Mother
Mother gave me my first taste of sweet milk
While I snuggled helpless and voracious
Amongst two large breasts that were soft as silk:
A comfort zone where I heard loquacious
Chatter on a daily basis, foreign
But always a soothing tone for my ears
My meal was always interrupted when
Mom would pull me off still hungry and steer
Me around facing over her shoulder
And begin patting my back tenderly
Until strange noises began to occur
That emanated from both ends of me.
Is it any wonder why I love her?
This source of life I know as my mother.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Are You Game?
I am eccentric people often say
Because I view the world and all I see
In different, peculiar ways. My quirks raise
Eyebrows to say the least. Unusual, Gee!
I am a human being for Christ's sake!
Humanity is nuts to some degree.
If this is true, why look at me to make
Your case? It’s only when your quirks decree
The norm, mine become eccentricities
Abhorred by most of societies cliques.
The different peculiarities
I see but one: A different bag of tricks.
I’ll do my bag and be my guest, the same.
And stop this silly poppycock. You game?
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Cogito ergo sum
I often sit and ponder many things
A host of multifarious subjects.
A few perhaps are shallow but they bring
Me food for thought. The balance is complex.
At times I think about the universe
The sphere of life and death experience.
Those thoughts alone I find myself immersed
In deepest meditation, Transcendence.
And other times I’m simply lost in thought
Perchance a past event or maybe lines
Of Poetry. My mind has never sought
Retreat. Whatever enters leaves behind
Itself forever nourishing my mind
Improving knowledge gained from Humankind.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Greed
We are a greedy species more or less
Desiring more than needed frequently.
If something free presents itself, excess
Increases often exponentially.
Instead of taking one or two and leave
The rest behind, avaricious nature
Impels us, take it all! And thus believes,
It’s mine! To Hell with those that follow, your
Misfortune is not my regard. Myself
Is all that matters so what's mine is mine.
Though lacking scruples in and of itself
Becomes a selfish brute, his own design.
Beware! Of egocentric avarice
Your entry into heaven might be missed.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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I don’t…but
It is simply shocking how a teeny
Conjunctive word, a tiny little but
Becomes precursor for the agony
Of some. I will explain exactly what
I mean. Case in point: Have you ever had
A conversation like the following?
The person talking says, “please don’t get mad,
I do not intend to hurt your feelings,
But“...then proceeds to do precisely what
He said he wouldn't do. Explanation?
It's ignorance! Instead of keeping shut
His haughty mouth, ending conversation
Continues hurting monologue uncut
Until your forced to say, you kiss my butt!
poem by Albert Ahearn
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A Poet's needs
A poem begins with inspiration
Not often that easy to acquire.
Thus a poet needs some stimulation
A prerequisite that is required.
The elusive stimulant comes from life
Through living, loving and all its delights
Plus dying, hating and all of Mans strife
And unfulfilled days and all lonely nights.
Whichever the reason the seed had been sown
Come harvest time the yield is a poem:
Be it sad or happy, lengthy or terse
The world still hungers for the poets verse.
So those of us in need for expression
Will write our verses from sense impressions.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Fallen Warriors
The fallen warriors of foreign wars
Cleave my heart and soul to their very core.
There's no effective balm in any store
That soothes empathetic pain I endure.
My wounded heart will recover I guess
My soul shall remain immortally maimed.
They pale by comparison more or less
When compared to the deaths the wars have claimed.
All of the fallen are heroes at rest
Paying the ultimate price with their lives.
There's absolutely no way to express
The mental anguish I feel inside.
So on this saddened memorial day
I offer up prayers in a heartfelt way.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Highfalutin Pollutants
The cloudless sky scarred with contrails
Like cicatrices on a slaves
Backside from numerous lashings.
Back and forth, this way and that way
Flying bombs travel overhead
Leaving in their wake, pollutants
In the form of anomalies:
Man-made, miasmal cirrus clouds.
Experts maintain they are harmless
Like our frosty breaths in winter.
Believe that, and I have a bridge
I want to sell you in Brooklyn.
Down on earth exhaust is called smog
Up there it's called condensation?
Where does the Truth lie?
The answer: the clouds
in the form of acid rain.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Opinions
Opinions are like rectums, everyone
Has one. Sadly, *ssholes have them also.
It’s what comes out: profundity or dumb
Beliefs that make all the difference. Know
The untruths involved before you accept
A single one. A traditional thought
Is founded in superstition and kept
Alive as “old wives tale” falsely taught
As truth. Irrational is what it is!
So eschew these cockeyed philosophies.
Beware of the false Sayers chorus
Who opine their contrived absurdities.
They may control the sought-after places
But not Truth when we get down to cases.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Vampire
His manic mind this particular night
Was dulled by the fractured waning moonlight.
Standing alone amongst the monoliths
Of stone and marble, cold and spiritless.
The sky, all black and bleak, nary a star
To behold. Somewhere distant a bizarre
Sounding canine howled its mournful distress.
A black ominous cloud slithered across
The dying lunar orb like a veiled-face
Demon lurking in an unholy place.
Possessed, his unquietness bestirring
Within his tormented soul a craving
For human blood. Someone's vitality
Will be drained to sustain immortality.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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