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Best Poems Written by Dan Burleson

Below are the all-time best Dan Burleson poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Dan Burleson Poem

That's Why

because…

the hardware store

owner smirked 

when he collected 

my money order

to pay the utility bill

to get the lights turned 

back on.

 

because…

I slept on a worn out

mattress on the floor,

in a bedroom shared

with my older brother

who brutalized me for 

sport, in a trailer on the

edge of a sugar beat field.

 

because…

I was so naïve as a

teenage boy that I was

completely ignorant of a

product called deodorant,

that I often wondered why

people who weren’t being

polite, usually gave me a 

wide berth.

 

because…

on the school bus one day,

a friend from ninth grade,

David Fullington, said:

“hey Dan, everyone says you smell…

and I say-like crap he does!”

 

because…

I would lay on my mattress

at night and hear the legions

of mice scampering across

the aluminum ceiling and 

between the walls of the trailer

on the edge of a sugar beat field.

 

because…

of all of the mouse turds

I would have to brush off

my clothes in my underwear

drawer when I was getting 

dressed for school.

 

that is why,

when I was thirteen,

I discovered a mouse 

trapped neck deep in an

open can of Crisco

sitting beside a sink full

of dirty dishes.

 

looking up at me,

with black dots for eyes,

and his nose twitching,

struggling to free himself,

but hopelessly mired

in the can of lard fat.

 

that I gulped down

the last of my Pepsi Cola

in the 16 ounce heavy,

greenish glass bottle,

and used the blunt end

to plunge the mouse under

for good to die a death of

torment and suffocation

in it’s Crisco grave.

 

and then

I belched loudly.

Details | Dan Burleson Poem

A Song Long Enough

I had just set my headphones

down when the intercom

buzzed and Ruben O’s 

voice asked urgently:

 

“you ready man?”

 

I’m standing before the

multi-slide mixing board

in a studio dreamily

streaked in amber from

the track lights.

 

“Eagles Lyin’ Eyes man,

all six minutes and eleven

seconds.  let’s go!” was

my reply.

 

this is a conversation 

between two radio deejays

at two radio stations

in the same building

in San Antonio in the eighties.

 

it’s nearly three 

in the morning and were

both bored and wanting

a “bump” to make it

through our night owl

radio shifts.

 

I crank up the monitor

in the control room 

and swing the studio door

open and lock it back

so I can hear the song

play from thirty feet away.

 

Ruben O’ does the same 

to his door across the hall. 

 

this is what is happening

on the other side

of the microphone

as the 

listening public 

in four southern states 

tunes in to hear 

the Eagles on KTSA

and “Karma Chameleon”

by Boy George on KTFM.  

 

sister stations in a 

clay colored building

at the end 

of a 200 yard

driveway off 

Eisenhower Road

in San Antonio, Texas.

 

I’m already waiting outside

the back door where the

jocks park.  my foot holding

the door open. 

 

it’s a balmy summer night

and lightning silently shimmers 

in the tall clouds to the north 

of the Alamo City.

 

You can’t hide your lyin’ eyes…

 

You come and go, you come and go…

 

our dueling aired songs play

loudly and the sound

 crashes through the

still air and echoes 

boomingly off the 

residential neighborhood

two blocks away.

 

we each take hurried hits 

off the moistened roach.

holding the smoke in the

lungs for a few seconds.

 

two hits is all I need.

I’m already feeling a little

fuzzy.  Ruben O’s ready

to go too.

 

“screw it man, that’s good

enough”

 

we both sprint back

down the hallway 

to our respective

 broadcast studios.  

 

such is another night

as an all-night radio

deejay at twin stations

in south Texas 

on a summer night

in the eighties.

Details | Dan Burleson Poem

The Great Pretender

I am America’s greatest 

living actor.  

 

I commit to every role

so thoroughly and honestly

that you’ve never seen

me break character, never for 

a moment have you lost

your suspension of disbelief.

 

which floor board creaks when

stepped upon on stage?  I

can tell you.  which corner

brings the best cast light?  Easy.

 

I can see myself

through your eyes.

the instant you’ve heard

enough and beg for a

change in direction, I 

am aware and comply 

with your unspoken request.

 

when I’m not on stage

I’m studying your habits, 

your moods, your 

telegraphed motivations.

you tell me so much,

everything really.  all that

is required is observation.

 

you’ve seen me watching 

you, noting your movements,

taking mental snapshots of your

expressions, wondering why

you nod hello to her and 

ignore him.  why you smile

to him, and brusquely parade

past her.

 

my every waking moment

is totally and effortlessly

dedicated to mastering the

characters that shape our

every day lives.

 

hours pass without notice

when I’m noticing you.

the clock hands collapse

like a Salvador Dali painting,

tranquility pours over me,

quenches me all the while.

 

watching you entertains me.

you are the true star.  you

are the complicated character.

you are the hero.  you are

interesting, not I.

 

there lies within me 

an indefatigable quest:

how to be more like you,

how to become you.

 

this vocation I ply for free,

never asking for a credit.

 

who am I?

 

I am the clerk at the 

convenience store where you

get your morning coffee,

your next door neighbor,

the cop directing traffic up

ahead, the radio deejay 

keeping you company in 

the wee hours, the friendly

operator on the phone.

 

I am anyone whose

gaze meets yours.

 

you’ve known all along.

Details | Dan Burleson Poem

Motorcycle Mama

she glided by in the fast lane on my left.

straddling the hind end of a hog,

looking elegant and lost.

 

in my mind I met her 

at an art festival.

 

her denim outfit graced her curves,

she had a great ass,

you could tell.

 

we had coffee and talked,

and talked, and laughed.

she cradled my arm as we strolled

the shady, art-lined sidewalks.

 

I watched as her image passed

from my rear view mirror

to the peripheral field of vision

on my left.

 

her auburn hair tied up

in a bow beneath the red kerchief.  

the suntanned

nape of her neck 

the perfect back drop

for the silver earrings.

 

after she moved in, 

we’d make love every night

the way new lovers 

always do.

 

I know that far-away look.

 

you only think you’re trapped baby.

I could love you 

as much as you want

to be loved.

 

the hog slides into the lane

in front of me.  The asshole

didn’t even bother 

with the turn signal.

Details | Dan Burleson Poem

Homelessness Isn'T Always Hard

it's a good thing
it's summertime

a gentle night breeze
stirs the air above me.

as I stretch out 
just below the stone
wall that encircles
the hallowed ground.

I am surprisingly
comfy with a belly
full of Dunkin Donuts
donated by Gretchen,
who wears the apron.

here is where my 
home is for the next
eleven days and nights.

the turf is soft,
the company quiet.

nobody wants to
sleep in a cemetery,
except me.

doesn't seem to 
bother me. 

the morning dew
will softly awaken me.
as Gretchen pours
another cup of charity.

patrons will leave 
the daily newspaper 
for me to read.

the water and soap
works just fine in
the men's room.

the deodorant from
the drug store dumpster
keeps me from smelling
like the homeless man
that I am.

Duke LaDuke at 
Astro Bowl told me
yesterday that he'd 
start me as a mechanic
on Monday.

the Monday after that
I'll have my own place
and I can send for my
wife and infant son.

this was supposed to 
be hard and in some
ways it was. 

in many ways,
it wasn't so tough.

even enjoyable 
for a spell.

but, eleven days is
plenty to contemplate
the sunrise and birdsongs.

these daily affirmations
can be appreciated just
as well by the salaried man.

Details | Dan Burleson Poem

Radio Head

All across the nation

such a celebration

people in motion…

 

The radio station 

in my head

plays on

with Scott McKenzie this time:

 

Are you going to San Francisco?

Be sure to wear flowers in your hair…

 

I can hear every note, 

every nuance, 

every tone

of the song

as if there were

a hi-fi turned on in the room.

 

While writing this poem, while

reading others,

I hear the 

song of the day 

playing on my internal 

radio station.

 

As I’m listening and writing at this 

very moment, 

I wonder aloud 

(to myself internally

and just above the radio),

Is this 

what slipping into

schizophrenia must feel like?

 

If you’re going to San Francisco…

 

Is this what the homeless man

on the street corner,

in his filthy clothes,

hears in his head 

as he contorts and 

telegraphs his

internal radio station?

 

which corner has 

he turned 

from which 

he cannot return?

 

Are you going to San Francisco?

Be sure to wear flowers in your hair…

 

the hallway ahead 

is bathed in

sterile white light.

a bare bulb crackles

around the next corner.

 

what’s that?  

a shadow 

lurks menacingly 

around

the corner.  

 

whom casts the shadow?  

could be

the

Spectre

of 

Madness.

Details | Dan Burleson Poem

Falling For Crap

I dreamt that I was 

falling again.  

 

this time 

from the 

clay tiled roof

of a school house.

 

toes curled,

stomach knotted.

 

Damn!  It’s 2:50 in the 

goddamned morning!

 

stealthily make your way

to the toilet I whispered to myself 

in the ink black room.

 

I’ll just quietly take a piss

in the dark.  sitting down,

so I can get back to sleep.

gotta friggin' work 

tomorrow after all.

 

but then suddenly

I’m stricken with

that feeling of falling 

again.

 

toes curl,

stomach knotted.

 

I crap a two-footer.

I mean, it just keeps 

rolling out of me like

bread dough at a bakery.

 

beads of sweat  

adorn my forehead

and I feel as though

I’ve just had the

greatest orgasm ever.

 

after settling back

into bed, I blithely

drift back to slumber.

unafraid of falling 

again.

Details | Dan Burleson Poem

Adrift

AGONY is my new lover
and she never tires.

DISCIPLINE is my 
new taskmaster.

through PAIN and
TORTURE I shall finally
know LIFE.

I'm adrift in 
a BLACK sea.

TERROR swirls 
beneath me in the
FORBIDDEN, black depths.

as IT swims by
it's chilled wake
sends shivers through
me and raises goose bumps
on my flesh.

IT can DEVOUR
me at anytime.

I've chosen not to care.

EVIL can find me,
possess me,
it's not my choice.

I am STRONG
and can tread water
for days.

Surreally, I am not AFRAID
as I turn my face up,

squinting

the yellow sun is HOPE
in a rust colored sky.

the wind is COMPASSION, 
an unseen kindness that embraces me.

FAILURE is the black crow 
wheeling in the sky above me.

HAPPINESS is the virga 
on the horizon: rain drops 
that EVAPORATE before settling
to the sea.

I'm shedding COMFORT
and contentment as a
serpent sheds it's old skin.

it is TOO LATE,
for I am born again

HARD.

Details | Dan Burleson Poem

A Few Lousy Quarters

rawbone skinny and

leaning on a cane.

his eyes glazed as the

chill wind brought tears

and streaked them

across his angular cheeks.

 

his right foot in a 

makeshift cast.

this old black man

had never seen an 

easy day in his life.

 

there on Tampa Avenue

he had a look of weathered

mahogany, cold coffee,

thumb tacks and foot blisters.

 

if I’d had a twenty 

it would have made it’s

way into his cup.

 

if there is a god,

I hope he’ll find this 

man a tall bottle and 

a warm bed tonight.

a little comfort 

for a ruined soul.

 

as the light changed,

I dug into my ashtray

and came up with a few

lousy quarters.

 

looking into his eyes,

my heart broke a little,

like a cracked eggshell.

 

all I could manage to say 

was, “I hope this helps”.

 

he nodded thanks

and moved on to the next car.

 

humbly and quietly

there remained grace

within this broken, old, black man.

Details | Dan Burleson Poem

Nothings

there’s nothing quite 

as nice as 

the smell of

a puppy's soft belly.

 

there’s nothing quite

as beautiful as those little 

orange peel goose bumps

that surround 

a girlfriend’s tits

on a dreamy 

saturday morning.

 

there’s nothing quite

as refreshing as the 

sweet smell of the air

after a thunderstorm

passes by.

 

there’s nothing quite

as panicky as

plugging up the toilet

in your friend's house.

 

there’s nothing quite

as dreadful as

struggling out of bed

in the morning 

with a severe head cold.

 

there’s nothing quite

as shameful as

not speaking one’s mind.

 

there’s nothing quite

as honorable

as doing a good deed

without anyone else

noticing.

 

there’s nothing quite

as funny as

the crazy look a poodle

gets in it’s eye just before

launching into a running jag.
 

there’s nothing quite

as fun anytime you

drive a car over 

90 miles per hour.

 

there’s nothing quite

as illuminating as

realizing your parents

are stupider than you thought.

 

there’s nothing quite

as sickening as

the moment you realize

 you’ve lost

a lover to another.

 

there’s nothing quite

as unforgivable

as laying on your

death bed choked

with regret.