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Poems By Poet Albert Ahearn  12/19/2014 2:36:55 AM
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A Quiet Fourth

I composed this poem on the morning of Independence Day 2008.

July fourth and firecrackers aren't heard.
Perhaps because it’s raining as I type.
I thank the gods for booming sounds deferred.
My guess, I’m getting old. I hate the hype
That everyone is caught up with today.
In youth we did exactly all that's done
Perhaps a smidgen more so, by the way.
The noise we made, heck! It was all in fun.
We celebrated Independence Day.
I’m no longer young, oops! Slip of the tongue.
A senior citizen I’m called today
It’s political correctness among
The hearing impaired. I beg you don’t scoff
Guess what? I had my hearing aid turned off!
Albert Ahearn



A Race With Time

I gazed at the faded colored
Photograph in my wrinkled hand.
A smug frozen image of me
Dressed in scant half-slit shorts and shirt
Captured in a moment of time.
A billion more moments had past
Taking with them my yolk of youth
Once viable, vibrant, fleeting;
Faster than time itself but losing
In the end for time never paused
For a victorious moment
As I once did to smile and gloat.
Meanwhile interminable time
Raced onward with me in its wake.
Albert Ahearn



A Railroad Town

The diesel locomotive wailed
Like a sick bull as it approached
The intersection; five bellows.
The dreaded traffic light turned red
And all of us just sat waiting
For this snail-like, slow-moving
Freight train to pass, while the traffic
was backing up to infinity.
Life becomes a standstill in time:
If your appendix burst, pray to god;
If you're in labor, tough titty;
If late for work, you curse and swear!
So you wait and count the freight cars...
One hundred one…one hundred two…

Onward west they roll
Swaying, screeching, click-clanking
Along rusty tracks.
Albert Ahearn



A Spectacle

Today’s early morning produced
A winter postcard spectacle:
The once stark maple tree branches
Are now laden with heavy snow;
Their lesser-kin (low-growing trees)
Stand covered like woody snowmen.
The predawn light creeping above
Washed away any subtle
Colors from the panorama
Leaving a lovely, black and white,
Silent wonderland glistening
In the dawning February
Sun whose waxing intensity
Ends what seemed like a pleasant dream.
Albert Ahearn
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Poems By Poet Albert Ahearn