Daniel Boylan

Some Days

Some days I feel so sad that I wonder what I'm doing here
A tired and heavy weight that drags on me
What's going on?
Who did I piss off to have to drag along like this
Other people seem to go on
To and fro
Nature turns it's tricks
Spring into summer and so on
But me, I want to come to a stop
Back off from change
Get off the train
You get the words down on paper
And it gets easier, somehow
Like you need to find yourself
in
This need to express what a hole you live in
I heard Sherwood Anderson died from eating a meal on a cruise with his wife
Got a toothpick stuck in his throat from either a martini olive or an hors d'oeuvres
And that was it for him
I think of his passing that way
wonder how things end
And
even that
makes me feel better
And, so, on it goes


Too Many

Buckshot
fired into the room
Big blast
But no one is hurt
It's just a poem
But look:
Two million are in prison in the US
Leads the world
The killer in me, the killer in you
But they haven't all killed
or even done really bad things
(of course some have)
Violence reigns on our shore
Wouldn't it be better if we got a lot of them out of prison
Say, starting with the non-violent ones
And the ones who got stuck with a bag of drugs
Too big for their own use
And started
to deal
With the killer in me
And the killer in you
I'm ready for this
How about you?


I Guess It's Morning

Wake up
Wonder what's going on
Drag myself out of bed

I stagger around

My body aches

My mind is in a fuzz

And my head is sore
(the usual headache)

Oatmeal and coffee
at the table

Nuts and raisins

But I don't have much to go on

So it's back to bed
for an hour

Feet up
over pillows
to stretch my back

And
(hopefully)
quiet meditation
for my mind

Maybe my second try
at getting up
will be better


About the Author

Daniel Boylan spent 37 years as a psychotherapist, being trained in psychoanalysis and working the the last 20 years for Ulster County Mental Health. He is a Los Angeles native and San Bernardino, Calif he first ran across a book by Charles Bukowski, who has influenced him nearly all his life (for better or worse). His training was in social work.

New to writing poetry in 2012, in his 66th year, he hopes to get some self-expression out this way without screwing up the form too much.

He's lived with his wife, Julia, in Woodstock since 1984 and has two fine boys who are grown.

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