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Poems By Poet Albert Ahearn  9/23/2014 5:24:56 PM
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  ALBERT AHEARN
 
 
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  277.     

Mowing

Trudging behind a hungry machine
who's diet consist of all things green.
Just when the lawn is picture plane
three days later it's grown again
 
Albert Ahearn
   
 

   
   
 

  278.     

Mundane Beauty

A cluster of Day Lilies glow
like embers beneath the shadow
of a time-worn Box elder tree
that's plainly visible to see
if looking for mundane beauty.
Their golden flowers so briefly
lived poses for a single day;
at days end they wither away.
Their presence always call to mind
that beauty last the briefest time
but I possess a memory
where beauty lives eternally.
Though they will die I'd soon exhume
I'd close my eyes they'd still be bloomed.
 
Albert Ahearn
   
 

   
   
 

  279.     

Muscidae

I’m foraging for food again only this time there are only crumbs. I haven’t a clue what it is but I know it is edible; I’ve eaten it before. This place is a very risky place to eat. I have seen a few of my kind die here. Their deaths were not a pleasant sight to see so I must always be on my guard. Oh, oh I see that square shadow coming at me fast. Splat! Whew! That was close. I better stay up here where it’s safe for the moment.

Two-winged diptera
Lives to see another day
Survives the onslaught.
 
Albert Ahearn
   
 

   
   
 

  280.     

Musing

Its December. Another year is just about over.
Standing in front of a mirror in a bathroom
Is a man. He gazes into the face looking back at him,
Combs his white hair with his fingers and then begins to muse:

My hair it seems is always whiter during
The winter months. It really isn’t
But seeing hair already gray, aging
Becomes a prime concern. My life, a glint
In darkness; insignificant footprints in time
Is always struggling forward, nearing some
Unreachable ideal, lacking rhyme
Or reason. Now I ponder life's outcome
This cold December, standing here alone
In front of glass. The image looking back
Is old! My God! Is youth that fleeting? Prone
Toward dependency, asthma attacks
And wooden canes? He winks and shakes his head
And smiles, then says, ” I’d sooner be old than dead.”
 
Albert Ahearn
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Albert Ahearn