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Poems By Poet Albert Ahearn  8/30/2014 3:27:29 PM
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  ALBERT AHEARN
 
 
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  277.     

Music Of The Spheres

The soft music rose gradually
Like smoke from a freshly doused fire.
I listened to it intently
And my inner voice enquired,
“Where is the source of this music?
I’m positive I am alone
And doubt if it’s some sort of trick
Played on me by some asinine drone”;
Couldn’t be, it’s absolutely
Heavenly sounding to my ears
With its timbre simplicity.
It must be music of the spheres
Inaudible except for me,
The wind, and the eternal sea.
 
Albert Ahearn
   
 

   
   
 

  278.     

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
   
 

   
   
 

  279.     

My cluttered desktop

My desktop is as cluttered as my brain:
Lens cleaning wipes, two Handshake vouchers,
Visa receipts, envelope that contains
Tickets for a tragedy by Shakespeare

Outrageous fortune
And a thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to

ARTix passport containing free coupons
For music, the theater, film and dance,
HP inkjet print cartridge that I won
With an old bingo 50-50 chance

Death of a salesman
Loman’s solo tragedy
Fate was even odds

A card reminder for an eye exam;
An unopened pocket tissue package;
Three incomplete poems and rubber bands;
A senior magazine with a torn page

I don’t like the frames.
I never use the damn things.
Should I title them?

Will my desk ever be neat and tidy?
No! Unless I have me a man Friday.
 
Albert Ahearn
   
 

   
   
 

  280.     

My Mournful Memorial

As I ambled through a maze of stony monoliths
on a manicured green grassed carpet.
My sadden eyes were overwhelmed with myriad
names and dates of yesteryear's deceased.
Each encounter confronted conveyed to me
a sad reminder of Mans mortality.
All had some story to tell if they could speak.
Most I hope died naturally, others unnaturally.
Their demise, a mise en scθne mournfully staged
for the most part many agonized years ago.
Suddenly like a fated mirage my son materialized.
A victim of a vicious war fought on foreign soil.
I knelt before his grimly, graven grave
and placed a flag and flowery wreath..then wept.
 
Albert Ahearn
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Albert Ahearn