Echoes From the Edge

[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

i do love the imagery, but i think that some people are never tested, most people are, but there are some people living pampered lives who do not know what exactly it means to live... but i am with you in the message for those of us who have been to the "vanishing point" and back, well played your sonnetship...

[Pendragon]

ECHOES FROM THE EDGE: BEDTIME

I lay upon my bed at the end of the day,
with shadows creeping closer than they ever have;
drowning in my own despair, dreaming what I
dare not vocalize.

One does not ever want to say what fears
may frolic across one’s steaming brain, but I
just watch the room dance and feel it closing in.
It does not feel good.

But fear is usually followed by the Jester.
He makes me laugh at the sheer irony of it all—
you always spend your life with one thought in mind:
It won’t happen to me!

The quiet laughter builds into silent guffaws,
and I wipe a tear from my tightly closed eyes.
I shake from nerves and laughter, staring into
Unforgiving dark.

My table lamp bids the darkness flee. I laugh.
Now, it is time for sleep, and time for dreams, too.
I take my pills, but do not click out the light.
Say goodnight, sweet prince!

D. L. Harris
© 1997


Comments welcome as always.

[Pendragon]

Echoes From the Edge: Dirge III

In all that I have ever been a shadow always blots the sunshine—
could grow a garden if my tears did not contain the taint of salt.
Somewhere out there, there has to be a life, a purpose I can call mine…

The years roll on by. Like the prisoner in his cell I just mark of the time—
Someone will always be there to remind me anyway that it’s all my fault.
In all that I have ever been a shadow always blots the sunshine—

The cold seeps in to my body, and I remember all the days of auld lang sine—
Don’t feel so sorry for yourself, get out and do something, I know I ought—
Somewhere out there, there has to be a life, a purpose I can call mine…

Would probably have turned to drinking but I know that there’s no comfort in the wine—
It’s just killing yourself slowly, drowning in the depths of a battle never fought.
In all that I have ever been a shadow always blots the sunshine—

People ask me how I am and so I lie again and tell them that I’m doing fine—
Then I’m praying, “God forgive, I know that I’m not living as I ought!”
Somewhere out there, there has to be a life, a purpose I can call mine…

They tell me to take a brighter look at things, but all I see is just a waste of time,
I’m no God, I’m no magician, and I can’t make it all better with a thought—
In all that I have ever been a shadow always blots the sunshine—
But somewhere out there, there has to be a life, a purpose I can call mine…

Pendragon
© 3/6/07

[Pendragon]

I also did a line of sonnets from the edge. A recent incident reminded me to go back and bring this one forward. The reason being is that suicide is a permanent solution to what may only be a temporary problem. If you cannot find a reason to live for yourself, find that reason in someone or something else. That is my message here. Suicide is NEVER the answer…

Sonnet On the Brink of Suicide

The gun feels cool against my hand,
Many thoughts race through my head.
With an explosive bark, my world will end—
They will find me cold and dead.
Where all this began, I just don’t know—
But pain gives way to bleak despair;
When despair takes hold it grows and grows
Until you feel no one even cares.
I watch as the minutes trickle down
On the small wall-clock across the room.
I can almost hear my pulses pound
As my heart gives in to the coming doom.
The muzzle beckons, dark and deep—
But—I have promises to keep…

D.L. Harris
© 3/24/96

[Chortle]

Echoes of the Edge:Saints

What psalms can speak to the wolves howl, what words, what words?
Whisper in lilting patterns of prayer, dancing the winds of a change
Of hearts, where actions form on the lips of saints, and fall from hands

Saints palms bleeding with sacrifice, prayers forgotten in action that echoes
Repeating the suns action of warmth, shining down, but too bright to truly see
What psalms can speak to the wolves howl, what words, what words?

Prayers to be said in private, saviors to proclaim love, all lost in babbled repetitions
Who says the saint’s prayers… Who speaks the words of a weary worker…
Of hearts, where actions form on the lips of saints, and fall from hands

“The blood of the Martyr is the seed of the church” said he who knew naught
What words can contain the suffering, the giving, the sacrifice they bleed out
What psalms can speak to the wolves howl, what words, what words?

No words… just hands, and hearts and love’s lost companion, the saint
For who could love the giver, intimacy must go back and forth the ways
Of hearts, where actions form on the lips of saints, and fall from hands

The answer is alone, in the measured footsteps of a lost Samaritan, poor fool
He never really wanted to be on the road to Jerusalem, he was going to Babylon
What psalms can speak to the wolves howl, what words, what words?
Of hearts, where actions form on the lips of saints, and fall from hands

here it goes again, another attempt to ressurect the echoes from the chasm of the many desperate poets

[Pendragon]

Echoes of the Edge:Saints

What psalms can speak to the wolves howl, what words, what words?
Whisper in lilting patterns of prayer, dancing the winds of a change
Of hearts, where actions form on the lips of saints, and fall from hands

Saints palms bleeding with sacrifice, prayers forgotten in action that echoes
Repeating the suns action of warmth, shining down, but too bright to truly see
What psalms can speak to the wolves howl, what words, what words?

Prayers to be said in private, saviors to proclaim love, all lost in babbled repetitions
Who says the saint’s prayers… Who speaks the words of a weary worker…
Of hearts, where actions form on the lips of saints, and fall from hands

“The blood of the Martyr is the seed of the church” said he who knew naught
What words can contain the suffering, the giving, the sacrifice they bleed out
What psalms can speak to the wolves howl, what words, what words?

No words… just hands, and hearts and love’s lost companion, the saint
For who could love the giver, intimacy must go back and forth the ways
Of hearts, where actions form on the lips of saints, and fall from hands

The answer is alone, in the measured footsteps of a lost Samaritan, poor fool
He never really wanted to be on the road to Jerusalem, he was going to Babylon
What psalms can speak to the wolves howl, what words, what words?
Of hearts, where actions form on the lips of saints, and fall from hands

here it goes again, another attempt to ressurect the echoes from the chasm of the many desperate poets

Beautiful Villanelle. I love the play of the repeated words. I read it twice before I was certain it was a Villanelle, that make it a gem. Pen

[Chortle]

thanks pen, i forgot my password and changed email adresses so i had to make a new name. so now that i am in college i am no longer Triskele, but rather Chortle, my work continues to evolve with this change of titles, or so i like to think