t Shangri-La,
but then neither is Tibet,
places where you may forget
who you were, and who you are.
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Richard Nixon vs. David Frost:
who d’you think deserved to be the winner,
the man interrogated, looking lost,
because the world condemned him as a sinner,
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While a servant combs her hair
a gentleman, I would presume,
performs a pedicure, and bare,
she fondles her right breast. The doom
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If you like to get things done,
Jack’s the guy you ought to back
since he does this with such fun,
always ready to attack
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Some things cease to have a life
once you write a poem,
or you tell them to you wife,
and you let her know ’em.
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Hedging our bets with ours ifs, ans and buts
provides us, we think, with protection,
but when Harry Kinnard to Germans said “Nuts! ”
he showed them he had an objection
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