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The dark dinginess of the room
And its odoriferousness;
Obviously, it wasn’t broomed
In an age, the place was a mess.
The odor was suffocating
And it needed ventilation.
Unfit for a human being
and beyond my expectation.
“One lives in this filthy rat hole?
God! It’s an insult to a rat.
The center for disease control
wouldn’t enter this place.” She sat
alone, half naked from the waist
up on an overstuffed green chair
that’s when I got to see her face
and was totally unprepared.
“Umm! Madam, you ordered Chinese?
I rang the bell at least three times
and…” never mind that…sit down please! ’
“Sit? ” I asked. “I can’t. Its noontime

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poem by Albert Ahearn
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The First Deadly Sin

There once was a women who happened to be graced with beauty. She was adorable from the moment she was born. This wholesomeness lasted throughout most of her life. Her eyes were her greatest asset. They could mesmerize almost any man and hold him captive for as long as she wished.
Unfortunately, this beauty was the only thing she had to offer anyone. Her life was great for as long as this skin-deep gift lasted.
Then came a time, as happens to all of us at some point, where this youthful beauty begins to wane. The lovely face and eyes that she was so popular for had changed. Her image in the mirror was now a face of a unappealing spinster. The beauty gone, so were all the suitors.Then......

In youth her comely grace and eyes entranced
So many suitors. Men accompanied
Her every place she went. A few but glanced
Until they saw her eyes, then joined the stampede.
She enjoyed this charming situation.
It never dawned on her that beauty fades
In time. A slightest of inclination,
the queen of hearts became a queen of spades.
And now the throng of men that used to greet
Her, doesn't bother calling anymore.
Her lengthy lonely nights are not as sweet.
She sits alone and dreams of times before.
So now her mind has gone in seclusion
Loneliness is a foregone conclusion.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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A poets dream

Hippocrene (hĭ p'ə -kren‘) is a fountain on Mount Helicon, Greece, sacred to the Muses and regarded as a source of poetic inspiration.

Mnemosyne (nemoz'ini) is a titan who is the personification of remembrance. She is the mother of the nine muses: “All nine muses have a science or an art to protect. Cleo protects the stories of heroes, Urania astronomy, Calliope elegies, Melpomene the tragedies, Euterpe flute playing, Erato love poems, Tepsicore choir lyrics, Thalia the comedies and Polyhymnia dance and music.”
“The Muses love to sing and dance. They are superior in musical competitions and any one who dares to challenge them will always fall short, just as those who question their importance.”

In a dream I drink from fount Hippocrene.
The daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne
Encompass me while I quench. Nine muses
Guarding their arts from human abuses.
'I'm not here to challenge or to question;
Nor I seek material possessions.
My presence among you in this dreamy
State is caused by my love of poetry.
And you, Erato, muse of all love poems
I'm a sleepy poet asleep at home.
It's known by some you sing beautifully.
Would all you muses’ sing a song for me?
My thirst is quenched from draft of drinking cup.
Please! Please sing for me before I wake up.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Change For A Dollar?

The only thing that exceeded the dinginess of this rat-hole bar was its stuffiness. I stopped in the place to make change for a parking meter just outside its door. God! It was awful in there, and I wondered, how in the hell the three inebriates sitting at the bar were able to breathe. I made a futile attempt to hold my breath, but the bartender knew his effort was a no-sell, took his grand old time getting to the cash register. I just couldn’t hold my breath any longer.
There was a very old *hit-kicker song lamenting about a lost love while the barflies were adding to the toxic atmosphere with their continual chain-smoking. Finally, the barkeep reached where I was standing and slammed the four quarters down on the bar with a loud bang, that it startled the sots into momentary soberness; but just as quickly, they lowered their heads and continued staring at the legal poison sitting in front of them.
I said thanks and turned to leave, but not before I was compelled to show my displeasure for his rudeness by asking him, “By the way, you wouldn’t know the average life expectancy of your patrons, the ones who frequent this rat hole, would you? ” Before he could reply, I was out the door.

Not all jackasses
Bray, nor do they have four legs;
Some are just blockheads.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Now Playing

Sitting alone on a park bench surrounded by a natural beauty that only I can appreciate at this moment in time. Oh, there are occasional intruders in this beautiful place, a few joggers with their MP3’s hanging from their ears, lost in a world of music and running on automatic pilot. They pass through this wonderland in a flash and miss the performance only a sojourner like me perceives: The shifting breeze that blows through the surrounding trees. I watch them slow-dance to a score that was written on the wind and only they can hear the composition they dance to.
A long-eared rodent enters the green dance floor and does his version of the bunny hop, stops to see if anyone is watching and continues his dance unabated.
A chorus of unseen red-breast thrushes singing their familiar early morning rendition of “It’s a beautiful morning” while two male cardinals fly by warbling their version.
A house sparrow alight the bench and looked at me and cocked its head left, and then right, As if to say, what are you doing here? then flies off into the trees behind me.
A squirrel scampers onto the scene and becomes aware of my presence and decides to head back whence it came. Taking that cue, I realized that I had overstayed my visit and it was time to leave.

“Natural Beauty”
Now playing, Act one, scene one
One brief performance

poem by Albert Ahearn
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911

Our hearts cleaved that horrific day.
The early morning sun shined bright.
No clues were noticed-giveaways
that could forewarn the urbanites.

It began like any Tuesday.
A workday for most New Yorkers.
People bustling to the subways
on their way to their employers.

Still early, not all arrived where
their designated work stations
are situated. Poor souls! unaware
of their imminent destruction.

Suddenly, at eight forty two
A living bomb with mal-vigor
Intentionally, in plain view
Crashed through the north twin tower.

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poem by Albert Ahearn
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Roadside Reminiscence

The sun was shinning and no cloud cover
Was in view. Few cars this early traversed
The road making my ride decidedly
Safer and serene. I couldn’t contrive
In my mind a more beautiful Sunday.
I was consciously consumed; contented
When suddenly I spotted something steel-
Gray not far ahead of me. At first I
Thought that it was the usual soft-shoulder
Debris. The closer I came it became
Clear to me what it was, a dead gray bird.
I stopped my bike, dismounted and approached
It. I stooped and lifted the lifeless thing.
Still warm to the touch, that it could have died
A moment ago. Suddenly saddened
By this find a feeling of guilt arose
Within me. Not knowing the nuances,
With bird in hand I began to bemoan
A rush of muted memories flooding
My senses. I stood there alone; alive

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poem by Albert Ahearn
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False Tenets and Promises

How often have you heard this expression: “ Well, sorry to say, this is my nature.” Just what is the nature of Man? Why are we such a predictable lot? Why is War our bed partner? These questions and many more can be asked but never really given satisfactory answers without stepping on toes that would bring the wrath of these elitist down on our heads.
Unfortunately for all of us, we come into this world with existing governing systems predicated on certain tenets and creeds. These opinions, doctrines, or principles held as being true by persons or especially by organizations. Yet never allowing future generations the privilege of researching these systems that are responsible for our very own nature, without an inquisition around the corner.
Apparently, it is much easier to burn these (true) inquisitors at the stake, metaphorically speaking, than risk having a house built on a sandy foundation, crumble.

The seeming nature oft presumed be Man’s
Is nothing less than some abstracted mode,
Conceived in dreams, contrived within human
Invention; dreamt-up folly episodes.
A dream is oft-involuntary mind
Sensations, not of serious award.
Consisting mostly of surreally kinds:
Unreal phantoms most assured ignored.
For some we note in highest places rule
The masses minds. Imaginary creeds,
Assumed the truth, but nonetheless a cruel
Inhuman whimsy borne o’er time, indeed!
Depose these charlatans! Divest their robes.
Expose their vile intentions. Burn their clothes!

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Extinction

The Past

A pristine blue sky
Mirrored agrarian lives
Living with nature.

Their work was always difficult
But that never seemed to matter.
Their crops were all that counted most:
Enough to feed the family
In good times as well as the bad
Everyone loved their plot of land.
They knew it meant their survival
So the hard work was the tradeoff.
What developed was mutual
Respect: an interconnection
Whereby one affects the other;
But then one day a cloud appeared:
A black, menacing, looming cloud
Foretelling future misfortune.

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poem by Albert Ahearn
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Second Fall From Grace

A priest was strolling in a glorious
Garden next to a church cemetery.
Deep into daily prayers his serious
Reflection had ceased funereally.
From behind a blackberry bush a man
In agonizing pain pled for his help.
Bloodied, near death he desperately scanned
This holy face and said, “you and me dwelt
In the same house for many, many years
Together. Please tend to my wounds. I must
Not die else many things will disappear
With me.” Sir! You think you know me I trust
But I don’t recognize you, in good faith.
“That’s of no consequence, we are soul mates.”

Sir, I do not understand. What’s your name?
“First, look into my eyes, what do you see? ”
The priest peered into them. I see ill fame
“Correct! What else? ” To a higher degree
I see treachery, deceit and falsehood

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poem by Albert Ahearn
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