Biography of Albert Ahearn
I am a rogue poet that rarely follows traditional poetic form. I write for my own pleasure only, not for consensus.
Albert Ahearn Poems
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A fortune cookie changed my life. I suggest that you wipe the smiles From your faces my skeptic friends. It’s true and attributable
Our hearts cleaved that horrific day. The early morning sun shined bright. No clues were noticed-giveaways that could forewarn the urbanites.
Splendor In The Grass
Come; lie with me in the grass Of summer and feel the cool green Blades give ground to our presence here. Smell the white clover my dearest?
I walk alone, bewildered, scared to death. I haven’t any memory... survey Through ash and try to think...I snatch a breath And try again. The air is foul today!
Fire And Ice
If snowflakes set aflame the ground They touch and wintry winds abet The flames, would she and I this day always remain deeply in love?
Greenhouse Gas (Triolet)
The features of the Triolet are: · 8 lines. · Two rhymes. · 5 of the 8 lines are repeated or refrain lines.
I watched a maple leaf’s descent to ground. It’s downward swaying motion, every now And then a pirouette without a sound Until it came to rest so gently down.
Idiom: No Love Lost
Love poems, how trite they become. Their hackneyed themes we want to scream. We purposely shy away from That genre, teeming so it seems
Poets Are Born
Good poets are born, not fashioned. The masters of sterility write verses in prose and christen them in the name of Poetry.
My passion is to write modern sonnets Yes indeed modern not traditional. Iambic pentameter I regret Is too restrictive and conditional.
There was a time when I knew she loved me. Yes, that was a very long time ago. Her every word and deed, the way that she Looked at me, her way of saying, hello!
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
The tiny marks they mean so much their presence makes for clarity. They give a script a final touch and make for better poetry.
The calendar foretells summer but the trees, fauna and I know that Autumn is now upon us in spite of the Gregorian.
“Look! The aging poet sleepwalks again.”
“Sir, should we wake him from his nightly tour? ”
“No! God no! His heart could not stand the strain.”
“He’s heading for the open study door.
His ambulant steps on the floorboards creak
With every step along the corridor.”
“Listen! The bard is beginning to speak.
Let’s heed his words, step softly on the floor.”