The Poetry of Hal O’Leary   AUTHOR’S BIO: Hal O'Leary has spent a lifetime in the theatre as actor, director and designer. He was recently inducted into the Wheeling Hall of Fame, and is the recipient of an Honorary Doctor of Humanities Degree from West Liberty University. Since his retirement at age eighty-four, he has taken to writing poetry. For Hal’s page of 50 word poems, please click here. Email: oleary37@comcast.net    HAL O’LEARY’S POETRY  (click on the button in front of any title in the list below  to be linked to that poem’s location on the page)   DUMMY   DEAR FRIEND   BLAME (pantoum)   I WHY   A FABLE   TEKNOLAGEE   RELIGION   BALLADE   MY SON SEAN   MY SON SEAN (a regrettable sequel)   TO MY LOVE   THE DREAM (adult content)   ADVICE (adult content)   DUMMY In Oz, the Scarecrow thought he had no brain. But how could that be possible? I’d ask my third grade students if they knew. It was something they could rarely figure out. Oh, once or twice they’d think it through. He had a brain but didn’t think he did. How could that be? They wouldn’t know. Here was an opportunity to teach, so I’d begin. “The teacher asks a question you don’t know, And the one you know she asks the other guy, How do you feel when that occurs? (I see them look around at all the others.) My guess is that you know they’re thinking   DUMMY. (That’s another name for Scarecrow.) And yes, you go home, with all your shame. And Mommy meets you at the door. How’d you do at school today? You have to tell her. The teacher asked a question. I didn’t know. Then Mommy, with a bad hair day, says DUMMY! And, of course Mommy must tell Daddy. But even this you can live down. That is unless it happens all too many times, For then it’s possible that you’ll arise one fateful morn. You’ll look to see your image in the glass. It’s then you might pronounce yourself a DUMMY! A DUMMY, DUMMY, DUMMY with no brain. © Hal O’Leary   DEAR FRIEND At times like these, the world will seem indifferent and cold. There must be something one could do. The sentiment of sympathy Seems not enough. It merely says, I’m sorry fate has dealt you such a blow. That doesn’t touch the depth of what I feel, And so, it doesn’t let you know How much I care. At times like these, The cold indifference will dissipate In knowing there is one who shares The loving warmth true empathy can give, A warmth we share. It truly says, I feel not simply for, I feel with you. It says to you, you’re not alone. It lets you know your deepest grief Is also mine. But also know That very  empathy will mean we share Whatever our two fates decree, We share as one. © Hal O’Leary   BLAME (pantoum) To say there's blame enough to go around. It means of course that no one will be blamed, And those responsible will not be found. With guilty parties never being named, It means of course that no one will be blamed. The ethics we once counted on are gone. With guilty parties never being named, Gone also is the truth we counted on. The ethics we once counted on are gone. Deceit is now the key to our success. Gone also is the truth we counted on, And with it, loss of trust is limitless. Deceit is now the key to our success. It's now 'the thing' for one to lie and cheat, And with it, loss of trust is limitless. We've got to recognize it as deceit. It's now the thing for one to lie and cheat, And those responsible will not be found. We've got to recognize it as deceit, To say there's blame enough to go around ©Hal O'Leary   I WHY Religion doesn't suit me well. 'Gainst superstition I rebel. There is no heaven or no hell. A point on which I will not dwell. For what there is, we cannot tell. So, what it might or might not be, Has never ever bothered me. My unrestricted mind is free, And through the arts, excitedly I'll keep on searching for the key. ©Hal O'Leary   A FABLE A trusting lamb beside the lion lied, And I, dismissing options lambs might choose, Discovered there was nothing left but "HIDE!" The lamb had naught to lose but all to gain.   And I, dismissing options lambs might choose, I stood there disbelieving what I saw. The lamb had naught to lose but all to gain. And there it was beneath the lion's paw.   I stood there disbelieving what I saw. I had to make it known what had occured. And there it was beneath the lion's paw I simply had to go and spread the word.   I had to make it known what had occured. So off I went to let the world know. I simply had to go and spread t he word. Such news I knew would come as quite a blow.   So off I went to let the world know. I went to share the news, but on return, Such news i knew would come as quite a blow, I found I had a lesson to relearn.   I went to share the news, but on return. Discovered there was nothing left but hide.. I found I had a lesson to relearn. A trusting lamb aside,...the lion lied.   ©Hal O’Leary   TEKNOLAGEE Teknolagee, a blessin' er a curse? Hit's devil's work that I cain't undustand, An dam it, if hit haint a gettin' worse. I tell ya things has jes got outa hand. Hit's devils work that I cain't undustand. I growed up long afore the inernet. I tell ya things has jes got outa hand. You youngsters tell me, "oh, ya shudn't fret". I growed up long afore the inernet. Don't laf my friend, fer one day you'll be old. You youngsters tell me, "oh ya shudn't fret." Jes shet yer mouth and go do what yer told". Don't laf my friend, fer one day you'll be old. I tell ya God'll take ya down a peg. Jes shet yer mouth and go do what yer told. Afore hits done yer gonna hafta beg. I tell ya God'll take ya down a peg, An dam it, if hit ain't a gitin' worse. Afore hits done yer gonna hafta beg. Teknolagee, a blessin' er a curse. ©Hal O’Leary   RELIGION So you 'Believe'...in God you do believe. Well, If I may, please let me take my leave To show you that your heart is on your sleeve. I fear it is yourself you do decieve, Accepting fiction all religions weave. With contradictions, all to which you cleave. It seems you are so easy to decieve. It's more than any sane mind can concieve. Your claim is that without a diety We'd find ourselves with no morality. That is, my friend, a rash absurdity. The church is known for it's complicity In what amounts to base depravity, A history of rank morbidity. To think that it should have validity, Is nothing short of base stupidity. © Hal O'Leary   BALLADE I fear it has become the bane Of my existence, and what's more Although it may fall there in Spain Admittedly upon the plain, At least as Shaw thought anyway, I find myself beside the shore, And sigh, I've lost another day. It falls here on my window pane, A pox that I cannot ignore, For I'm inside and must remain, With fear that I may go insane. Instead of sun and making hay I sit with nothing to explore, And sigh,  I've lost another day. I fear there's naught but let it pour And so, I will, to my dismay Just wait, as I have done before And sigh, I've lost another day.   MY SON SEAN I guess when my son Sean was four or five, I thought, just like all dads, here was a kid Who certainly not only would survive, But be the best at anything he did. One day I had to undertake a chore For which I had no taste, and my son Sean Was playing there beside me on the floor. A boy that I was proud to call my spawn. The chore I undertook had made me sore, And I asked my son to fetch for me A tool I needed, just outside the door. With nothing else to do, his time was free. "I can't he said, "I'm busy, can't you see?" "Good God! I said, "You're busy doing what? Pray tell me. Let me know what that could be." He shamed me with the answer that I got. 'Twas something  I soon learned was oh so true. "But Dad, there's so much playing I must do." ©Hal O’Leary   MY SON SEAN (A regrettable sequel) All fathers love their sons a lot, I'm no exception, no, I'm not. And when he was a little tot My good son Sean, or so I thought, Would be of ties, a real Ascot. I beamed with all the joy he brought, For he was everything I sought. Of course, I thought that my son ought To be the genius I was not, Although in math he wasn't hot, He showed that language was his slot. At six, he read of Camelot And of his hero Lancelot. So, as reward for him, I bought A beagle pup for his mascot. And, he should name him, should he not? I told him just to take a shot. I knew it as I watched him squat, And knowing that his mind was fraught With names like Good Sir Lancelot, For the exotic he would opt. I thrilled in wondering just what. But then I trembled, quite distraught. When looking up, the little snot Said, "Dad, I know, I'll call him...Spot." ©Hal O’Leary   TO MY LOVE You are April, And I am a little boy. I float on your fragrance, As I leap, then lie In your softness. Your warmth surrounds me, And gorged with your surge of life, I feel I must burst with joy. You are my gift from life of life, Reborn with every Spring. But, oh, the anguish, When with sudden harshness I am checked and chided For my childish impatience And insatiable desire, Innocently seeking to possess That by which I am possessed. Left then to nurse the sweet hurt, Till in good time, I find once more your favor. The empty longing will, (I must admit) Assure recurrence Of the first offense So, let it be. What choice have I But doubtful March. Or May's complacency. April, I love you. ©Hal O'Leary   THE DREAM (adult content) I'm standing here along the shore With pleasant breeze, the sea aroar. The sky is dark with stars galore. The moon is one you can't ignore, And were you looking for amour, As I am, there is nothing more That any lover could wish for. Oh, how I wish I might explore The bliss of love to my hearts core. May love become an open door. Oh, Eros, I so need to score. You God of Love, I do implore, Please send me someone to adore, Someone to love in close rapport, My raison d'etre, I beg restore. I'll swear I'm yours forever more. And suddenly, EVA GABOR. The perspiration 'gins to pour . Profusely from my every pore. A gushing, rushing wild uproar, Engaging, raging mad furor, Like damsels from the days of yore, A vision with no metaphor. But here, I wake up with a snore, And everything is as before. 'Tis not the Hotel Commodore, But just a flop house I deplore, Complete with odors I abhor, And rather than the humidor, My mouth tastes like the cuspidor. And by the bed, the clothes we wore Are scattered round about the floor With beer cans, maybe three or four. Without a doubt, I'm very poor, But with my lot, I'm never sore, For there beside me Eleanor, My ever-lovin' faithful whore. Soon she'll awake and to be sure She'll want a third or fourth encore, And that for me will be a chore, For morning sex is just a bore. And after that, It's one more or, We dress and hit the corridor. ©Hal O'Leary   ADVICE (adult content) Should you be on a sexual quest, Take this advice at my behest. The starting point I find the best Is always with a woman's breast, For here we find she will invest Her utmost effort to arrest Your glancing eye. It's just a test To see if you have interest In getting something off your chest. In hopes perhaps you might divest Yourself of all undue unrest In thinking you'd become a pest And hide yourself unto her nest. This could amount to a request. So look for cleavage, that's a sign That could mean heaven down the line. And ogle all you want, that's fine, With shivers up and down your spine. It's what she wants. It's by design. A welcome to her holy shrine But know that you cannot foretell If her response will ring the bell. And should your efforts not go well Your heaven could become a hell ©Hal O'Leary