gershon hepner Poems

Most prefer a watered garden
to the desert, and a forest
like the famous one in Arden,
to the moon. If you’re a florist,
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I cannot, nor do I intend,
to switch my wife, but I’ll pretend
next time I’m driving in my Honda
to drive a new Pagani Zonda.
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Love’s mutability disturbs
the poets who put love upon
a pedestal, for change perturbs
conclusions that should be foregone,
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Stopping and starting, belling, stertorous,
the lovers come and go and nurture us
in springs and summers of our Knoxville lives,
but we must all be laundered by our wives.
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I’m in an LA state of mind,
but do not rule out Culver City,
where at the Trader I can find
the nuts I think make me so witty.
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There’s no other pigeonhole in which to shove her:
she’s always my woman, and that’s why I love her,
and if it should happen that I find another,
she’d give me more problems, so why should I bother?
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I use you body for my bed,
your breasts my pillows while I sleep,
but when we’re lying head to head,
I don’t feel drowsy, counting sheep,
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Instead of thinking only logic
should be promoter of opinions,
perhaps we should be dialogic,
not treating others as dominions
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Vienna waits for you, but not for me.
Although the memories of that great city
are burned into our minds, I don’t think we
should ever go back there. Here’s the pity:
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They say that Yeats, when reading what he’d written,
would buzz, and sound like bees in glades.
My verses, if recited by a kitten
might well receive more accolades
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