A Fragile Gift

Every morning when weather permits, I ride my bicycle for miles on end. I have been doing this discipline for many years now. Over this period of time I have seen many, many people in my travels, and what I’ve noticed more of as time went on is the growing number of overweight people there are. Especially the younger generation. I can’t help but feel sadden by this epidemic spreading throughout this country.

Our health, a fragile gift of God bestowed
On most of us without supervision.
Maintained through vigilance, personal codes,
Resolve, diet and determination.
Oft we eat is what we are, au revoir!
Cuisine that’s bad and tempting, hello! Good
Nutrients. Lead us to the salad bar
Awaiting those who eat the way they should.
But there are those who oft take for granted
Their wispy condition: forfeit long lives
For Big Macs and fries, super sized wanted
Most often. Perhaps, a day will arrive
These poor souls realize their gravity:
A time bomb within their chest cavity.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Tears

There is a man standing in the rain in a cemetery in front of his deceased wife's gravesite. He appears to be crying. Her death occurred years ago and left him with everlasting grief. He is resigned to this fact so everything he sees and hears casts him further into this state of mind.
This day is no different than all the previous times, except this time, the rain, a bird and a sound of bells contribute to his continued descent.

The rain concealed the tears he shed today.
He cried this way so many times before
but always alone. No rain can wash away
his anguish, anxiety... nevermore!
A tiny feathered harbinger alight
her stone and cocked its head. A dropp of rain
upon its beak it seemed to weep in sight
of him, a tear; then takes to flight again.
A distant tintinnabulation from
a church’s belfry pealed so mournfully.
He muses: fleeting wings of death had come
and taken from me so prematurely
my lover, leaving only heavens tears
to drench my heart with sadness all these years.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Until death do us part

Most of us at one time or another take this marriage vow. At the time it is usually a rote recitation because we are young and our attention is on other imminent matters. And that's the way it should be. Nevertheless, if we remain married and outlive a spouse we are faced with the same thoughts, doubts, questions and helplessness as the man in the following poem.
On line 14 he does the only thing he can do to express his love for her before the casket is closed.

She lay upon a cold and stony bier
within an open coffin lined with silk.
She didn't look the same: Her face appeared
to have an ashen color; white as milk.
In life her comely facial features glowed
a lovely roseate but now she is dead
Forever gone from me. My head is bowed
in prayer and sadness all around. I dread
the coming years without her next to me.
Is life important anymore? I asked
myself. Her love is still alive but she
is motionless before me with the mask
of death and delicately folded hands.
I gently touched her golden wedding band.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Voyage through obscurity

A man is standing alone on shore in darkness on a foggy night. He is looking out over the water when suddenly he hears a ships fog horn. He can not see the ship but the repeated sound of the horn and his present state of mind he begins to associate himself with this ship.
The man is at a crossroad in his life. He knows his life has been unsatisfactory up to now and is posed with a choice as to how to proceed in the future. One way is risky, the other is safe.

A heavy fog looms over the water.
A far-off horn somewhere in the distance
Wails its melancholic voice of despair
Repeatedly with urgent persistence.
On shore I stand alone in the darkness
Feeling a coexistence with this ship
That navigates blindly more or less
Onward a potential perilous trip.
Where is my life taking me on its voyage?
What is my warning device? Do I scream
Out loud when life’s pitfalls impede my way?
Shall I navigate without a light beam
Through life’s hazardous chartered odyssey
Or flounder searching for safe guarantees?

poem by Albert Ahearn
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The thief

Recently, I read Kahil Gibran’s prose' The Criminal”. I have read it at least two other times in the past but this recent read had effected me more so than the past reads. So much so, that I was inspired to write this sonnet not too long after I put the book down.
In Gibran’s prose the man from the beginning was poor. How he winds up, to me, at least seemed fated.
In my sonnet, in the first quatrain I added the God Moros (God Of Destiny) to build on my theme (Fate)

The stars were dim when he entered as man.
The angry Moros god unfurled his wrath
on mothers womb, thus poverty began
its dolorous debilitating path.
His youthful foes were painful hunger-pangs.
He'd sit at byways begging alms to no
avail. Idle dinner bells ne'er rang.
He'd think, when might I eat? He didn't know.
Unfed and desperate he took to theft.
Thus headed for the corner grocer's store.
A stolen staple booty was fetched, but yet
a meal was not in store-seized at the door!
Predetermined ill fate forced him to steal
obtaining an incarcerated meal.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Hope: A worthless Virtue

Wherever you find Mankind, two plagues follow Him: War and poverty, both preventable but impossible to eradicate. The reason: greed. The sorrier of the two is poverty; war sometimes is a necessity, poverty never is.
Man is forever looking for more but always that pursuit is misdirected. He never includes his fellow human beings, only his narrow clique’s self-interests. The rest are left to fend for themselves. Often an impossible task to achieve, the result is poverty.
Once a victim of this state of being, what is left is hope- worthless hope.

The poorest are the ones who hope
They hope against (all) hope it seems.
They pray to god to help them cope
Yet fruitless as their faded dreams
They hope someday for better stead
A worthless virtue I suspect
Adding to misery instead
That propagates in that respect.
Look to the past to see their plight:
Dreaming of castles in the sky;
But that isn't all, not by a long sight:
The chance it will happen? In a pigs eye!
The “haves” are a self-centered breed
Who rarely help people in need.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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What makes a marriage?

It has been almost forty years
Since we had taken our marriage
Vows. Yes, we are still together.
I guess that means something today

Considering most never last
More than, I suspect, a few years;
Sometimes I can understand why
Marriage is not a piece of cake.

In the beginning all is fine
Everything is brand spanking new
But that finish dulls quite quickly.
That moment after the “I do’s”

The gravity of the marriage
Begins to materialize.
Vowing for better or for worse
Were just words uttered thoughtlessly.

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poem by Albert Ahearn
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Sand Island

The crisp cool wind is blowing in my face
Kenny G blowing “forever in love”
In my ears while trying to keep a pace
The blue, cloudless sky looming high above
Me only enhance my recurrent ride
To Sand Island, a very special place
Where all worldly problems are set aside
Awhile and “I” is the objective case
Yes! It’s all about me during this ride:
Pedaling, sightseeing and elation
These of which can not at all be denied
Me. Upon reaching my island mission
I’m Inspired enough for one more sonnet
About a special day I’ll not forget.

The meandering beaten path in front
Of me guides my way through a host of trees.
Some I identify but most I don’t
Have a clue as to their names. Just the breeze
In my face, the earth-colored foliage,

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poem by Albert Ahearn
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Star Stuff

“The fate of individual human beings may not now be connected in a deep way with the rest of the universe, but the matter out of which each of us is made is intimately tied to the processes that occurred immense intervals of time and enormous distances in space away from us. Our Sun is a second- or third-generation star. All of the rocky and metallic materials we stand on, the iron in our blood, the calcium in our teeth, and the carbon in our genes were produced billions of years ago in the interiors of a red giant star. We are made of star-stuff.”

I am a scion of the Milky Way
Wholly unique to the highest degree
My soul is as old as light-years away
My provenance stems from cosmic debris
I need not religion to guide my life
My quintessence antedates mankind’s creeds
The brief time walking beneath starlit nights
Imbue my soul more than mankind’s prayer beads
Every thought, all that I am is akin
To these heavenly designers birthplace
The very essence, my soul within
Began eons in interstellar space
Knowing who I am and where I came from
Is my greatest joy than what I’ve become.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Forgotten Prose

I belong to a book discussion group at our local library. There are about a dozen of us
that meet once a month and discuss a book that we all agreed (voted) to read. At each
meeting, I am usually the oldest participant and I have noticed that our individual tastes
for prose varies exceedingly.
Myself, I prefer the Classics. The others prefer the modernists’ works of prose.
Consequently, due to our democratic process, my choices rarely are voted for.
Anyway, the situation inspired me to compose a sonnet for all the great forgotten prose of
yesteryear.

On dusty shelves the books of dated time
Have stood for years. Abandoned, slighted lore
Those years before were favorite pastime
Discussion topics, literati lords
Adored. Among the seasoned aging tomes,
A rather large imposing book secured
It’s stately charm amongst the few unknowns.
The title slightly injured and obscured.
Author and faithful readers long ago
Deceased, along with fragmentary bits
Of time. Until uncovered, read to know

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poem by Albert Ahearn
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