Echoes From the Edge

[Pendragon]

Thank you, you are too kind! 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

[Dr Eep]

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!!

[Pendragon]

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.

[Laindessiel]

I'LL SAY IT AGAIN, UNCLE PEN:

YOU REALLY ARE MADE FOR POETRY! AND IT LOVES YOU BACK!

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

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…

and the poem as a whole.

And Guilt:

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…

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

[Madhuri]

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.

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

[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

[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"

[Triskele]

sketchy french, but anything worth doing takes some practice

[Pendragon]

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"

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

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

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

[Laindessiel]

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

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.

[Pendragon]

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...

[Triskele]

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.

[samercury]

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

[Pendragon]

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

[Laindessiel]

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.