# Writing > Personal Poetry >  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
&#169; 7/26/96 pm
*

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## 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
&#169; 7/26/96 pm

*

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## mir

wow.

those are really powerful poems, Pen . . .

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## 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.

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## 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!  :Thumbs Up:   :Smile:

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## Laindessiel

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

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## Pensive

Touching poems, Pen! Very good, indeed!

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## 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
&#169; 12/15/06
*

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## 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 *

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## 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
&#169; 8/25/1996

*

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## Niamh

I like your Poems Pendragon.

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## 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
&#169; 7/26/96


*

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## 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
> ...


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

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## 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
&#169; 8/24/96
*

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## 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!

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## 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*

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## 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!!

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## 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
&#169; (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. *

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## 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...

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## 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....... :Smile:

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## 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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## 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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## Triskele

sketchy french, but anything worth doing takes some practice

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## 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
> ...


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! :Thumbs Up:

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## 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
> ...


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.

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## 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
&#169; 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...*

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## 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.

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## samercury

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

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## 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
&#169; circa 1998
*

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## 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.

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## Madhuri

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

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## Triskele

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.

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## 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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## Pendragon

> 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
> ...


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




> Leaving the heavy heart, alone
> With its desperate loathing


A true Echo From the Edge!  :Thumbs Up:

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## Pendragon

*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
*

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## 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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## Pendragon

> 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
> ...


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

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## Pendragon

*
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
*

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## Triskele

that one i like ^ ^.

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## Pendragon

*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
&#169; 3/21/96
*

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## Laindessiel

> *
> 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
> ...


This poem makes me think of a Kryptonite-dependent creature who's gone totally ballistic over his life and wants a different direction from hereon out.

_the steering forever locked into a reckless course
leading towards a hairpin curve_ 

Wow. This has got to be a former feeling of mine that's unexplained and for me now you gave meaning to it. It's just so beautiful, Uncle Pen.




> *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
> ...


*sighs sadly, deeply*

I would've wanted to write or compose a poem _a la Echoes From The Edge_ but I can't decipher my feelings and put them all to paper; more likely difficult for me to process these things and think about it. It's when someone pours it into my conscience that I realize that _that_ is exactly how I'm feeling.

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## Pendragon

*Echoes From the Edge: CHAOS

This is an average human mind.
Shall we open Pandora’s Box, to see what’s inside?
Da-da-da-da-dum-dum. Da-da-da-da-dum-dum. “Tonto get horses, Kemo Sabe.”
“…and who, disguised as Clark Kent, mild mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper…”
“The heartbeat of America! Today’s Chevrolet!”
“Me Tarzan! You Jane!”
“The weed of crime bears bitter fruit. Crime does not pay. Only The Shadow knows…”
“Now, yew best be outa Dodge ‘fore sundown, stranger!”
“Try-y-y-y-y Chef’s Blend! Meow! “
“And may The Force be with you..”
“Subtract the amount on line 32 from the amount on line 16 …”
“The Devil made me do it!”
“Beep! You have mail!”
“Be very quite! I’m hunting wabbits! HAHAHAHA!”
“Manning drops straight back for the pass…”
“Attention Wal-Mart shoppers!”
“This year there is only one logical choice for President…”
“Tylenol: Recommended by more doctors for relief of…”
“…everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels…”
“George, George, George of the Jungle, strong as he can be! Watch out for that tree!”
“Elementary, my dear Watson!”
“You got to ask yourself a question. Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?”
“You’re in good hands with Allstate…”
“Flintstones! Meet the Flintstones!”
“Beam me up, Scotty. There’s no intelligent life down here.”
“Attention all employees: There will be a mandatory meeting to discuss wasting time…”
“Wild thang! You make my heart sang! You make everythang—groovy…"
”Bah, humbug!”
The mind seems a churning cauldron of misuse!
Small wonder then, that mine blew a fuse…

D.L. Harris
&#169; 1/12/99
*

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## Triskele

i understand, but i disagree, the human mind is chaotic, but the chaos is a fine blend of emotions, desires, instincts and wishful thinking methinks, not of decades worth of catchphrases

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## Pendragon

> i understand, but i disagree, the human mind is chaotic, but the chaos is a fine blend of emotions, desires, instincts and wishful thinking methinks, not of decades worth of catchphrases


*Yeah, maybe. But let me give you a scenario. You see a police road check ahead. You get ready for it by getting out driver's license, registration, proof of insurance, etc. The policeman walks up whistling the theme from, say, The Beverly Hillbillies . You are libel to tell him your name is Jed, because you are attuned to the song: "Come and listen to my story 'bout a man named Jed, a poor mountaineer barely kept his family fed." This is how these things feel up the mind to pop up when you don't need them!* :Biggrin:

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## Pendragon

*Hope Is the Thing With Feathers

I really dont care what people say
Their advice shatters; broken stone tablets beneath Sinai.
Id love to return to Yesterday

Tomorrow things will be different. Indeed. So they may.
But in all likelihood Id search but the path Ill never find.
I really dont CARE what people say

Day after dismal, gloomy day
I HAVE tried to face up to these difficulties in my life.
Id love to return to Yesterday

Before this accursed illness came creeping my way,
Battered down the doorways to my mind and crept inside!
I really dont care WHAT people say

All I can do is long, hope, and pray
To the One whom alone can (if He desires) send help from on High.
Id love to return to Yesterday

But the pressure continues to build and fear holds sway.
Have the walls been breached so that to win is to die?
I really DONT CARE WHAT people say
Id love to return to yesterday

D.L. Harris
© 9.21.97
*

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## Laindessiel

> *Echoes From the Edge: CHAOS
> 
> This is an average human mind.
> Shall we open Pandoras Box, to see whats inside?
> Da-da-da-da-dum-dum. Da-da-da-da-dum-dum. Tonto get horses, Kemo Sabe.
> and who, disguised as Clark Kent, mild mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper
> The heartbeat of America! Todays Chevrolet!
> Me Tarzan! You Jane!
> The weed of crime bears bitter fruit. Crime does not pay. Only The Shadow knows
> ...


Brilliant. Nothing less but brilliant. 
I wish I could've thought of that idea before!

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## Pendragon

*
Echoes From the Edge: Bubbles

The bubbles rise slowly
To the surface of the tarn
Where they may float endlessly
Or burst at once

They rise up one by one,
Like boiled-eggs at breakfast
Or in long tangled skeins
Like frog-spawn

Each bubble a memory
Of things long forgotten
Of roads one has taken
Of people one has loved

Some are vibrantly colored
Pleasant past visitations
Some dark and foreboding
Like tombstones in a misty rain

They rise up to the surface
From the Bubble Generator
That perpetual motion machine
That lies buried beneath the tarn

For Memory is a cold and heartless Mistress
She cares not for emotion:
She will break your heart to pieces;
She will shatter your mind

The tarn is a bottomless abyss
The machine, quite unbreakable
Every hour, every minute:
The Bubbles are rising

D.L. Harris
© 11/11/00
*

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## Triskele

> *Yeah, maybe. But let me give you a scenario. You see a police road check ahead. You get ready for it by getting out driver's license, registration, proof of insurance, etc. The policeman walks up whistling the theme from, say, The Beverly Hillbillies . You are libel to tell him your name is Jed, because you are attuned to the song: "Come and listen to my story 'bout a man named Jed, a poor mountaineer barely kept his family fed." This is how these things feel up the mind to pop up when you don't need them!*


hmmm... i see what you mean, i understand it now, thank you, at first i thought it was a general statement about the condition of the human mind, but now i see it is more of a specific reference to a psychological peculiarity...

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## brainstrain

> *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!
> ...


Interesting...you have a uniquely accurate view on dementia. My parents/uncles thought my grandparents had dementia for the longest time, fortunetly I was able to knock some sense into them (They are all just begging for an excuse to put them in a nursing home. It's quite sad, really...). Sometimes I think i'm the only sane person in my family...sometiems I think i'm the only insane person in my family  :FRlol:  

Disturbing, yes, but very moving. I'm sure you know this by now, but you're gifted.

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## Pendragon

*Echoes From the Edge: Hobo

I'm out on the road again
The towns go by like grains of sand
I'm trying to make Memphis before dark.
Got no home to go back to
Just a pilgrim passin' through
How could anybody ever think this life's a lark?

They just don't see the wind and cold,
The lonely nights with no one to hold
When the Nightmares come riding in...
Up before dawn--and on my way once more,
Churning down the road in bleak downpour
Born to looseI never seem to win...

D.L. Harris
©10/22/96*

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## Triskele

hey, even though i don't currently have a poem i want to post on echoes doesn't mean it should fade to anonymity, it is a worthwhile thread

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## Triskele

here, another echo to speak with the others...

Echoes From the Edge: Despair

What will I do, now that all hope is gone
With whom shall I speak, I am alone
These words sorrowfully cast, from up high
Rain bleak as the night none say is hallowed
Comes down, the frozen flame of soul is out
Cast away like the match it is, worthless
A moments sparks worth, all flame and soil
Dirty and raging, this ruined my life
Decades of hope, kindled in brief seconds
Like the spark that ignites the fires of hell
The sword stroke that ends a kings dynasty
So this, my life was wasted… by a match
Brief flare of life, then dark, only fire brings

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## OZEED

> *Echoes From the Edge: CHAOS
> 
> This is an average human mind.
> Shall we open Pandoras Box, to see whats inside?
> Da-da-da-da-dum-dum. Da-da-da-da-dum-dum. Tonto get horses, Kemo Sabe.
> and who, disguised as Clark Kent, mild mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper
> The heartbeat of America! Todays Chevrolet!
> Me Tarzan! You Jane!
> The weed of crime bears bitter fruit. Crime does not pay. Only The Shadow knows
> ...


Oh my word! I cannot believe the images and emotions that this "chaotic" piece has managed to evoke.I'm sitting at my desk and I can almost swear that I can hear the shouts. 
Once again Sir Pen, honor is given were honor is due. Hats off

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## Pendragon

> Oh my word! I cannot believe the images and emotions that this "chaotic" piece has managed to evoke.I'm sitting at my desk and I can almost swear that I can hear the shouts. 
> Once again Sir Pen, honor is given were honor is due. Hats off


Thank you, OZ! It isn't going to fade away, Tris, I've been more than a little sick lately, and haven't had time to dig through my poem files. I will though. Soon.
Pen.

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## ktd222

[QUOTE=Pendragon;309500]*Echoes From the Edge: Hobo

I'm out on the road again
The towns go by like grains of sand
I'm trying to make Memphis before dark.
Got no home to go back to
Just a pilgrim passin' through
How could anybody ever think this life's a lark?

They just don't see the wind and cold,
The lonely nights with no one to hold
When the Nightmares come riding in...
Up before dawn--and on my way once more,
Churning down the road in bleak downpour
Born to looseI never seem to win...

D.L. Harris
©10/22/96*

This is the first poem Ive read of yours, Pen. The idea in your poem is clear, concise, and straightforward. I think a lot of times when poets write(me included) we can get so wrapped in creating imagery that we lose sight of clearly developing our ideas in line. You dont have that problem.
But at the same time I feel there is still something lacking; something that lets me know how windy or cold these lonely nights are to the speaker in your poem. I connect with the idea, but not with its intensity.

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## Triskele

well, hopefully you may attain some better health days, then you can strike me down with awe in your next post... :Wink:   :Wink:   :Wink:   :Wink:   :Wink:   :Wink:   :Wink:   :Wink:   :Wink:   :Wink:

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## Pendragon

*Echoes From the Edge: Moods

The pendulum swings
From high to low
The tick-tock
Of the clock
Counts the tedium
On its circular abacus.
The boredom settle like fog
Over the low-lying marshes of the mind.
The arrow on the seismograph
Jerks like javelins of lightning.
The pendulum goes faster now
Up, down, up, down, up, down,
Lightning flashing for each upswing;
And an Iron Bell tolling for each down stroke.
The clock ticks on
Or is it a time bomb

D. L. Harris
© 11/6/97*

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## Triskele

interesting, i like the comparison of an iron bell, makes the mind sort of leap to the conclusion that emotion is like noise, or rather music, and bells are used in churches, so can sound for weddings, mass or funerals, an interesting dichomatic sound...

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## Pendragon

> interesting, i like the comparison of an iron bell, makes the mind sort of leap to the conclusion that emotion is like noise, or rather music, and bells are used in churches, so can sound for weddings, mass or funerals, an interesting dichomatic sound...


 You may also note that the words form the _shape_ of a bell fairly well... That wasn't exactly accidential. Visual poetry.  :Wink:

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## Triskele

i hadnn't noticed it before, a bit rough but i can see it clearly. heres a bit of an enigmatic poem, it makes sense to me, but i don't know how clearly i am giving my message to the reader, commets would be appreciated.

The Dancer

Shadows fall with a creak, footsteps halt for fear of discovery as the shadow dancer hides in the light of a half false face. To the audience, only the gleam can be seen, half hopeful eyes glint in the spotlight, the reflected light conceals the shadow-soul in whatever their white-light eyes want to see. The light of the lie they want to see gleams in their eye, blind to the love of the shadow play, the daylight gestures seem to be the only good.

another freeverse, i know, a bit tiring, but in times when i just want to write emotion freeverse is my failsafe.

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## the Last 13

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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## Pendragon

> 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...  :Smile:  

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..."  :Wink:

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## the Last 13

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.....

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## Triskele

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

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## the Last 13

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.....

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## Madhuri

There is more scientific explanation to why babies cry at birth.

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## Pendragon

*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
*

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## Triskele

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.

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## Adolescent09

The first few lines of your poem "Behemoth" are captivating. The entire poem flows from there.

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## Pendragon

*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
*

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## Pendragon

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

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## Triskele

> 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
> ...



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.

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## Triskele

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.

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## Pendragon

> 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
> ...


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...

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## Pendragon

*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*

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## 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?
> ...


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...

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## 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.  :Nod:

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## 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

*

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## 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
*

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## 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

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## 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?
> ...


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

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## 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

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