Echoes From the Edge

[Pendragon]

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

[Pendragon]

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

[mir]

wow.

those are really powerful poems, Pen . . .

[Virgil]

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.

[Laindessiel]

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!

[Laindessiel]

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

[Pensive]

Touching poems, Pen! Very good, indeed!

[Pendragon]

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

[Pendragon]

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

[Pendragon]

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

[Niamh]

I like your Poems Pendragon.

[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

[Madhuri]

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

I really like these lines Pen.

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

I too feel that ways sometimes.......

[Pendragon]

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...

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

[Niamh]

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!