Monday, July 24, 2017


cicadas chorus in waves, soft, 
then loud then louder still
cho-weet, cho-weet, CHO-WEET
then soft, then softer still then 
quiet until the next round

the neighbors' elegant detritus
fills the parkway since the deluge
the YOOGE inundation, their new digs
drowned by rain penetration in the 
summer of Trump, sideshow

for the yahoos and greed mongers
oh, yes, we deserve his worst
as the soft yellow-green
fireflies, the females, settle
in the grass awaiting copulation

after which they devour the mate
or so i read, incorrectly i hope,
nature red in tooth and claw
as alfred the lord tennyson had it
when his young friend died young

death is in the air one way 
and another - my wife's demented
mother delusionally says her dead
husband is alive but missing
then she reverses herself and says

it's all made up, she was just fooling
and apologizes deeply until 2 minutes
later when she says it all again, then 
again, then again, almost cicada-like: 
oh, yeah, my beloved clancy is dead

copyright © 2017 by patrick o'hayer

Thursday, July 13, 2017


even true love
encounters bumps

here and there
broken promises

pet peeves

unmet demands

even so, even so
true love persists


some promises
are kept, some loving

and then the 
grand surprises

copyright © 2017 by patrick o’hayer

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Empire poolroom opens at 9, so i'm
killing time at the Merc, deluxe
grocery store/food-art museum for the
health-and-beauty- and nutrition-crazed
comparing prices, all so very high,
while ogling a tall local college town
goddess--LA ain't got nuttin' on lawrence, kansas
at 71 little elvis sings rarely,
half time, half mast, so no old
fashioned cavorting, the biology
running low but the mind
like Yeats in the LAST POEMS
buzzing but athwart time,
he tried the questionable
steinach surgical fix
to get back into the game
but i remain a natural
accepting proper reductions
memory loss, sore knees, nouns
and names disappearing
day by day, nature's design
perhaps even though
the mind always disobeys
copyright © 2017 by patrick o'hayer

Saturday, June 10, 2017


I've trapped you in the Bouncy Chair. You just 
complain, you won't accept your precious need
for sleep, mine for rest. Sometimes, oh sometimes
I recall you will not be for long be my
"Potatoes Maroo," not for too long, no,
no; soon you're a woman with a woman's
prerogatives; and I'm, I'm not your old
Pops, but something like your Parent, lucky
to be a consultant. And then you're, oh,
hauling your own oats, you won't need old Pops
to warm and grind your lunch. Like for me now
living will be your problem. If I'm still 
in town, I'll help; I'll miss not lifting you
off an edge, rocking toward the sleepy deeps.

Copyright © 1983 by Patrick O'Hayer

Tuesday, June 6, 2017


cleared 2 drains today

pal charlie built a new bathroom
while siring sons

and longing for cute-guy assholes
the marriage broke up

but he remains an icon
of home repair

some cliches are pretty weak

copyright © 2017 by p. o'hayer

Sunday, May 21, 2017


getting bagged, gorked
daughter's tears

wifely protests
condemned to ego

pursue altered 
states at all costs

altered states
familial oblivion

heroic acts demurred
often enough

to make a cocoon

for ignoble causes
of self love/loss

copyright © 2017 p. o'hayer

Saturday, April 29, 2017


"All poets are manic depressive." ~Donald Hall

fall deaths tripped a switch, then
too busy, too excited, inspired

too many easy poems
quieter now, is melancholy

descending, again? at my age?
but in fragrant spring

for the first time?
in the past dread winter

would bring me low, almost below
ground--this is, as wallace stevens

had it, a new knowledge of reality
the neighboring leafless red

bud trees fill me with hope
i clip by hand the flattened weed

grasses skipped by my soundless bird
inviting reel mower and i feel well

copyright © 2017 by patrick o'hayer