The Travesty of Our Media Saturated Minds

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I work 9-5. I work hard, like you.

I sit down at my desk. Four grey walls. I log into a labyrinth of software applications, and I put my headset on. I scour search engines. My browser is cluttered with tabs. I am in perpetual communication. In another window, I have another browser running. Another plethora of tabs. Email, Social media, business websites, etc. To my left, my tablet is plugged in, leaning against some books displaying my calendar. To my right, my smartphone is plugged in piping upbeat music into my skull through green ear buds featuring bass so rich, it’s like dark chocolate for my ears.

When my brain starts to go whack from work, I read up on some hilarious movie reviews over at “Thoughts We Might Have Had.”  I might do some writing. . .  I’ll watch a few youtube clips. I scroll through endless newsfeeds from Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, etc. I’ll sort out some of that pesky spam in my Gmail inbox. Read some conservative rant about guns, read some liberal rant about education.

Then I go back to work. Equipped with coffee, and a new Pandora station, I propel myself through another couple of hours. I get a text from my wife. I check a voicemail from my dad. I block that meme-crazy “friend” who just can’t stop. I like a goofy photo of a good friend.

I go home. I wander the lands of Skyrim while my wife makes dinner. We watch Frasier on Netflix while we eat.

None of these things are bad. But sometimes, I wonder how my mind might blossom if I just wandered alone in the wilderness for a while.

That’s right, I want a cave. A dark cave in the middle of the woods by a lake. A place to let my beard grow long, and I can howl at the moon. By candlelight, I will use sharp pieces of granite to etch my stories into the stone of the earth.

 

~j.d.schofield

 

 

Whisper

Whisper… Don’t whisper?

I can hear them. The little birds. They sing nice. I like it when they sing.

Sometimes I think  of the sun, and the grass in the field. I like to put my fingers in the dirt.

I like to feel the cold earth in my hand, and the warm sun on my face, and the strong wind on my back.

Whisper… Don’t whisper?

It’s not like I have never thought of it, you know? It’s not like I don’t know what i’m saying.

But it’s all a little frightening, really. Eyes closing. Going to sleep. Sleeping, I mean. I’m a little scared of it, you know?

I think everyone is. Where do you go? Will you ever wake up? If you do, where will you be? When you wake… If you wake.

Whisper… Don’t whisper?

It’s reasonable, I guess. When I put my hands in the earth, they get dirty. When I let the sun on my face, I get burned. The wind chafes my skin. I know that. Everybody knows that.

But sleep? Who knows about sleep, anyway? Why should I be afraid to sleep? It’s not like anyone knows – for certain, I mean. People guess, I guess.

Whisper…

I should miss the sun, I think. I know it burns me. But I don’t know that I mind. It’s warm and it is bright. The earth is cool and healing. The wind fills me with life.

And yet I am tired, you know? The birds sing. The little birds. I can hear them and I smile. Have you ever listened to the birds and wondered what it is they say? What it is they mean? I do.

Whisper…

I’m feeling heavy. The sky is so heavy, and I don’t know how long I can hold it up. The grass is so soft, and it is asking me to lay down. I’ve been standing so long, listening so long to the birds. The cool earth. Could it heal me from this burning sun? Could the wind get along without me? Holding up that great big sky all by itself? I hope so. The birds need a place to sing. I need to sleep. I hope I wake up. I wonder where I shall?

~j.d.schofield

sunsets_landscapes_nature_wheat_1920x1080_wallpaper_Wallpaper_2560x1440_www.wallpaperswa.com

 

 

Rubra Pallium

In ominous tones the shadows of dusk fall

With a groaning, a moaning, the black trees sway

Shadow begets shadow as darkness descends

Like a heavy blanket of foreboding woe

The air, like a frozen hag, is whipping about

the barren branches of the valley

Hissing and whispering to the inevitable night

with frost upon her blistery tongue

a carpet of decaying vegetation is scattered and tattered

across the earthen floor of the wood

with fallen limbs reaching from underneath

like the arms of the dead clawing forth from their muddy graves

Through the midst of this cold and desolate wasteland

not a sound can be heard

save the crunching steps of very light feet

Two little feet that navigate this pathless void

The snapping of twig and the rustling of rotting leaves

Darkness consumes the wood. Through the branches

black clouds can be seen boiling in the slowest of motions

Moving with the lethargy of an old and haggard woman

Fissures of sky rip through the still and frothy firmament

at random intervals, haphazard in their shape and

allowing the steely bolts of frozen moonlight to cut into

the dark wood and destroy tiny patches of darkness

a amber-violet haze challenges the shadows, but does not defeat them

the darkness and the aura of refracted starlight war with each other

a slow and thick war

Mist fills the void, and the little steps can still be heard

The only physical expression of life

through it she moves

Ever westward

Step by steady step

Slow and determined

The darkness does not disturb her

For she is her mistress

And she is her mystery

Scarlet

blood red

the only color

the only life

to contradict

to compliment

this cold and desolate scene

her features cloaked

enveloped in shadow

and illuminated by the moon

~j.d. schofield

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The Poet. The Pen.

Drip… drip… drip…

Feel the ebb… and… flow…

Drip… drip… drip…

From the pen… so… slow…

Drip… drip… drop…

From the table, from the top

See the little river sliding

See it waver, see it stop.

As it pools. As it sinks.

Ever staining as it drinks.

Over parchment, see it gliding

from the palm where it’s residing

hear the scratching from the writing

as he thinks.

~j.d.schofield

Corruptible

DeadTree

We are all so lost.

The disjointed matter of our souls doth crack withal

And i’ the face of blessed time our marrow spoils and dies

I’faith, I do but fear we shall not reach a higher state

Where all virtue is full and fresh and in our veins

Too late, I fear, we come to righteousness

Like the haggard crow on carrion fed

Where once was life now lies corruption

Each sinewy limb o’r wrought with rot

And here engorge ourselves upon the flesh of sin

There is no path, no way, no life

And in our hot pursuit of all our precious passions

We have forgot that incorruptibility

That once defined our little race

And made us noble in the times of old

When brandished truth did mark our way

With fearless pride our love we showed

And unashamed we worked withal

Expedient to see the day 

 

j.d. schofield

Through Different Eyes

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If I close my eyes, my weary eyes, the world around me falls to quiet. All the pressures and expectations of all the things I need to be seem suddenly insignificant. If I close my eyes, for a moment I transcend the physical, the tangible, the world we touch and feel. I exchange it for the ethereal, the ideal, the incorporeal and surreal. I find the flights of fancy lift me up from under my weak and helpless arms, as though, childlike, I am become so small on a sea of unexplored adventures. A place where no one can say no and everyone says yes. A place where “impossible” is a word we scorn and “risk” is thing we take. A place exists, when I close my eyes, where everyone gets along, and everyone works hand in hand toward the utmost goal, the absolute ideal, the perfect image of perfection. Here we are not bogged down by the petty, the vain, and the self-centered individual. When I close my eyes, I see a collaborative narrative constructed by a collective of creatives who have consecrated their every ounce of individual to something greater than themselves.

And then I open my eyes. I see death. I see pain. I see vanity saturating a world of pomp and petty pride. I see lust for mediocrity. I see satisfaction in the soil of our under-achievements. I see an apathetic ocean of young people, bobbing about like helpless corks in a turbulent sea of indecision. I see a lack-luster generation who can’t stand up. I see the emptiness. I see the hurt. I see the walls they’ve built to hide themselves. I see how thin those walls are, and yet they think they must be safe. I see a mirror. I see myself looking into it. I see all those things in me. I close my eyes. I open my eyes. I close them again.

We must open our eyes. We must come back to the physical, the tangible, the world we touch and feel. For this is where we are. This is where we live. We must not surrender the present on the altar of imagination. We must not slit the throat of righteous ambition and watch our potential drain from our bleating talents. This unholy sacrifice will surely damn us all if we refuse to pick ourselves up, and go out boldly into a world we were created to conquer. Open your eyes, as I open mine. Together we can do great things. We were made to do so. We were not made to be satisfied. We were made to hunger. We were made to thirst. We were made to work, and yearn, and desire. We were made to struggle and fight and win. So today, my friend, open your eyes. Stand up. Go out. Be bold.

~j.d. schofield

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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