Slow down, smell the Roses

Whoa! Friends, slow down a bit, smell the roses
And appreciate your situations.
We can’t lose sight what’s under our noses
If we do, we invite our frustrations.
Who needs that god-awful discouragement?
Not you or me, so look for the flowers,
They are there. Look around; follow the scent.
But don’t look in other people’s bowers
You have plenty more in your own backyard.
Now take a whiff and thank your lucky stars
For these gifts, you have earned this high regard.
That’s right my friends, give yourselves a cigar.
Over the years we sowed what we reaped
Its harvest time now, the roses smell sweet.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Diffident Demeanor

Her flirtatious eyes met mine. A pretentious flutter
caused me to flinch. Her conspicuous smile
confirmed how silly I looked. Yet looking
at her, at those eyes, I didn’t give a damn.
Sitting two tables away might as well have been
a metric mile. I thought to myself: Is she
actually alone or is she waiting for someone?
I see only one glass, the one in her hand
but that doesn’t prove a thing. Think again Romeo!
Have I only imagined romantic overtures?
I probably did. I could prove otherwise
if I had the courage but being bold
is not my nature. I guess I’ll never know.
So here I sit like a stone statue.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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White Virgins

This poem was written after the seasons last snowfall, a few days before spring 2009.

It began with a single flake of snow
That fell upon my brow so gently down.
Almost imperceptible, ever so
Subtle and never making any sound.
I love these silent tiny crystalline
Flakes that now are falling numerously
In front of grateful eyes at wintertime.
I extend my open hand graciously
And welcome these white virgins from heaven
That have clung to me so effortlessly.
Their prodigious numbers against my skin
Benumb my hand homogeneously.
I stand alone in winters fading fling
Holding these virgins while thinking of Spring.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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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 scène 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.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Just Memories

In life the only thing we can call our own is our memories.

I’m Irish and I’m a proud Irishman.
Oh, not for the usual sentiments.
The source of my pride runs deep. I can
Trace the direct line of my descendants.
My grandfather, the poor soul, came from Cork
With fifteen US dollars in his pants
And a big dream when he entered New York.
No large reception for this immigrant.
Just a sister who arrived earlier
In nineteen hundred through Ellis Island.
He met Mary Delea my Grandmother
Married and blessed it with a wedding band.
They had two girls, two boys, one was my dad.
They’re gone now, memories are all I have.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Lives to eat

37 % of adult Americans eat to live; the remaining 63% live to eat. This latter group is classified as overweight/obese. The protagonist in this literary work is one of them.

She sits alone on a stuffed chair
That once had rigid, durable
Springs; but that was a hundred pounds ago.
Today this amoebic, shapeless
Behemoth is eating a pie-
a large pizza with anchovies.
She is separating her fifth
Piece but momentary pauses…
Burps, and with her greasy fingers
Gropes for the channel selector
And rapidly surfs the channels
until she reached the food network.
She resumes eating the fifth piece
Eyeing the remaining pieces.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Phantom In The Dark

Her droopy eyelids opened in the dark
Like so many lonely mornings before.
She lay unmoving in an antique bed
Half awake, yet to her she wasn’t sure.
She thought (or dreamed) of her husband long dead.
But in this semiconscious state he lives:
Feeling his body warmth emanating
From her left, she turns toward him and smiles.
She extends her arm groping in the dark
For his comforting presence that’s not there.
Startled by this dreamy like emptiness
She awakens and than realizes
That it is the same reoccurring dream.
She turns away and then begins to cry.

Oh god! Let me dream.
To never awaken; to
Never shed a tear.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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A Quiet Fourth

I composed this poem on the morning of Independence Day 2008.

July fourth and firecrackers aren't heard.
Perhaps because it’s raining as I type.
I thank the gods for booming sounds deferred.
My guess, I’m getting old. I hate the hype
That everyone is caught up with today.
In youth we did exactly all that's done
Perhaps a smidgen more so, by the way.
The noise we made, heck! It was all in fun.
We celebrated Independence Day.
I’m no longer young, oops! Slip of the tongue.
A senior citizen I’m called today
It’s political correctness among
The hearing impaired. I beg you don’t scoff
Guess what? I had my hearing aid turned off!

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Love Pawn

The raging storm occurring outside my window
Can not compare to the constant choler
That tempers my heart this maniacal moment.
Why? Would you like living a pawn of love?
Forever being forced to feel painful pangs
Caused by a cruel manipulator. Like a captured
Pawn without a pertinent part in the game of love:
Only to stand alone among the active players.
On the sidelines, stagnating, unable to sever
Yourself from the fray. A preordained pawn!
Whose role resembles “ loves labours lost”
A cruel comedy rendering me a pathetic prisoner
That must persistently prove my legitimacy.
Rage on teapot tempest! At least your wrath will wane.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Lucid Dreams

It's 2 a.m. and for the life of me
I can’t sleep. Perhaps too many iced green
Teas. It doesn’t bother me you see
Not getting rest I mean, it’s the caffeine
That keeps me awake and I miss dreaming
Dreams that I turn into reality.
Those pleasant visions become the real thing:
A contrived visual modality.

Awake I’m between
A paradoxical dream
And veracity

In this state I know who I really am
Because I am the creator of them.
A fluid existence into this realm
Where all I dream is at my command.

The rules of conduct
Are for myself to decide

[...] Read more

poem by Albert Ahearn
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