The beast sleeps
The quiet solitude of the early
Hours of morning while Humanity
Is still asleep, soothes and heals my Psyche.
The hum of my computer while I type
Is the only bearable sound. I succumb
To this transcendental inner sanctum.
Away from those raucous sounds that are caused
By the beast’s awakening. Injuring
Noise that reverberates throughout my brain
Resulting in insensitivity.
Longing once again the tranquility
Only the early morning balm provides.
I’ll relish this comforting quietude
Until the beast once again rears it’s head.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Slavery
I found blinded slavery: a persons’
Present tied to their parents’ past that urge
Them to yield to their traditions, worsened
By ancient spirits, fettered and scourged.
I found muted slavery: which mated
The life of a man to a wife he hates
And places her body in a hated
Husbands bed deadening both lives and fate.
I found deafened slavery: which stifles
The soul and heart of man rendering him
An empty echo, no voice, pitiful
Shadow of a body, a grim phantom.
No emancipation proclamation
Freed man from self-imposed subjugation.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Time
Time is a nonspacial continuum
In which events occur in obvious
Irreversible sequencing union:
Past, present and future, continuous.
What does all this mean to us in our lives?
Well, we have many memories don’t we?
Shared with our loved ones and our relatives.
Past experiences that once were new
Are now old, recyclable memories.
Those timely abstract musings cling to
Everyone: today's contemporaries.
The entire past is what we are anew.
The present is shaped by this time “before”
And hinged on what the future holds in store.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Eyewitness
The slow, murky, drought-affected river
Snakes its way around meandering shores.
Its surface littered with leaves upriver
Like colorful scales on a constrictor.
Within its gut swim impervious prey
That nourishes it along its lengthy
Journey to the sea. All along the way
Its subtle currents swallow whole, debris
Left in the wake of Octobers fury.
Unmindful Canada geese fly over
The leafy surface honking their carefree
Calls while negotiating their stopover.
Standing high on the bank is I, witness
To this autumn picturesque loveliness.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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A fool’s discourse
Am I the fool for not killing this fly
That persistently harasses me now?
Is my respect for life absurd, awry?
Should my philosophy be disavowed?
Isn’t all life a very sacred thing?
You say, yes, but a fly! A billion die
Each day! Ah! But most die on the wing.
My belief is ‘live and let live’, and why?
Nothing is insignificant to me.
Suppose for a moment you are that fly
And programmed to pester me endlessly?
Must I kill you in a blink of an eye?
Until Man respects life of every kind
Our future holds no hope for humankind.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Splendor in the grass
Come; lie with me in the grass
Of summer and feel the cool green
Blades give ground to our presence here.
Smell the white clover my dearest?
Its odoriferous fragrance
Pales by comparison with you.
Look! I see a four-leaf clover,
Though rare, it’s not as rare as you;
I picked you out amongst a crowd
And have been in love ever since.
That sun that kisses these flowers
Is not as warm as your kisses
And the warm rustling summer breeze
Lingers long about your tresses
Stilled by the jealous Aeolus
Who claims all things but you my dear.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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A Haunting Love
It’s surrealistic in what I see
In the most unlikely places, in fact.
Especially when unexpectedly
They appear before tiredly eyes, abstract.
Was eating as usual, cereal:
Shredded wheat with sliced ripen banana.
Staring back from my laden spoon revealed
A face, the ghost of my Marianna.
Startled, yet saddened, my head turned around
Expecting to see my wife’s lovely face.
Instead I had found a man with a frown
Mirroring back from a glass-door bookcase.
Her haunting visits, this angel of death
Will continue I guess till my last breath.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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An Epithet
“Admirable beacon of rectitude”
A great sounding epithet said of me
You think? That depends on whose point of view.
It’s like the fruit of a poisonous tree.
It looks harmless, nonetheless toxic.
It can be said for the appellation-
Sounds great yet often a vitriolic
Mean-spirited, misinterpretation.
The interpretation, self-righteousness
In the meanest, cruelest sense of the word.
I live a moral code nevertheless
In spite of the consensus of the herd.
If I’m a single lighthouse on the coast,
Expect from me examples from this post.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Autumn
Autumn is approaching rapidly.
Already leaves of many trees become
Converted. Some are changing vividly
To crimsons, russets, shades of gold and plums
The asters, goldenrods, gentians abloom.
The insects lethargy increasingly
Arresting to the eye. Their fate presumed.
Familiar fragrances bewitchingly
Seduce me, spurring happy memories:
The children celebrating Halloween.
The jack-o'-lanterns smiling bright and stories
About the living dead are told between
The sips of hot deliciousness.... Cider!
Need I ask for more amidst this splendor?
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Lonesomeness
I am a stranger. My reclusiveness
And self-imposed lonesomeness in exile
Is severe. But yet in my aloneness
I contemplate an unknown charming isle
And this meditation surfeits my dreams
With specters of great and distant lands that
My eyes have never seen. Although it seems
I am a stranger with no welcome mat
To greet me from the crowd, I say within
Myself, what law has joined me with them?
I am a stranger to myself, wherein
I hear my tongue; my ears always condemns
My voice. I hear my inner self impart
Unknown interrogations of my heart.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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