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Poems By Poet Albert Ahearn  9/4/2015 2:46:28 AM
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  ALBERT AHEARN
 
 
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  265.     

Insurgents Mission

The following, it seems, happens almost every other day in the occupied territories of the left bank, Iraq and Afghanistan.

Summer sights so seemingly serene, yet
Beneath this fraudulent facade, the day
Is fraught with unexpected, unforeseen
Carnage. It all began begrudgingly
At first, but soon ruin and death loom large.
He waited years for this chance; now it’s here.
A time to offer up his life to God.
For Allah and the Cause he must succeed.
The sticks of death are strapped to his body
And are uncomfortable; but that's okay.
He walks to the designated target
Then strolls cautiously, calmly amongst them.
Looks around himself, thinks of his loved ones
Then detonates- sees a flash, hears nothing.
 
Albert Ahearn
   
 

   
   
 

  266.     

Into The Night

I walk alone into the night;
into its shadowy silence
where myriad diamonds light
the sky with twinkling luminance;
where its nocturnal clutch conjures
imaginary images:
wierd, phantasmagoric specters
with unworldly, frightful faces.
Luna, mother of night shadows
beams down through naked boxelders
their swaying branches cast below
cimmerian moving creatures:
malevolent fabrications
of my grotesque imagination.
 
Albert Ahearn
   
 

   
   
 

  267.     

Intriguer

She is a self-made intrigante
equipped with the tools of her trade:
a beautiful body and Brains.
Auburn hair dangles like a skein,
loosely draped over both shoulders.
Envious women condemn her,
men find her Irresistible.
Machinations are her forte.
Like an international spy
each complicated, cunning scheme
is an executed science
without the use of any force.
I should know, I am a victim
of her notorious intrigue.
 
Albert Ahearn
   
 

   
   
 

  268.     

Irony

The poplar trees stood like sentries
Standing on one leg in their green
Uniformed grandeur. Beyond their
Phalanx could be seen a stately
Manor whose imported marble
Pillars were more decorative
Than utile. Not unlike the sole
Inhabitant who lies dying
In his magnificent antique
Breton bed. He never married-
“I’m too busy for such nonsense.”
Consequently, no progeny,
No living relatives, no one
Only a dreadful eulogy:
Alone died a poor man, indeed!
 
Albert Ahearn
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Albert Ahearn