Albert Ahearn Poems

Conservatism’s ideology
Is static. For that reason, everything
It touches stagnates and thus decays.
We live in a universe that expands:
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Day of birth, it beckons me, my birthday!
Many, many moons have risen and set
Since this big baby's birth along the way.
I have no qualms, few querulous regrets.
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It’s surrealistic in what I see
In the most unlikely places, in fact.
Especially when unexpectedly
They appear before tiredly eyes, abstract.
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Other than the slight ringing in my ears
The only other sound I hear is the
Computers low droning inner gears.
Monotonous sounds that drive me a
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A time is reached in life if one remains
Alive to tell the tale: those certain things
He once performed routinely, ascertains
The notion, habits must desist which brings
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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.
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Way atop a Sycamore tree
a black bird’s call reiterates
his three syllable poetry.
Caw! Caw! Caw! The feathered poet
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The golden fiery eye rises
In the east and sets in the west
And shines for a day in between;
Although at times there may be clouds
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In the recesses of my mind
Lurks an imaginary fiend;
a part of my psyche’s design
borne of a roguish, mutate gene.
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The February full moon stirred
A wintery blustering
Wind that roared through the neighborhood
Like an out-of-control freight train.
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