Echoes From the Edge

These poems explore the things many want left alone: Heartbreak. Pain. Suffering. Psychosis. Suicide. Darkness. I have let myself explore the darker realm of human life in the set of poems I call my "Echoes From the Edge." I share one here, hoping to inspire others to write to the same theme. The poem can be any style or form you choose. The only thing required is that it echo of the edge of human emotions—how it feels to be driven to the breaking point—and beyond...

Echoes From the Edge: Pain

Pain dances in like an intimate friend,
caressing my body with needle-edged fingers,
leaving no part untouched.

Pain charges in like an armored crusader,
his lance piercing me to the bone.
Arrows of agony are pinning me to the bed.

Pain thunders in like a battalion of artillery,
shells bursting, spewing fireworks in all directions,
launching hurt and harm throughout the battlefield of my body.

Pain slowly rises like an angry god,
crushing my form between metal fingers;
deadly discomfort that burns into the soul.

There is no end.
Each day brings a new definition of pain—

D. L. Harris
© 7/26/96 pm

Echoes From the Edge: Memorabilia

These are Shadows of Things That Have Been.
They may not be altered in any way.
They flicker through his mind like old home movies:
Images of a boy whose father didn’t love him.
Of a boy robbed of his childhood.
Of a boy forced to become to become a man
Long before puberty set in.
Of a young man mocked by his peers—
Because he believed differently—
Or, because, being poor, he could not afford the comforts they enjoyed.
Of a young man working hard
To provide for his growing family—
To have the Apple of Success dangled before him—
(Just an bite)—
Then cruelly snatched away again.
Betrayed at last by his own flesh and blood—
Betrayed in the end by his own mind.
Of a lonely man, rejected by those he had aided—
Abandoned by those he had grown to love—
Forgotten by those who called him “Friend.”
Turn the projector off, please, Sir!
Finis.

D.L. Harris
© 7/26/96 pm

wow.

those are really powerful poems, Pen . . .

Very nice, Pen, especially the Memorabillia one. I'm impressed. I thought you said somewhere you don't do free verse very well. You do it well, my friend.

Whoa. The imageries evoked in those poems, especially "Echoes From The Edge", are haunted. Very powerful, Uncle Pen. You really are made for poetry. Keep them coming! :thumbs_up :)

And by the way, the same thoughts with your new avatar! ;)

Touching poems, Pen! Very good, indeed!

Echoes From the Edge: Despondency

Somehow I know that I haven’t always been like this—
But I see darkness every pathway that I choose,
Miss a left turn at Albuquerque, to The Wilderness of Despair.
When I was whole in body and in mind—
I worked like a dog trying to make the ends meet across the middle:
Is it because that I cannot do so now that makes me so unworthy?
It’s not always the big things the people do and say—
God knows, that’s bad enough, stigmas and prejudices just don’t disappear
Because we want them too so desperately.
Words can heal and words can wound, build a bridge or tear one down;
Not all prisons have concrete walls and bars,
And not all guards carry clubs and guns to cower those imprisoned.
I don’t think I can ever really understand what’s going on—
People look at dabs of paint on canvas and still manage to see art:
But they have problems looking beyond despondency and seeing a human…

Dale Harris
© 12/15/06

I really appreciate everyone's response to the poems. I had one person I showed the collection to nearly faint on me, but I haven't posted some of the darker ones yet.

I really do wish that you other poets would follow in my footsteps and write your own "Echoes From the Edge" to post here. What emotion echoes most in your soul and haunts you? When you've been to your limit and survived, how did that feel? I am only one among many writers, and far from the best. Endulge me.

Pen :)

This is one of the rough ones. Don't loose the author in the poem. It was written from another's viewpoint.


Echoes From the Edge: Dementia

No! Please stop! Stop it!
For God’s sake go ‘way!
No, please, oh God! Can’t take it!
Make it stop!
Can’t stand it anymore!
Images, haunting images. Faces. FACES!
Make ‘em go ‘way!
No! Stop! No more of your gibbering voices!
Lemme ‘lone, oh God! Lemme ‘lone!
The room is spinning—
I didn’t do it, I tell ya! It wasn’t me!
Haunt me no more, I swear I didn’t do it!
Oh God, where do these things come from?
Get out! Out, or by God, I’ll kill you!
Please, just lemme ‘lone? Please?
Dear God, what’s all this red stuff? Ket-ket-ketchup?
I think I’m gonna be sick…
I want my mommy.
Please?
Mommy, where are you?

D. L. Harris
© 8/25/1996

I like your Poems Pendragon.

Sometimes the darkside is not to be ran from, just expresed. Thank all of you for your compliments. I really didn't expect this to be a popular thread!

Echoes From the Edge: Guilt

They never call, they never write,
The just assume “Hey, he’s all right!”
And “Besides, he’s not our problem, anyways!”
He tries. Sometimes he cries,
He says he’ll be glad when he dies—
It’s hell just to make it through another day.
They never write, they never call,
He wonders if they even think about him at all—
He bites his lips and tries hard to be brave.
So strange how the time makes the seasons fly,
And how often they make time to drop by—
The flowers always look so lovely on a grave…

D.L. Harris
© 7/26/96

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Pendragon

Echoes From the Edge: Despondency

Not all prisons have concrete walls and bars,
And not all guards carry clubs and guns to cower those imprisoned.

Dale Harris
© 12/15/06

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I really like these lines Pen.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Pendragon

Sometimes the darkside is not to be ran from, just expresed. Thank all of you for your compliments. I really didn't expect this to be a popular thread!

Echoes From the Edge: Guilt

They never call, they never write,
The just assume “Hey, he’s all right!”
And “Besides, he’s not our problem, anyways!”
He tries. Sometimes he cries,
He says he’ll be glad when he dies—
It’s hell just to make it through another day.
They never write, they never call,
He wonders if they even think about him at all—
He bites his lips and tries hard to be brave.
So strange how the time makes the seasons fly,
And how often they make time to drop by—
The flowers always look so lovely on a grave…

D.L. Harris
© Circa early 1995

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I too feel that ways sometimes.......:nod:

Dark, very dark. Not from my point of view, of course, but from another's. The world is a dark place. Sylvia Plath would agree...http://smilies.vidahost.com/contrib/dvv/dvvico.gif

Echoes From the Edge: Psychosis

I remember when it all started. I looked up from the floor,
Where I’d landed after a couple of blows.
Staring up shocked and scared through eyes filled with tears
At two legs in ugly thick, red socks…

And then: The Sixth Grade. Mrs. Robinson’s class.
She was so angry and she screamed in my face.
They all laughed and said “Punk.” as to the office I slunk
But I remember those ugly thick, red socks…

I grew colder than Nifelheim, withdrew inside of my shell,
Decided I had taken enough, and you bet I had!
No one wanted to mess with me, but all my worst enemies,
Were wearing those ugly thick, red socks…

Well, one thing lead to another, anger to murder—
Now I eat my last meal in this hole of a cell.
I hear the mumbling of the Priest as the guards come to get me—
But—they’re wearing those ugly thick, red socks…

D.L. Harris
© 8/24/96

I know this might be a bit of a stupid question, but as i'm only new i was wondering if you've actually been published, as your poems are really good!

Thank you, you are too kind! :blush: Not a stupid question at all. I rarely say much about it, but yes, I've published about 150+ poems in the small press, magazines, websites, National Library of Poetry, etc. I was a member in good standing of the International Society of Poets at one time for two years. I haven't really submitted anything for publication since 1998. But I write all the time. These poems here were a series of dark stuff, but people on here seem to enjoy them.

I'm branching out into short stories, write for John Olsen's The Shadow Magazine in Review Fansite. I have two children's books written, but I need a good raport with a good illustrator to make them come alive!

Pen

Yes, I like this idea - 'Echoes from the Edge' It's a good thing you've got going here Pendragon!

My particular favourite was your Memorabilia echo!!

Echoes From the Edge: Alone

You write down each painful line of poetry,
Even though it seems that no one can ever be bothered to read it…
Inside your twisted, broken chest there is a wounded heart,
Crushed and seeping crimson drops of blood.
At a haunted old forgotten crossroads, in the pale light of the moon—
You wonder where you took the wrong turn on Life’s Highway.
It’s a godforsaken place, and the echo of dying dreams wail in the wind.
Happiness passes by unwelcome, and Joy hasn’t been by for years.
A crowded room, or an empty cell—doesn’t make a difference either way.
Memory becomes a mockery, which gibbers in the shadows like a fiend.
Even the faint glimmer of hope has faded away and gone:
I’m reading gravestones in the moonlight in the fog—
Another silent shadow in the night so all alone…

D. L. Harris
© (Updated version 12/11/06) Original 9/22/96


A Note About Copywrite Dates: Simply the date I originally wrote the poem. These have never been anything except "desktop published" until I started sharing them with you. ;)

I'LL SAY IT AGAIN, UNCLE PEN:

YOU REALLY ARE MADE FOR POETRY! AND IT LOVES YOU BACK! http://www.cosgan.de/images/smilie/froehlich/g015.gif

Your series Echoes From the Edge moved me...I especially liked Psychosis:

Quote:

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Well, one thing lead to another, anger to murder—
Now I eat my last meal in this hole of a cell.
I hear the mumbling of the Priest as the guards come to get me—
But—they’re wearing those ugly thick, red socks…

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and the poem as a whole.

And Guilt:

Quote:

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So strange how the time makes the seasons fly,
And how often they make time to drop by—
The flowers always look so lovely on a grave…

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What a nice ending...and they always do. Yes, they do...

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Pendragon

Echoes From the Edge: Alone

At a haunted old forgotten crossroads, in the pale light of the moon—
You wonder where you took the wrong turn on Life’s Highway.
It’s a godforsaken place, and the echo of dying dreams wail in the wind.
Happiness passes by unwelcome, and Joy hasn’t been by for years.
A crowded room, or an empty cell—doesn’t make a difference either way.

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What nice lines, Pen....Keep these coming.......:)

ECHOES FROM THE EDGE: METAMORPHOSIS

Metamorphosis is what allows a thing to change
Into what it was not before—
Or, was it?
After all who may ever truly say?
That which is, is that which was before—
Floating formless on the primordial breezes…
That which is has been before—
And it shall return to us yet again!
In a never-ending, concentric spiral:
Light, motion, sound—
Compressed within an imprisoning body,
Only to burst its bonds—
And flow rapidly outward,
Soft as a butterfly kiss,
Towards its next chrysalis…

D.L. Harris
© 8/24/01

Echo’s from the Edge: Desperation

Flickered footsteps fade into the chasm
The silent fall goes, then is gone, all gone
The swing of feet off the edge, bare toes play
Silent torso, quiet arms, eyes on a straight path
Those dark wells of emotion, empty of life
The concept of life’s wish, needs love
And only the drama of deaths canyon
Can carry you on, on to nowhere
Daring the edge, dancing unto dark
No longer needing the audience
Night’s quiet whisper ends the song
But the play continues, on gray stage
Lights fade the mind, but the feet dance
Parading the sunrise, light, you will never see

here you go, i answered the call to write, "mots chante a la nuit"

sketchy french, but anything worth doing takes some practice

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Triskele

Echo’s from the Edge: Desperation

Flickered footsteps fade into the chasm
The silent fall goes, then is gone, all gone
The swing of feet off the edge, bare toes play
Silent torso, quiet arms, eyes on a straight path
Those dark wells of emotion, empty of life
The concept of life’s wish, needs love
And only the drama of deaths canyon
Can carry you on, on to nowhere
Daring the edge, dancing unto dark
No longer needing the audience
Night’s quiet whisper ends the song
But the play continues, on gray stage
Lights fade the mind, but the feet dance
Parading the sunrise, light, you will never see

here you go, i answered the call to write, "mots chante a la nuit"

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Beautiful poem, Tris! Thank you for finally breaking the ice. May others follow your most excellent example!

Quote:

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Night’s quiet whisper ends the song
But the play continues, on gray stage
Lights fade the mind, but the feet dance

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The night whispering as if it were a person (to me, she's a lady, Mother Night), is great imagery!:thumbs_up

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Pendragon

ECHOES FROM THE EDGE: METAMORPHOSIS

Metamorphosis is what allows a thing to change
Into what it was not before—
Or, was it?
After all who may ever truly say?
That which is, is that which was before—
Floating formless on the primordial breezes…
That which is has been before—
And it shall return to us yet again!
In a never-ending, concentric spiral:
Light, motion, sound—
Compressed within an imprisoning body,
Only to burst its bonds—
And flow rapidly outward,
Soft as a butterfly kiss,
Towards its next chrysalis…

D.L. Harris
© 8/24/01

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I'm not in the position to say what's excellent or not but I find this one very interesting. Intriguing collaboration of illustrations, Uncle Pen. I think this is going to be one of my favorite threads. http://www.websmileys.com/sm/angels/teu06.gif

Echoes From the Edge: TABOO

Gotta talk about it! Gotta get it off my chest!
No. Silence! You must be silent!
But it hurts! My heart is all busted up inside!
Just take a deep breath. It will go away. Be silent.
It won’t go away! Curse you; can’t you understand?
Shh. We can work this out, you and I.
You? You couldn’t care less about me!
As long as I keep still about YOU, that’s what you want.
It’s YOU that you are worried about, not me.
Untrue. We are one you know.
But there is no reason to involve an outside party.
Trust me, the pain will vanish—in time.
It won’t! Dear God in Heaven, I tell you it won’t!
I’m going to explode if I may not lighten my load!
Calm yourself. Deep breaths. You'll burst a blood vessel.
Then, I’d be dead, huh? You’re sick; you know that?
Yeah, you’d love to see that happen, wouldn’t you?
What happens to one affects both. We are one.
Say…
Then I’d be rid of YOU, wouldn’t I?

D.L. Harris
© circa 1995


I still have not found the courage to post my darkest poem: Echoes From the Edge: Obsession. I fear you would all think I had finally gone too far...

i daresay that obsession is perhaps the best poetry subject there is, the reason i think, is that we all obsess, whether about love, art, philosophy, history or the muppets. please, put the echoes from the edge:obsession out there, perhaps i am alone, but poetry should be about the things nobody dares talk about,

words to images
thoughts and pictures
times of pain in paint
scars too deep to talk
but to see, precious visions
white eyes listen
spoken words to mundane
flowing scripts, bloody ink
the poem of thought
has power indeed
for it dwells in the heart
of humans in time

a bit of spontaneous freeverse but i think i holds the truth of what i was struggling to say.

just... that was really emuant
especially "Despondency" and "Alone"

OK. A word of warning and explanation. When I wrote this, I had already decided to become a mystery writer and was doing research on various things. One thing was forensic criminal profiling. I tried getting inside the mind of a serial killer. Ted Bundy. This poem was the result. It has been called "disturbing", and that is one of the milder terms it has been called. But I cannot dismiss the fact that it does reach the man's POV. So, you have been warned.

Echoes From the Edge: Obsession

Her name was Gwendolyn.
She was beautiful—
With her long, dark hair,
Those warm brown eyes,
And a complexion that suggested Native American blood
In her ancestry.
I managed to get a date with her once.
Afterwards, she never wanted to see me again.
She’d hang up on me every time I called.
I thought I had a date with her Saturday,
Only this girl turned out to be named Susan.
Things got so blurry after a while,
But I remember her lying so still, so cold.
I put her in the trunk of my green VW,
And drove aimlessly down a lonely road.
Why did it all seem so familiar?
I carried her up the steep slope,
And lay her tenderly beside the others. Others?
Were there five? Six? Maybe even seven?
Why is it that I just don’t seem to remember?
She wasn’t Gwendolyn!
My little friends will take care of her!
I gotta find Gwendolyn!
On the way home, I spotted a hooker on the corner.
Gwendolyn!?
I circled around and went back, but she was gone.
Gwendolyn would never stoop that low!
Will I ever find her?
The voices inside say yes, but that she’s moved on now.
I hear Florida’s nice this time of year…

D.L. Harris
© circa 1998

Nothing wrong with that Uncle Pen. In writing, nothing's going too far; going overboard is the result of aimlessly wandering imagination, which is a luck to possess! And you're in luck, Uncle Pen. Always in luck.

Theres nothing to be scared about, Pen. These are someone else's mindset that you have conveyed. :)

forsure, sometimes the darker side of the human psyche has to be shown, but lets not only write about that, sometimes a nice cheerful bubbly poem can be in order.

here is a slightly more uplifting echo (is it just me, or is this not one of the greatest words, it really speaks to its meaning)

Echoes from the Edge: Love of Life

Tiptoes dance ever onward
Flickers of light, thought, love
Free eagles wings carry on
Leaving the heavy heart, alone
With its desperate loathing
Heartbeats in the dunes of Eden
Leave the guilt of past behind
Back with the sin of now, far away
Their presence demands answers
But weighted queries fade
Questions remain as mere whispers
To be dashed, on the lilting rocks
Of heavens bright chorus

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Triskele

here is a slightly more uplifting echo (is it just me, or is this not one of the greatest words, it really speaks to its meaning)

Echoes from the Edge: Love of Life

Tiptoes dance ever onward
Flickers of light, thought, love
Free eagles wings carry on
Leaving the heavy heart, alone
With its desperate loathing
Heartbeats in the dunes of Eden
Leave the guilt of past behind
Back with the sin of now, far away
Their presence demands answers
But weighted queries fade
Questions remain as mere whispers
To be dashed, on the lilting rocks
Of heavens bright chorus

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Triskle, you have the touch for these poems, indeed. Even with the more uplifting, you manage to walk that emotional edge:

Quote:

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Leaving the heavy heart, alone
With its desperate loathing

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A true Echo From the Edge! :thumbs_up

Just to prove a point about how long I've been writing these sonnets...


Echoes From the Edge: Territory

It has been proven that those guilty of the worst crimes—
Armed robbery, murder, arson, and rape—
Follow definite patterns. Time after time
Police have watch in anguish this vicious cycle take place.
They hang out in pool halls, games rooms, bowling alleys—
Losers—loners with too much time on their hands.
Check it out for yourself sometime. The figures will tally.
What goes on in their twisted minds no one ever understands.
Hunters—creatures of the night, like vampires they prey
On those that are helpless, separated from the crowd.
Cold blood—reptilian, snake-like predators are they—
Their depravity seems something of which they are proud.
The feral looks in their eyes can fill even a brave man with dread:
And their territory is marked with the bones of the dead…

D.L. Harris
© 10/25/96

which pale by the crimes of a new hour
these sad remains sprawl across their concience
mere stains, which they clean with a new depravity
ever trudging on, rags dirtied, minds... filth
the simple sound of wrent flesh drives men mad
and yet in love with insanity, a terrible addiction
the drug of cowards, their dark eyes flash with each fix
and yet, each kill, each rape, dampens a spark of life
until all that remains is the pits of bleak despair
the desperate hole, where the soul once was

sorry if this offends you, but the poem felt like it needed a bit more, so i added it, my apologies please if you found this intrusive...

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Triskele

which pale by the crimes of a new hour
these sad remains sprawl across their concience
mere stains, which they clean with a new depravity
ever trudging on, rags dirtied, minds... filth
the simple sound of wrent flesh drives men mad
and yet in love with insanity, a terrible addiction
the drug of cowards, their dark eyes flash with each fix
and yet, each kill, each rape, dampens a spark of life
until all that remains is the pits of bleak despair
the desperate hole, where the soul once was

sorry if this offends you, but the poem felt like it needed a bit more, so i added it, my apologies please if you found this intrusive...

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Offfend? No. But it's hard to add free-verse to a sonnet... what you wrote makes a good stand-alone poem! :thumbs_up

echoes from the edge: descent

hurling down the dark, empty roadway
in a vehicle hung in high gear;
the horn blares only silently,
the brakes failed long ago,
the steering forever locked into a reckless course
leading towards a hairpin curve
that traverses the edge of a two-hundred foot drop
into the smoke-filled abyss…

D.L. Harris
© 6/18/96

that one i like ^ ^.

echoes from the edge: alone #2

alone
no matter where I am
in a crowed room
on a busy tram.
two thousand people—
or only four—
my loneliness
just doesn’t keep score.
a myriad voices
may constantly drone—
but that can never stop me
from feeling so alone…

D.L. Harris
© 3/21/96