in the still of the write

the air is still
no whispers spell
nothing stirs
but the fallow dust
beneath my feet
there is naught but mute
a gate has drawn
no amount of fretful fancy will it breach
whatever speaks has determined it

in these days
a versifier indwelt and I its crier
and so redeemed myself in the doing
now it is as though I’m shunned from myself
an exile is at hand
for a wondering in the wilderness
will be my determination

if there has been transgression
it will be known to me in due time
it will not be those that think it so
that will determine it

if there has been purpose
there will be end
this will also be in time
I will not be the one that determines

It will be as it will
I wrestle no more
if endowed it will manifest
but I will not trespass
my author has determined it



Written by Scott Schoffstall
© November 09, 2011
all rights reserved
Poetic Sojourn


The Poem of Life

the rhythm of days
defining seasons display

a promising rhyme
within the meter of time

the prose of perception
conceiving the
the meaning of conception

the art of existing
for the story sublime

embarking for sojourn
bless-ed of trial

with journeys
to fulfill
as seasons refine

returns do adjourn
the weight to abate

as twists n turns
become straight
along wisdom of miles

alas days will grow dim
yet this night glows bright

for it’s now held within
this celestial light

tis why we’re destined to recite
beyond mortal strife

the poetry of living
in the poem of life



Written by Scott Schoffstall
© January 16, 2012
all rights reserved
Poetic Sojourn


poetry is the art of releasing in a breath
what could not be dislodged by the gale

in this way some may realize moments
in which they’ve striven all their lives

and thereby find kindred hearth
round to warm amid bitter storm

the poet is not the more wise
the poet is merely the path blazed
that others have prior trod



Written by Scott Schoffstall
© November 01, 2011
all rights reserved
Poetic Sojourn

On This Benevolent Day

It wore a crown of azure as in postcards or dreams of perfect days. A day for long lover’s lane walks, picnics or journeys, ideal and blessed.

Fathers awoke. Kissed their wives good morning. Shaved, tied ties and kissed goodbyes to little ones eating soggy sweets from bowls of milk alongside colorful boxes adorned with cheery, morning playmates.

Moms hurried them along as they prepared lunches for a day filled with hope, learning, fun and the excitement of meeting new schoolmates on field trips to the big city.

As daddies pulled out of driveways and school buses arrived on sunny street corners, the cities of the Atlantic awoke to a crisp, clear day in the life of you and I

Rush hours began. Busy hubs of activity commenced with travelers boarding for skyways anticipating longed for destinations.

Some to see an important business client to show appreciation for loyal patronage over the years, many, however, were looking forward to visits with loved ones in distant locales or perhaps families with little ones excited to reunite once again in the arms of home.

Morning scurried about. Policemen in the streets blew their whistles and helped everyone along with colorful gyrations that instructed and entertained.

Elsewhere people rushed off the street into neighborhood delis or coffee shops for a morning brunch or coffee to quench away a cloud or two behind still sleepy eyes. Another welcomed opportunity to elbow up with those alongside in life as it prepared for another day of the sojourn in which we’re all guests.

Those on a normal workday welcomed dazzled schoolchildren on tours or spending a day with mom or dad at work in silver spires that provide livings for men and women. Exchanging beaming smiles only eclipsed by that brilliant orb shining down on us all on that most beautiful of days.

Skilled tradesmen in crafts concerning structures and their environments went about resolving problems or installing improvements for the comfort or aesthetic enjoyment of those who’s days are spent there.

Seemingly held aloft by the wind itself, ones who ensure all is clean and shines smiled invites to those settled within to enjoy the bright, clear waves flooding in though translucent walls glistening from their squeaky swipes.

As on any average day, there were sightseers intermingling with residents and workers all partaking of the many activities and occupations that comprise this most dynamic of cities.

From windows above you could see the streams of humanity flow like bubbles in the surface foam of a brook hurrying over a forest floor.

It is on days such as these that a wink of an eye blinks and fates are known.

Children on flights for field trips or visits, international businessmen on the phone with clients, fathers working in the hallways of commerce and industry stealing a moment to call a loved one with reminders of love, perhaps a newly wed just back from honeymoon calling his new bride or a mature gentlemen reminiscing with the love of his life on the eve of a silver anniversary. A multigenerational, multinational cast, all unaware of the unwitting part they would play in an imposed drama for which they had no rehearsal.

Suddenly, eyes looked up to the brilliant blue which only moments ago beckoned them out to enjoy the Lord’s beauty and traced a dark malevolent shark’s manufactured fins slicing that blue waveless sea, hungry with animosity, unrealized by those in its wake or course. Pawns in the presumed path to vainglory caught in the throes of manipulated ignorance. Slaves of arrogant will to power guised in robes of righteousness hurtling headlong towards the very brink of interrupted destinies.

And then

time surrendered.

As if in slow motion, fear vied for center stage in a liar’s play to tell the story of a nation.

At this moment many miles away, sojourners, hearing of their bothers and sisters fate, called goodbyes to loved ones and readied to fly home but not to one of brick and mortar. On this day bravery spoke to ears of the ordinary. Revealing them for what they truly were, extraordinary. Who stepped up selflessly and shouted with their very lives “This will not happen on my watch!”

Everyday fathers, grandmothers, college students with promising tomorrows. Caucasian, African, Asian decent. On this day, Americans all, one in purpose, men, women and youth of the 93, united. Determined that fear was an insolent invader to be summarily vanquished. For those, such as themselves and their families, would suffer if this imposed destination were permitted its will. They dedicated their own for ours and embraced a rural field in Pennsylvania as their holy pilgrimage.

Back in the city, men with somber determination embroidered on their brows, charged into hells fire regardless of outcome for chance at just one soul saved. Though from this time on, they would suffer affliction for their selfless deeds, given the same, all would do the same again without moments hesitation.

Men and women stood horrified as souls, forced to risk their chances in the air, leaped from above for dread of encroaching flame which brought certain death. They overcame the fear of their harrowing flight making it subservient perhaps to the even greater fear of never seeing a daughter’s walk down the isle or a son’s graduation. Those on the ground tried in vain to help. Yet they tried and tried again.

Others felt their way down though black suffocating, poisoned night in claustrophobic stairwells unsure if their world would plummet beneath them at any given moment and their next step be their last. Encouraging each other on, hand in hand, downward to meet the men with determined intent rushing onward and upward towards them.


Out of that azure fell a crushing rain.

Upon them, before them, around them

and after—the silence.

The kind that would keenly recur from the dark cellar of dreams.

It lasted for a hint of eternity until suddenly, hell’s wind rose from the ashes. Men and women of valor rose up wearily to meet it and meet it they did. Swearing an oath by their very actions that, as long as breath was in them, they would never blink to fear but look it straight in the eye and stare it down.

Many untrained in such things had only their humanity to guide them and they followed it unhesitating, unrestrained. Common folk, who on a day such as this, rose above fear, conquered self to shine through the darkness brilliant as suns.

Many told of here, guests of their own sojourn, on this benevolent day, slipped from time and space to mingle with infinity

Our tribute is the least we owe them and our undying witness to the true story of a nation.

Hell’s minions hurled their hate into steel and glass in an attempt to forge a furnace of fear, thinking, what we made is all we are. Then from the ashes of things made, we showed them of what we are made.

This written on 10th anniversary as tribute.

Written by Scott Schoffstall
© August 25, 2011
all rights reserved
Poetic Sojourn

a day for our darling

once dainty giggles tickled a sleepy ear
smiles so bright they warmed grumpy
to endear
and two lil twinklin mornin stars to gaze
brightened all those early grumbling days

but quick! there were tea parties to host
with fabled guests from the coast
and fashion shows to run
with adoring fans to be won

oh the adventures to explore!
often misadventures were in store
so there were booboos to attend
snuggled hugs n kisses that would mend

there were also answers besought
for a multitude of whys
cuz little curiosities one just couldn’t deny
with little genius growing
you know there’s urgent need of knowing!

and of course the day’s tales to tell
whilst splashing bubble fun swells
aromatic posy scented smells
little wet toes would tippy tip
just after a warm bubbly dip

oh! and there were stories to hear
with villains who would sneer
a princess had to be saved!
dragons to be slayed
a brave hero to win the day!
and happily ever afters
bringing innocent adoring laughter

alas there was a date with the sand man
to keep
as we lay thee down to sleep
thank yous to be said
then a tucked in sleepy head

and off we here withdrew
knowing the coming day would anew
to find happily ever afters do come true
for a lil princess to rise n shine
with a doting Father in Kingdom Divine

Never Forget

Written by Scott Schoffstall
© July 16, 2011
all rights reserved
Poetic Sojourn

I Do Not Write Poetry

I do not go gentle
into any night
for your delight
with flowers and bees
in springtime breeze

I do not aspire
pretend heavenly attire
singing so sweetly
chiming repeatedly
so tidy and neatly

I do not aspire
to building of fires
of wishes, desires
with chest plate of scales
horns and tails

I do not carry flames
for internal blames
of times I’ve been lamed
from opposite strife
with expert knife

I do not address
desperate excess
or need to confess
a life that’s been messed
now finding it’s blessed

I do not require
for you to admire
or praise as sublime
any reason or rhyme
that make spirits climb

the reason I’m here
is to be more than clear
that we’re all in the now
together somehow
we can strive for the new
and continually review
all that we do

so reminding us all
that from all of our fall
we can stand tall
from whence we did crawl
because here and now
is not to kowtow

but further we’re made
to win not with blade
but heart for the true
an unfettered view
so hear what I do

and not what I please
for it’s not what frees
this lament will not ease
until time’s undone
and spirits one
from one certain deed
it’s been guaranteed



Written by Scott Schoffstall
©  February 05, 2011
all rights reserved
Poetic Sojourn

Poet’s Paradox

poets were once painters of prose
singers of syllables
poets weaved words into garments
the spirit to clothe
warm it from bitter winds
adorn it as spring’s rose

poetry would enlighten
the mind
revelations entwine
in the meter of rhyme

poetry would move
the heart to swoon
would kindle a love’s
ember, set it aflame
tickling her eyes with gentle croon

poetry would embark to voyage
whisk you away to faraway place
or draw you to introspection
and bring the mirror to your face

when did poets become
movers of bits
shape shifters of code
when has ink become link
as primary abode

when has the page
transferred its light
from the image insight
to the image in sight

when has the color of imagination
and the light of the mind
become pixels in an ordered line
how do we reconcile poetry
to programming



Written by Scott Schoffstall
© October 05, 2011
all rights reserved
Poetic Sojourn