his story surpassed
the road behind him at last
historical path
John Burroughs painted with words
the Catskills beautiful hue
Unless
I join you
in your decadence
we have no real connection
As Kirouac
you mirror
and Burroughs
you acclaim
In self
abuse
you wander
in dread of every mirror
True dilettante
of life’s betrayal
in squalor
— where you hide
(Dreamsleep: September, 2026)
Written: August 22, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Regina McIntosh
Quote: "How beautifully leaves grow old; how full of light and color are their last days." By John Burroughs
The pine lines blur; the sun-rays drop and fade.
Across these fields, thick clouds have thrown their shade.
In twilight dusk, a mist of mellow grace—
Folds down, and wraps the world in cold embrace.
A death-sigh stirs the branches of the trees;
Some aged, hushed curse blows inland from the seas.
Under starlight, have a moment to pause—
Black spaces tear above us, clear out maws.
Bare twigs are whipped and broken in the gale;
That salt-spit from the water turns them pale.
The last few frozen flowers nod and bow—
Those bruised blue petals—just a sign of woe.
The summer songs are dead in this display;
Raw, barred-iron ridge chokes the dying day.
Time takes a cruel turn to seal our fate—
A firm, gray freeze is scratching at the gate.
Walkin with Hersch up the avenue
b-bop cat telling me of Paris
Ginsberg and Burroughs
Like he's Chris C. man
And we're heading for land
On crystal and coffee
Dig the different cries
Sirens, con men and broken
People asking for change hard
To tell the difference walking
Pass eyes of despair like
Everywhere man like everywhere
You can feel the heat of the
Street ain't a thing you
can do about it
Walkin' baby babe just walkin'
Ye old poets, cause my demise.
My fingers release no signature.
Foolishly, in foolish times,
used to instant gratification,
I want to leave a comment.
Ye old poets, what you do to me;
get under my skin; your lips move
with vicarious words - you have a way
with them, (and because your dead to me)
I can say…with me.
Ye ole Frost, and Burroughs too,
paint the most amazing images,
unsheathing the natural in ways
that Consume me. You slay me.
I’m bound in your grasp, my lips alive,
my eyes on your poetic body,
as I breathe out the bequeathed
of ye old poets, dead.
A man can fail many times, but he isn't a failure until he begins to blame somebody else.
John Burroughs
bursts of anger once ruined me,
my hopes and dreams, fear and doubt stole,
leaving pain as deep as the sea,
blame the shadows shrouding my soul.
pride, the pleasure of vain conceit,
ruined the truth that did console,
more smugness than love could defeat,
blame the shadows shrouding my soul.
ego preyed on my soft yearnings,
dimming the light that made me whole,
masking warmth with lavish earnings,
blame the shadows shrouding my soul.
tempting me were life’s possessions,
felt like greed had taken control,
selfishness brought bleak impressions,
blame the shadows shrouding my soul.
still, I had only me to blame,
fighting my pride, knowing my goal,
when I failed, feeling so much shame,
blame the shadows shrouding my soul.
Quote: A man can fail many times, but he isn't a failure until he begins to blame somebody else. By John Burroughs
Life has many ups and downs,
some say like riding a roller coaster.
We may only win,
after we have failed a few times.
A toddler tries standing many times,
before they can walk.
When we fail,
do we blame ourselves?
Or when we fail,
do we blame someone else?
When we move the blame to another person,
then we have become a failure.
~ A man can fail many times,
but he isn't a failure until he begins to blame somebody else ~
Quote: John Burroughs
A strange sleep
behind the sophisticated curtains
An infrared nebula
crossing the sea
without guilt
Watching from a safe distance
Extinct animals,
swallows some shining stars
Must stay awake
A unknown voice says:
"tomorrow is cancelled"
- night is shaken
No regrets,
no one to blame
... need no defense
back everything lost
“I go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order.”
~John Burroughs
I stroll down the sun-dappled trail
under a tranquil canopy of trees
where the light uplifts my spirit
and the shadows soothe my soul,
The aroma of blossoming flowers
strives to set me free from
the restless nights and trying days
persuading my forlorn heart
to venture forth anew
on life’s long and wearisome ways;
Why then must I in anguish weep?
Why do I for heaven aspire?
~03/22/23
~Contest: Writing challenge 'N' words
~Sponsor: Constance La France
When I was a child, I read as a child,
Imagined the world from a different place.
I thought about people, events that were wild,
But not quite so much about time, about space.
I loved to read books by Edgar Rice Burroughs,
But never considered his view about race.
See, Greystoke, as Tarzan, ruled my brain furrows;
I had no real context for things black and white.
But as I grew older, my views of him narrowed,
For much of the stories just didn’t seem right.
They say what we read has an impact; it shapes us.
I guess I see that in a different light.
Big issues like race are not brought into focus;
A kid reads for content, excitement, and pace.
With age, some reflection can highlight the locus,
Identify faults through a careful retrace.
A fall from sublime to primordial slime,
Where Tarzan once stood, now there’s just empty space;
For that sort of story, I haven't the time.
Two desolate angels from heaven
Killed by the paradox of Universe
Adonis, the son, the Savior
Feasting upon the perfect illusion of ecstasy
Only the Devil’s machinery
His madness awaits………
Screaming cryptic verses of Rosicrucian emancipation
On rooftops at midnight
The drunk poet of Phantom street
Ginsberg, Kerouac, Burroughs: their blood, the arrow
His soul, mind and spirit: the bow
Soaring through radiant skies
Transcending the ghost of reality
Achieving illumination.
A little bud in a deep corner
Waiting for a nod to come over
A wait too great
For the sun to illuminate
Hiding deep underground
For dusk and doom to be found all around
While noise is everywhere
But not a single caring sound
It is getting engulfed in the oceans of its sorrows
Loosing its only hope to come out of its Burroughs
But a ray of hope anyhow manages
And reaches underneath to heals all the ravages
To tickle the strength in the core of the bud
Smashing the bonds of disparity and mud
It labors with all its sweat and blood
In the end, a triumphing shiny sapling is born
Tripwire slumber hush
blank catastrophic soulstice
cashmere solitude slush
tangerine blue hue cocktail
last summer older brother
From the dawn of history, man has
looked to the sky with wonder at this unblinking
red star which has been central to our mythology
and imagination from before Roman times to
the canals first viewed through Schiaparelli’s
telescope in the music of Holst’ s Planets, and
the wonder of Burroughs and Wells’ tales
To date, we’ve thrown some forty-eight
chunks of metal at this planet, with
varying degrees of success, searching
for answers to fundamental questions.
What happened to Mars’s atmosphere,
does water lie frozen under those ragged
craters at the planet’s poles and was there
or is there still life on Mars?
I was wondering how many renowned gay poets I know—
Like Oscar Wilde, Walt Whitman, and Arthur Rimbaud?
Edna St. Vincent Millay and Alice Walker, I am told,
Both Sylvia Plath and Gertrude Stein were rather bold.
The “Beat Generation’s” W. H. Burroughs and Jack Kerouac
Emily Dickinson and T. S. Eliot were not free from attack.
Then, there was Paul Verlaine, an exceptional find,
While W. H. Auden and Langston Hughes come to mind.
I wonder what inner conflicts they must have endured
Living in a puritanical society, their sexuality inured.
In compelling verse, they revealed parts of themselves
Some readers carefully hiding their works on the shelves.
Had these marvelous poets not been born out of time
Colorful lives might not have overwhelmed their rhyme.
It is fitting we acknowledge their outstanding contributions
Without undue reference to their personal attributions.
Written March 21, 2021
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.