Pen a Poem by Proxy

Dear readers of destiny,

I am pleased to announce a new method of poeticizing!

It shall be a competition, of sorts! You can be featured on Rhyme Written In Red – In one of TWO WAYS!

A.) Pen A Poem by Proxy

- Leave a theme, a word, an object, a sentence, a person, a relationship, or an idea in the comments, and I shall select the most compelling and compose a piece of poetry for you, in your name and honor, to be featured on this blog! (be sure to leave your name, and something about your awesomeness, so I may attribute you.)

B.) Pen A Poem

-This really is nothing new to RWR, but recently there has been a dirth of submissions to our poetic archives! (Shame on you, I know you are writing!) If you should write a poem yourself, feel free to submit it to our Rhyme Written In Red staff for our review of your delightful works! We love reading and publishing your work, sharing it for all the world to see, and marveling at your insight into the beautiful bits of life that touch us all!

Thanks for reading, and post in the comments, or email your poem to rhymewritteninred@live.com!

~j.d.schofield

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Rhyme Written In Red Dot Com

Dear Readers, Writers, and Rhymers,

I write now to tell you good news!

I’ve raised my own bar, like all climbers,

Who endeavor to see greater views!

Like a ship now refurbished and fitted,

For the sea in a new sort of way,

I embark on a quest of the witted,

To express both the lovely and grey!

__________________________

Now introducing our exclusive domain, rhymewritteninred.com!

~j.d.schofield

writing

The Rhyme of the Ancient Enemy

A heart so heartless heaving down
All of the blisters you have found
I asked the man from swollen tides
If he would show me other sides
And with a chuckle he gave in
And showed me all his charms again
I woke in darkness feeling cold
From all the stories that he told
A heart so heartless heaving down
A broken life and tarnished crown

Your rhyme is base in all its form
At least you tried to keep me warm
And as we calm before the storm
I hope you’re listening

Dear God I hear his poetry
It echoes black inside of me
He stands on every darkened street
Where past and future choices meet
The crier screaming in the air
A rhyme so wrong and in despair
I pray that he might go away
Before in me he starts to play

Your rhyme is base in all its form
At least you tried to keep me warm
And as we calm before the storm
I hope you’re listening

His words foretell of a shipwreck
An albatross about my neck
But softly now I hear him say
That everything will be okay
“Oh yes you will be fast destroyed
By this my rhyme that I’ve employed
But what a time we both shall gain
The only cost eternal pain”

Your rhyme is base in all its form
At least you tried to keep me warm
And as we calm before the storm
I hope you’re listening

 ~j.d. schofield

Gustave_Dore_Ancient_Mariner_Illustration

The Gardener

Here I am on your door step,

I’m on the threshold of your home,

Here I am, where I’ve always been,

And I don’t want to sleep alone.

 

Because I’m tired of the dusty gardens,

Where all my seeds refuse to grow,

And all the flowers in the courtyard,

Have been wilting from your snow,

 

For 13 years I’ve struggled,

Yeah, I remember better days,

When the roses had their petals,

And every petal had its place,

But now I see inside me growing,

This dissatisfied desire,

For these 7 years of snowing,

Have made me lust for fire.

 

Now I’m peering through your window,

I can see the colours bright,

They remind me of my flowers,

How I’d tend to them for hours,

And how you’ve killed them isn’t right.

 

For 13 years I’ve struggled,

Yeah, I remember better days,

When the roses had their petals,

And every petal had its place,

Can’t you see you’re starving beauty?

And that you’re killing all my trees?

I have to get inside your lofty head,

To ever bring you to your knees.

 

Wait, I hear the garden gate swing,

The iron groaning on its hinge,

Have you come to see your garden?

Or to see me on the fringe?

I see your silhouetted figure,

Seems to droop as you walk slow,

I hope you don’t wish to see flowers,

For they’re all buried in your snow.

 

For 13 years I’ve struggled,

Yeah, I remember better days,

When the roses had their petals,

And every petal had its place,

So I hope you understand me,

When you hear these words I say,

If I’m ever gonna grow for you again,

You have to go away.

 

If you leave, the snow will melt down,

And the sun may just come out,

My poor seedlings might just germinate,

And I will cultivate each sprout,

I will tend to this my garden,

Yeah, I’ll grow a rose for you,

But so long as you are here with me,

The ground is frozen through and through!

 

For 13 years I’ve struggled,

Yeah, I remember better days,

When the roses had their petals,

And every petal had its place.

Every petal had its place.

 

~j.d. schofield

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Enter Stage Right, With Skull

“To be or not to be,”

The question you ask me,

Dear Hamlet, yes I know,

Is “to show or not to show.”

So, I approach you now,

In 3 hours take a bow,

But before then I must see,

What you really mean by “be”

 

Surely Burbage wasn’t you,

But to “be” you, he had to.

And William sure was not,

Though he gave you every thought.

Do I yield up who I am,

In pursuit of your dark plan?

Or do I simply lend you me,

And through me let you “be?”

 

Or is it something even more,

Something deeper you call for?

When you say “or not to be”

Are you hinting soft at me?

This deep union you suggest,

Is perhaps the very best,

For if you truly long to “be,”

I must both be me and thee.

 

~j.d. schofieldIlluminated Isolation

“A Fall That Feels Like Flying”

Breathing, she drinks it in. This atmospheric euphoria.

This autumnal aura of a falling, a flitting, a fluttering.

A smoky mocha and almond coolness enveloping the world,

And with the crumbling crunch of leaves against the pavement,

She steps across these chasms of colour,

Dying quietly in brownish hues,

Content to be beautiful in their last days.

In macabre anticipation of the silken whiteness of winter,

The forest floors now wrap themselves in sweaters of dying leaves.

The skies through broken branches greet her in greyscale,

A welcome contrast to these colours below.

And the gentle, cyclonic twisting of the lazy wind

Persuades the barren trunks to sway so slowly

While their tree tops tall

Groan an empty dirge of fall.

~j.d. schofield

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Reanimate

With ballistic force the nerves are severed

The crimson tide flows quickly down

And from this earth to which he’s tethered

His spirit flies, though body drown

And lifeless thus he lies on earth

An echo of his once true self

A false icon of what he’s worth

For now this shell can have no mirth

But far beyond there lies great wealth

And now he wears a golden crown

~j.d. schofield