Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Alas, the Lady Loves in Vain! ~part I~

Ahh, there she sits, the woman who loves me!

How do I know?

Well my good friend, she told me thus.
It was one night whence I was her only security that her affections she did confess, and I must confess, that my fortunes have been frowning upon me ever since.

This scenario may not have been so ill-favored had she some redeeming quality within her person, but alas, I could not see past that nose! That nose, who's crooked, wart-saddled bridge seemed to be slithering like a yellow serpent in the sickly pale moonlight; that nose, whose cavernous nostrils put to shame any brazen, wine vessel in terms of circumference, diameter, and depth; that nose, whose singular, hair-blessed mole resembled some grassy-brown butte upon which some three or four sojourning bison ought be grazing. Alas, then did she the impudence to reveal her profile. It was after this careless gesture that I perceived, in the moonlight, that this edifice, ever-fixed to her visage, stoutly protruded some three or four inches beyond that bushy surface of her hairy, upper lip.

However, this was, perchance, the more-fortunate of her features.

Monday, March 30, 2009



Afraid and trembling humans are
Of death? A natural cause.
Just as birth, and yet we fear
To contemplate and pause.
They fear the thing that matters most,
The thing we all should pray,
Would come so quickly in this world,
And yet they run away.

They think about the end,
As a fearful, eerie man.
Clothed in black with hood on head
And sickle in his hand.

The blackness of their wicked souls
Has caused them all to hide.
From the creature who their souls he owns,
And made them dark inside.
They never know the meaning of,
This life, just live with trust,
That works of good, false deeds of love,
Will wash out their sinful lust.

They think about the end,
As a fearful, eerie man.
Clothed in black with hood on head
And sickle in his hand.

And yet we have seen hope, us few,
And are called to share it wide,
With all we come in contact with.
To drench God’s loving tide
On the shores of souls of men,
Wicked souls they may be.
The King commissioned us below
To spread eternity.

They think about the end,
As a fearful, eerie man.
Clothed in black with hood on head
And sickle in his hand.
But then the saved can show the way,
Of that loving caring man.
Clothed in naught but purple robe,
And nail print in his hand...

Tears Can Be Beautiful

Tears Can Be Beautiful

There is a beauty
Inside a tear
That few men can see
Because of fear
Afraid to embrace
Picturesque pain
For fear they’d erase
Everything but shame
But I have found that
There is a place
Inside my being
Where pain has a face

/Crying, Crying
Who can stop her crying?
Dying, Dying
She’s all alone
Can you hear her?
She’s calling to you
Love her, Fear her
But don’t let her fall
Draw her nearer
And her heart will dissolve
In you/

I see a woman
Standing alone
Head hanging lonely
No happiness known
Her eyes are dimming
With hot, dark tears
She walks by herself
For all of her years

She raises her head
And looks in my eyes
I see a soul that
Tries to disguise
But she doesn’t fool me
‘cause I see her pain
I wish she would trust me
and I would make her whole

Johnathan Schofield

Friday, March 6, 2009

The Person's Pill

The Person's Pill

Why is it so hard to trust?
Am I so proud that I must,
Take life in my hands and start to shape
Some freakish creature of fear and hate

This creature will it's maker kill,
send his soul hard fast to hell.
Why then must I so oft' create,
This hound of hell, of pain, and hate?

I say I love you, but then I doubt.
I shun within, and look without,
And know full well what I shall find;
A sinner soiled, crude unkind

Now frustration spins within,
This pride, this self, this wicked sin.
A cloud of grey and bloody mist,
My conscience curtains, clenches fist.

A harder heart, I now posses.
A heart that hates, and loves you less.
Colder now, so cold, colder still,
The pain, the pride, the person's pill.