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Poems By Poet Albert Ahearn  11/21/2014 2:21:05 AM
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  ALBERT AHEARN
 
 
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  57.     

A Change Of Heart

I did not like him when he was alive.
So now that he lies dead, nothing has changed.
Yes, I know this sounds inhuman, heartless
Or call it what you like but I cannot
Be a hypocrite. I’ll not eulogize.
In life he embodied all that I’m not.
This does not mean that I’d wished the man dead.
Like I said, I disliked him, not hate him.
In a word, he was an unscrupulous
Man..that’s right! Devoid of all principles;
Contemptuous of what was right and just;
A self-absorbed, egocentric brute
Where few if any will remember him
Except perhaps me, may god bless his soul!
 
Albert Ahearn
   
 

   
   
 

  58.     

A Chilly Vision

I gazed through an iced crystal pane
Looking at three winter backdrops:
A tree is struggling under snow
Its maple branches drooping low.
Two small flowerbeds are asleep
beneath very deep, white blankets.
As I gazed, I became entranced;
All of the snow had disappeared
Revealing the presence of spring-
Tiny, green protuberances
appeared from numerous branches;
Rudimentary daffodils
and tulips rouse from their slumber.
Then I blinked twice and all was gone;
except my yearning thoughts of spring.
 
Albert Ahearn
   
 

   
   
 

  59.     

A Cloudy Imagination

The lingering cumulus clouds
imperceptibly changed their shapes
while I sat below discerning
these metamorphosed spectacles.
My imagination went wild
as they drifted across the sky.
It seemingly was like my mind
was orchestrating their transmuting.
I glanced at one that took the shape
of the poet Walt Whitman's head;
another like Sylvia Plath;
and yet another looked like Poe.
I glanced back at the Whitman cloud
but it changed into Erato.
I took my pad from my pocket
and began to write this poem.
 
Albert Ahearn
   
 

   
   
 

  60.     

A Confession

Those sanctified structures of verse,
plot and rhyme-why do I find them
no help to me now?
I want to produce something
imagined not recollected.
My inner voice becomes tongue-tied;
it trembles searching for the words
to guide me to inspiration.
So at times everything I write
with the threadbare lack of genius
seems wearily; worn-out; hackneyed
often painfully paralyzed.
A mιsalliance I admit
Still I strive to caress the light.
 
Albert Ahearn
   
 
 
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BEST POEMS:  (Click on a topic to list and read the poems)
• angel poems
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beautiful poems
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friend poems
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Poems By Poet Albert Ahearn