The Heart
Each heart has a somber chamber
where Melancholic days are stored.
Those never to be forgotten
Times baptized with life’s anointing tears.
Passing years of joy and sorrow
Both have found their place in the heart.
Though diametrically opposed
Each holds permanent residence.
When joyful manifestations
Dance to the beat of happiness
Sorrow waits in its sad chamber
For inevitability.
When it arrives joy surrenders
Uncomplaining into limbo.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Tomorrows
Ah, tomorrow and tomorrows!
A procrastinators' catchall
future days that he will borrow
freely to do nothing at all;
but presently those days will dawn
calling due his declarations;
promises he'll not keep thereon:
deliberate fabrications.
His wishy-washy character
lacks effectiveness and purpose;
his favorite word is "later"
which can be defined as fruitless.
Is there any hope for him? No!
as long as there are tomorrows.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Turtledove
Six o'clock on a Sunday morn
I hear the call of a forlorn
Dove. Its mourning sound so sadly
pled evokes a melancholy.
It spurred my thinking back in time
When I was of another mind:
A time when we had fell in love
And witnessed by a turtledove.
So many springs have come and gone
And still I hear its cry at dawn
A sound that conjures up in me
A sad but loving reverie:
A daydream of that morning bird
Whose sad refrains we both had heard.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Wooded Destinies
The sun-bleached exoskeletons
of old dead trees stand like sentries
along the towpath riverfront
exfoliated and gangling.
In a former age they stood tall,
grandiose to all passerby's
but they too are dead to recall
their once impressive colossi.
Eventually these remains
will meet their final destinies:
to fall-never to rise again-
among forgotten progenies;
yet many springs have passed since then
each sprouted trees, time and again.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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If only...
It would have been his twenty-third
birthday next month on the sixteenth.
Today we received a letter
From the government informing
Us our son was killed while fighting
The enemy in Kandahar
Afghanistan two days ago.
I cannot help feeling guilty
for our dear sons untimely death.
I could have fought his enlistment
Instead I let him convince me
That it was the right thing to do.
If only I had been more firm
If….If…he’d be alive today.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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A Poet
Not everyone a poet be
It takes more than a show of words
Or feigned esteemed ability.
These attributes are so absurd!
Like inkless pens expect to write
A single word of poesy.
A poet lives to dream each night
Ideas wrought subconsciously;
And when the golden sun has gleamed
Its steady subdued morning glow
The poet wakes from fondest dreams
Imbued by schemes the night bestowed
Into a measured rhyming gem:
Conjured dreams become a poem.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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A treasure in a basket
Laying in a wicker basket
Are varied colored Easter eggs
Surrounded by milk chocolate
And jelly beans and root beer kegs.
Exploring closer you will see
Beneath the artificial grass:
Sidewalk chalk and marshmallow bees
A squirt gun and a movie pass.
You must keep searching deeper still
Until you find all that’s concealed:
Next you’ll find a treasury bill
And coupon for a Big Mac meal.
Now my little excavator
Have a very happy Easter.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Aloof
When the gathered families smelled
The aroma of sausages,
Hotdogs and spent firecrackers
On this day of Independence
I was sniffing the subtle scents
Of odoriferous flowers
That grew beyond the festiveness.
When members heard, ” come and get it! ”
From the self designated chef
I heard only sounds of nature.
When the people sat and said grace
For the food that was on their plates
I stood among the wildflowers
Too intoxicated to feast.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Man Of Snow
I created a large snowman
On our snowy laden front lawn
Facing the street on which we live.
It was not an ordinary
Snowman; you know, the ones you see
With large packed snowballs stacked on top
Of each other with chunks of coal
Representing facial features;
Not mine! He was a translucent,
Naked man of wintery snow;
A frigid albino nudist
Whose large, blue-shooter marble eyes
Stare back at you from its cold soul
Beckoning every passerby.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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The Spell Of Spring
Exfoliative sycamore
Limbs splay low above the water
like giraffe's drinking from the shore
at some silty, placid river.
Where once their arthritic branches
at the mercy of winters winds
it's springs meliorative changes
that bring green budding knobby limbs.
Here I sit astride a boulder
overlooking the riverbank
awestruck by springs natural wonders
recurrent offerings enchant
me like a mesmerizer's spell:
enthralled, hypnotized, compelled.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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