gershon hepner Poems

Death encourages, said Marianne,
and he who strongly feels behaves
not like an angel, but a mortal man,
a lighthouse facing stormy waves.
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Endlessly proliferating semiosis
interpreted too fallibly by exegesis
converts the numinous in all five books of Moses
to fodder for best sellers or a doctoral thesis.
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The fading flower of fidelity
must be watered, like a melancholy ode
Keats might have read while offering Shelley tea,
to prove to him his inspiration always flowed.
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Having sex when getting older
may sometimes make a lover bolder
than when in what is called the prime,
though senior moments at nighttime
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For redemption we may search
while we also stockpile sin,
hoping in the synagogue and church
that the Lord accepts our spin.
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Buried within rigid paradigms
lie ambiguities concealing tensions
between the very best and worst of times,
quite as intriguing as two-part inventions
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The good place is not one we find.
However many people hate us
in places that we leave behind,
moves won’t establish a hiatus
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The laughter that they took to be the whole
of him was really like a decimal,
a tiny point that tithed his tragic soul
before his grief infinitesimal.
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Recondita armonia
is the harmony that’s hidden,
as when in prosopopoiea
a person speaks, although unbidden,
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IS IT TOO LATE?


Is it too late
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