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Poems By Poet Albert Ahearn  3/5/2015 2:02:54 AM
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C’est La vie!

I gaze above from my grassy station
While lying on my back, the cumuli
Traversed the sky in noiseless slow-motion.
Great day! I thought while fixed upon the sky.
Then casually a bird flew overhead
And dropped its cargo off all over me.
In life a little rain must fall, instead
A bird brain passed its bowel of feces.
What does one say after being pooped on?
C’est La vie! What else can happen to me?
I’ve been a target of defecation
If I’d a gun that bombardier be shot.
I’m not that feathered class aves port-a-pot.
Albert Ahearn




sweet confection,
savored by young and old
alike, that satisfies one's own
Albert Ahearn



Casualty Of War

The stench of gasoline and gore
permeated the encampment.
I am a prisoner of war
And I’m held in a stinking tent
that I share with a gun toting
taliban soldier. His black eyes
staring intently and gloating
as though I were a trophy prize
whose head would soon hang on a stick
for all his turbaned insurgents
to pelt with stones and broken bricks.
I expect his malevolent
Nature to vent with certainty
which translates: it’s curtains for me!
Albert Ahearn



Change For A Dollar?

The only thing that exceeded the dinginess of this rat-hole bar was its stuffiness. I stopped in the place to make change for a parking meter just outside its door. God! It was awful in there, and I wondered, how in the hell the three inebriates sitting at the bar were able to breathe. I made a futile attempt to hold my breath, but the bartender knew his effort was a no-sell, took his grand old time getting to the cash register. I just couldn’t hold my breath any longer.
There was a very old *hit-kicker song lamenting about a lost love while the barflies were adding to the toxic atmosphere with their continual chain-smoking. Finally, the barkeep reached where I was standing and slammed the four quarters down on the bar with a loud bang, that it startled the sots into momentary soberness; but just as quickly, they lowered their heads and continued staring at the legal poison sitting in front of them.
I said thanks and turned to leave, but not before I was compelled to show my displeasure for his rudeness by asking him, “By the way, you wouldn’t know the average life expectancy of your patrons, the ones who frequent this rat hole, would you? ” Before he could reply, I was out the door.

Not all jackasses
Bray, nor do they have four legs;
Some are just blockheads.
Albert Ahearn
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Poems By Poet Albert Ahearn