its just a thought of mine....
When I was born everyone was happy...
but I cried....
I added it to my signature too...
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its just a thought of mine....
When I was born everyone was happy...
but I cried....
I added it to my signature too...
When you were born, everyone was happy that you cried. I was there for the birth of all three of my children, and nothing scares the parents worse than when the baby arrives and doesn't make a sound... :)Quote:
Originally Posted by the Last 13
As Wayne Watson put it:
"The pleasure of watching our children growing,
Is mixed with a bitter cup of knowing,
That their water-color ponies are gonna one day ride away..." ;)
I understand that they are happy that I am crying......but did anyone wonder why i was crying....i meant it more as a sense of foreboding on my part and what I thought of life and what it would mean.....
i had thought that you cried in fear of the immenant necessity to make your own way in the world, thus the "i added it to my signature too..." perhaps i am wrong but that seemed a likely explanation
as I explained that i meant it more as foreboding.....one usually cries when in pain..............it was meant to be more an interpretation of how sad I can think life is at times.....
There is more scientific explanation to why babies cry at birth.
Echoes From the Edge: Behemoth
Running with the fanatical energy of fear
down the dark, ebony boulevard,
I hear the thunderous trumpeting of the beast,
buried somewhere in the blackness behind me,
and the very ground shakes and trembles
with each furious footfall of my unmerciful pursuer.
I glance fearfully over my shoulder,
but I cannot discern the dim form
anywhere among the walls of obscurity behind me.
Dizziness comes over me,
and then the night streets become corridors,
long, empty hallways in my mind
stretching towards a beckoning doorway.
I know that if I can reach it, I am safe.
But still I hear the echoing thud of large feet,
and a mind-numbing, bone-chilling roar
that says the race is far from over—
DL Harris
© 1996
i like the title sooo... much, it really sets the tone for the rest of the poem, also, "Dizziness comes over me, and then the nights streets become corridors" very nice.
The first few lines of your poem "Behemoth" are captivating. The entire poem flows from there.
Echoes From the Edge: Desecration
The pure, white stone of the temple
belied its age,
for it held within the polished marble halls
the wisdom of the Ancients.
The young man whose duty it was
to guard the tabernacle of the deity
Grey Matter,
performed his task with a learning
far beyond his years,
seeing to it that only the most desirable sacrifices
were burned on the Altar of Knowledge,
to send up a sweet-smelling incense
to the demi-god’s throne.
Then one fateful day a shining daemon appeared,
sweeping down dragon-like upon the hallowed halls,
spreading flame and destruction that scarred forever
the bleached stone of the temple.
It toppled the image of the god Grey Matter,
smashing it into ruin.
And, in one final blow,
It sacrificed the caretaker upon the altar.
Ripping his heart from his breast,
it wrote in blood its own name upon the white wall:
MADNESS—
D.L. Harris
© 11/24/95
Echoes From the Edge: Hourglass
When was the last time,
that you read a book for just the pleasure of it?
When was the last the last time
you found beauty behind a song,
something far beyond the music and the lyrics?
When was the last time
you took the time to read the lines
some poet inscribed,
and tried to feel the current flow through you
as it had flowed through them,
instead of mercilessly dissecting it?
Is there still magic in a sunset?
Do the wildflowers still smell the same,
or has their aroma drifted on your winds of change,
far above and beyond you?
Does the laughter of children at play
still make you want to smile?
Do the fireflies in the summer night
still resemble fairies drifting by?
These things are all small,
and seem almost unworthy of consideration,
too easy to forget.
We often spend our whole lives
saving and slaving for when we are old.
But then it is so apparent that these things
are what we miss the most,
are our missing treasures.
Memories are worth move than gold...
D.L. Harris
© 2/27/98
Quote:
Originally Posted by Pendragon
an essentially "rolling hills" poem, a refined recalitrance adds to the relaxed reminisce that really made me think, i agree on the concept that life is moving too fast and for some strange reason i am reminded of the song "all quiet along the potomac", maybe it is just the reenactor in me.
Echoes from the edge: Suicide Savior(revised)
Under cold iron bars
Encased in steel frost
Winter won’t ever go away
Leaving no end to the madness
A puppet on the edge
Driven by the will to live again
Toying with a lost soul
Broken promises
Shattered vows of sweet silence
Thoughts lulling into a sedated state
Shut down the words
Can’t convince him to stop
Backs away
To see the shadows dancing on the wall
Fire play…burning lust for life
Shells and echoes of the past
Once wonderful
Trying to rekindling the spark
Shifting out of the dark
And into redeeming sunlight
it truly was a wise decision of yours to bring back the "echoes". here is my newest meager contribution, enjoy... or not, your choice.
Very nice. It captures how, since I have had the dreadful experience of attempted suicide, the daemon plays with your mind offering what it cannot give. I hope anyone who reads your poem, Tris, gets the same message. The Edge is a fine line, and those of us who walk or have walked it know that a slip can be deadly. The Echoes are more than mere poetry, they contain warnings, advice, an arm around the shoulder, or whatever. But everyone knows that The Edge is a different experience for every person. I wish more poets would share...Quote:
Originally Posted by Triskele
Echoes From the Edge: Vanishing Point
At what point in time
do you begin to breathe Blame,
or gather Guilt in a finely woven net
and tag it to mark its migratory habits?
At what point do Nightmares
enter their chrysalis
and emerge transformed into Stark Reality?
At what point do the Volcanoes
that spew the Molten Lava of Wrath
become covered with the Icy Glaciers of Revenge?
At what point do the Flowers of Hope wilt
and the soul become just another Specter
stumbling blindly toward the Absolute Zero Niflheim
of “I Don’t Care.”?
At what point do you loose sight of the Shores of Reality
and become disoriented in the Fog of Despair,
drawn by Forces Beyond Your Control
straight towards the daemoned-fanged Rocks of Depression?
These Answers cannot be taught,
they must be learned in the School of Difficulty.
Every man or woman,
(whomsoever or whatsoever they may be),
someday will be driven to their Breaking Point—
and perhaps beyond…
D.L. Harris
© 2004