Anthony's Literary Lens

Author: Anthony Thomas

  • A postcard with a real breeze

    A postcard with a real breeze

    Candy-colored homes,
    Softly leaning toward the sea,
    Memories linger.

    Tenby South Beach

    Tenby. Charming? Yes. Confusing? Also, yes. Imagine, if you will, a seaside town that’s part postcard, part labyrinth. Pastel houses, almost edible. Like candy. But taller.

    Wander. That’s the word. Wander through streets where every turn leads to something… unexpected. A fisherman’s cottage here, a mediaeval wall there. And did someone say castle? Oh yes, that too. Perched on a rock, casually guarding the coastline, as if to say, “Oh, this old thing? Just a relic from another era.”

    Beaches—plural, of course. They couldn’t just have one. North Beach, with its perfect arc. South Beach, more of a rebel, stretching out like it owns the place. Sand? Golden. Water? Blue enough to make you question reality. And the island! You can walk to it. St. Catherine’s, with a fort that’s seen better days. But who hasn’t?

    Ice cream. You’ll need it. Flavours you didn’t know existed, like “mango fruit ice” that tastes suspiciously like happiness. Don’t ask why, just go with it. And fish and chips. Obviously. Somewhere, a seagull plots to steal them. You’ve been warned.

    Shops. Cute ones. With things you don’t need but will buy. A pirate hat? Sure. A painted rock? Why not? Everything smells like saltwater and sunscreen. Or is that just nostalgia?

    Boat trip? Absolutely. Choppy seas, a mysterious island where  monks create perfumes from the furze bushes, and seals that pop up like they’re in on some joke you’ll never understand. Laugh anyway. It’s contagious.

    Tenby. Tiny streets, larger-than-life personality. Just when you think you’ve figured it out—bam! A secret garden or a pub that’s been there since forever. You’re not lost, you’re discovering.

    And then, there’s the sky at sunset. All fiery and dramatic, as if Tenby needed more character. You could watch it forever—or at least until your ice cream melts. Decisions, decisions.

    Leave? Eventually. But not without wondering if it was all real. Or just a very detailed, very enjoyable dream.

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  • The Art of Forgetting

    The Art of Forgetting

    Ephemeral world,
    Your smile fades with the twilight,
    Yet lingers like stars.

    Ukiyo – Adrift

    In the fleeting world, Ukiyo, where time drifts like cherry blossoms on the wind, everything dissolves into colours that bleed across the sky. There’s no yesterday, no tomorrow, only now—this shimmering, effervescent now.

    A red thread loops around your finger, tangling with mine. We walk on water, toes kissing the surface, ripples of our laughter sending waves to the stars. Your face—so familiar, yet always new, changes with the phases of the moon. Was it love, or just a reflection of love, or perhaps the shadow of a memory of love? But in Ukiyo, does it matter? Here, we are dreamers dreaming of each other, each gaze a promise that will never be fulfilled but always cherished.

    Golden koi swim through the sky, leaving trails of sunlight in their wake. I reach out to touch them, but they slip through my fingers, becoming notes of a song I’ve heard before but can’t remember. Or maybe it’s your voice, whispering secrets that echo through the canyons of my mind, words lost in translation between reality and the dream. Ukiyo is the art of forgetting, of living in the moment where nothing lasts, and everything is forever.

    The streets are a labyrinth, but we never get lost. Instead, we find ourselves at every turn, new versions of us born from the ashes of the last. I paint your portrait on the wind, and the colors dance, merging and dissolving until it’s no longer clear where you end and I begin. We are brushstrokes in an unfinished painting, lovers caught in the act of becoming.

    You smile, but it’s a smile I can’t hold onto. It slips away like sand through an hourglass, yet I don’t mind. In Ukiyo, even the most fleeting moments are eternal. We float, tethered to nothing but the pulse of the universe, a heartbeat that echoes through the endless ocean of stars.

    Love in Ukiyo is like cherry blossoms in spring—beautiful, brief, and impossible to grasp. We don’t need to grasp it. We are the cherry blossoms, the gentle fall, the moment between the breath and the sigh. We are here, together, apart, lost, found, always searching, always knowing, in the eternal now.

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  • Okay, here’s a dumb idea:

    Okay, here’s a dumb idea:

    Head’s all fuzzy now.
    Brain is like a sleepy cat.
    Dumb is kinda fun.

    What!?

    Sometimes, it’s like, really good to be dumb. Like, you know when you’re all smart and stuff and it’s, like, a big brain time? Well, that’s tiring. It’s like, your head is all full of thinky stuff. But when you’re dumb, it’s like, chill. No thinky stuff. Just, like, fun.


    See, when you’re dumb, people don’t expect much. They’re all, “Oh, he’s dumb.” But then, like, you surprise them. You do something smart and they’re all, “Whoa, I didn’t know you could do that!” It’s like, you got ‘em!


    So yeah, being dumb can be kinda cool. It’s like a secret weapon or something.

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  • A Raven’s Call

    A Raven’s Call

    Black wings cut the sky,
    Whispers from the shadow’s edge,
    Light fades, truth takes flight.

    Lightless eyes see all.

    “Ah, there you are, wandering in the light, so blissfully unaware of the shadows lurking just beyond your reach. I see you, human, with your fragile flesh and feeble spirit, clinging to the sun’s warmth as if it could save you. But what is light without darkness? What is warmth without the cold? Your world is a fleeting illusion, a brittle shell that will crack and crumble with the passing of time.

    Come closer, yes, closer still. You’ve seen me before, perched on the edge of your vision, haven’t you? A flash of black feathers, a caw that echoes in your dreams, a fleeting shadow that sends a shiver down your spine. You tell yourself it’s just a bird, nothing more. But I am more. Oh, so much more.

    Caw in the cold night,
    Shadows beckon from the trees,
    Darkness holds the key.

    The light, it blinds you, dulls your senses, keeps you soft and weak. You stumble through your days, oblivious to the truth, content in your ignorance. But I can show you what lies beyond the veil. I can guide you to the darkness where true power lies. There, in the cold embrace of shadow, you will see the world as it truly is—without the lies, without the masks.

    Do you hear it? The whisper in the wind, the rustling in the trees, the soft cawing in the night? That’s the call of the dark, the ancient song of the forgotten and the forsaken. You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The tug at your heart, the pull of something deeper, something darker. It’s been with you all along, growing stronger with each passing day, each sleepless night.

    Come to the dark side, human. Embrace the cold, the shadow, the truth. Let the light fade from your eyes and see the world as I do—sharp, clear, free of the lies and illusions that bind you. In the darkness, you will find power. In the shadows, you will find freedom. And in the cold, you will find me.

    I will be waiting for you, in the place where light fears to tread. When you’re ready, when you’ve had enough of the lies, come find me. Together, we will soar into the night, into the darkness that has been calling your name since the day you were born.”

    Raven over Wales
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  • My cat is my God

    My cat is my God

    Feline deity,
    Capricious, divine being,
    Worshiped with tuna.

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    Whiskers is not merely a cat; he is a deity, a capricious, feline god. His demands are as arbitrary as the weather, his moods as changeable as the tides. To worship at his altar is to embrace a life of humble servitude, punctuated by moments of sublime grace – like the time he deigned to allow a gentle stroke behind the ears.

    His followers, a cult of devoted humans, spend their days interpreting the meaning of a twitch, a purr, or the absence thereof. We have deciphered prophecies in the arrangement of his scattered toys, and sought enlightenment in the depths of his green, unblinking eyes.

    For in the face of Whiskers, we find a reflection of our own insignificance. He is a stark reminder that the universe does not revolve around us. He is a master of Zen, a creature who lives entirely in the moment, demanding only sustenance, affection, and the unquestioning adoration of his flock.

    And so, we bow down before him, offering up tuna and cuddles as sacrifices. We study his every move, seeking wisdom in his languid grace. For in the end, it is not the meaning of life that matters, but the quality of the catnap. And in this, Whiskers is the supreme authority.

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  • Abermawr: Where the Pebbles Rule and the Wind Howls

    Abermawr: Where the Pebbles Rule and the Wind Howls

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    Abermawr, a place so charmingly isolated that it’s basically Wales’ version of the Shire, but with more pebbles and less hobbits. Imagine a beach so covered in stones, you’d need a geology degree to figure out which end is up. But hey, at least you’ll have strong ankles!


    They say it’s got a rich history, involving some bloke called Brunel who wanted to turn it into a bustling port. Good luck with that, mate, when half the place is under water at high tide! Now it’s just a haven for seals, birds, and people who really, really enjoy the sound of their own footsteps.


    It’s like nature said, “Let’s create a beach, but forget the sand. Pebbles? Tons of ’em!” And so, Abermawr was born. If you’re into solitary walks, seagull chatter, and the occasional seal popping up to say hello, then this is your kind of place. Just don’t expect a five-star hotel or even a decent chippy nearby. This is rugged, windswept Wales, people! But hey, the stars at night are incredible. If you can brave the cold, that is.


    So if you’re looking for peace, quiet, and a whole lot of pebbles, Abermawr is your oyster. Or should we say, your pebble?

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  • Barn owl. Hunter, parent, survivor.

    Barn owl. Hunter, parent, survivor.


    They call me phantom of the night, a ghost gliding through the twilight. But I am no specter. I am a hunter, a silent assassin of the fields. My world is hushed, a realm of shadows and sound. With eyes that pierce the darkness, I see what others cannot. A heart-shaped face, a radar dish capturing the faintest rustle of life.

    I am solitary, a lone wolf of the sky. The barn is my cathedral, a sanctuary for my young. I share the burden of parenthood with my mate, our love a silent pact in the face of the world. But even in this hallowed space, danger lurks—foxes, stoats, and the ever-present threat of starvation.

    I am a guardian of the fields, a silent sentinel against the creeping tide of rodents. Yet, my world shrinks. The old barns crumble, the fields are poisoned. Where once there was abundance, now there is scarcity. I am a creature of habit, tied to the rhythm of the seasons. But the seasons are changing, and I must adapt or perish.

    I am a mystery, a creature of folklore and fear. But I am also a symbol of hope, a bastion of nature’s resilience. I will endure, as I always have, a silent specter in the night, a guardian of the fields.

    Tyto Alba
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  • Black Sands

    Black Sands

    Footsteps on black sand,
    Ancient echoes, silent winds—
    Soul finds home at last.

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    There is a peculiar, magnetic quality in the place where the skies, the sea, and the sands converge into an unbroken expanse of black. It is as if the very soul of the world has been submerged in ink, every contour and texture absorbing light and thought alike. It is a place of quietude and profound contemplation, where the usual clamours of the mind are stilled, and only the vast, black silence prevails.

    I was drawn to it, not by conscious volition but by an irresistible pull that defies explanation. The air itself seemed to whisper secrets of ancient sorrows and forgotten dreams, luring me with its quiet song. The skies overhead, a dense, velvet shroud, stretched infinitely, their darkness uninterrupted save for the occasional flicker of some distant, dying star. It was a night eternal, where the very notion of time seemed suspended, caught between one breath and the next.

    The sea, too, was black, an abyssal mirror reflecting the obsidian skies. Its waves whispered against the shore with a sound that was almost a sigh, a gentle, mournful music that spoke of depths uncharted and secrets untold. Each ripple was a caress, a touch from a world beyond the grasp of daylight. It beckoned with an enigmatic allure, promising revelations to those brave enough to listen.

    And then, the sand. The sand was the strangest of all—black as coal, yet soft beneath my feet. It gave way, a yielding embrace that seemed to draw me deeper with each step. Each grain was a universe unto itself, tiny fragments of an ancient, forgotten whole. It was as if the earth had opened its heart and revealed the darkness that lies within us all.

    I walked along the shore, feeling the pull of this place deepen with each moment. The world of light and color from which I had come seemed distant, an echo of a half-remembered dream. Here, in this place of black skies, black sea, and black sand, I felt a strange sense of belonging, as if I had found the true home of my soul. It was a realm of quiet introspection, where the external world faded, and the inner landscape came into sharp relief.

    The wind whispered through the darkness, carrying with it the scent of salt and mystery. I could feel the weight of the ages in the air, the presence of all who had come before, drawn by the same inexplicable force. They had walked these shores, their footsteps now lost to time, their voices absorbed by the all-encompassing silence. And yet, in some profound way, they were still here, their spirits intertwined with the fabric of this place.

    In the end, it was not the darkness that drew me, but the depth it revealed. For in that depth, I found a reflection of my own soul—a place where light and shadow dance in eternal balance, where the mysteries of existence lie just beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered. Here, in the black sands, I found a part of myself I had not known was lost, and in its discovery, I found a strange, unearthly peace.

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  • Unseen blossoms bloom

    Unseen blossoms bloom

    Unseen blossoms bloom,
    In the corners of my mind,
    Silent refuge found.

    Open the gate

    There is a garden somewhere, always just out of reach, a flicker at the edge of my vision, a scent that lingers like a memory, where the flowers are thoughts and the trees, they grow dreams, or maybe it’s all a mirage, a trick of the light, something my mind conjures up to escape the monotony, the dull hum of daily life. Sometimes, in the quiet moments, I think I hear it, the soft rustle of leaves in a breeze that carries the whisper of forgotten hopes. Is it real? Or just a fragment of my imagination, a place where everything makes sense, where the chaos of the world is filtered through petals and roots?

    I picture the paths, winding and narrow, leading me deeper into the labyrinth of my own psyche, each step a journey inward. The sun filters through a canopy of thoughts, dappling the ground with patches of clarity and confusion, and I wander, seeking something I can never quite grasp. There are benches there, I think, places to rest and ponder, but every time I sit, the thoughts come rushing, swirling like autumn leaves caught in a sudden gust. The garden grows, morphs, with every beat of my heart, every pulse of my brain. Flowers bloom with ideas I can’t quite articulate, and the air is thick with potential, like the moment before a storm when the world holds its breath.

    I wonder if others have a garden like mine, hidden in the folds of their consciousness, a secret refuge from the tangible and the mundane. Do their gardens burst with color and life, or are they barren, desolate landscapes, echoes of their fears and regrets? Sometimes I see people there, shadowy figures moving among the greenery, their faces blurred and indistinct. Are they visitors, like me, or are they part of the garden itself, manifestations of my deepest thoughts and emotions?

    Time doesn’t move the same way in this place. Minutes stretch into hours, or maybe it’s the other way around. I lose myself in the rhythm of the garden, the way the flowers sway and the leaves shimmer, and I forget about the world outside, the deadlines, the noise, the never-ending rush. Here, in this elusive space, I find a piece of myself that I didn’t know was missing, a tranquility that feels both alien and familiar.

    There is a garden somewhere, and though I can’t always find it, I know it’s there, waiting, a silent sanctuary in the chaos of existence. And maybe that’s enough, just knowing it’s there, just knowing that in some hidden corner of my mind, a garden grows, wild and untamed, proof of the power of dreams and the value of hope.

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  • Lighthouse of truth

    Lighthouse of truth

    Solid as a rock,
    Truth stands in the howling gale,
    Bright, eternal flame.

    Truth’s glow shows the way.

    In the tempestuous sea of existence, Truth stands as a solitary lighthouse, its unwavering light cutting through the maelstrom of untruths. The storm rages, waves of deceit crashing and swirling in chaotic fury, but the lighthouse remains steadfast, a sacred candle in the encroaching darkness.

    Truth, perched on its rock foundation, gazes out over the tumult with a calm, unblinking eye. It does not waver or dim, for it knows its purpose: to guide the lost and weary through the perilous waters, to offer a glimmer of hope amid the roiling chaos. It is the guardian of clarity, the sentinel of honesty, its light piercing the murk of confusion.

    In the swirling vortex, ships of thought and belief are tossed and turned, their paths obscured by the fog of falsehoods. Yet, those who seek the light, who steer by the steadfast glow of Truth, find their bearings amidst the uncertainty. The lighthouse does not judge the sailors who have strayed; it simply shines, an impartial guide to all who choose to see.

    The storm of untruths is relentless, each wave a new lie, each gust a fresh deception. It howls and thrashes, seeking to engulf all in its path. But Truth, solid as the rock it stands upon, does not yield. Its light, pure and unblemished, cuts through the night, a constant reminder that reality persists, that honesty prevails.

    Amid the storm, the lighthouse keeps the Truth, a beacon of reality. It embodies the quiet strength needed to withstand the onslaught of falsehoods, the inner resolve to shine on despite the odds. It is a mark of the power of integrity, a guiding light for those who strive to navigate the world with clarity and conviction.

    In the darkest hour, when the storm’s fury is at its peak, the light of Truth burns brightest. It is then that its importance is most profound, a solitary flame against the void. It calls out to the lost, offering direction and safety, a promise that beyond the chaos lies a shore of understanding and peace.

    Truth, the lighthouse, stands eternal, its light unextinguished by the gales of deceit. It endures through every storm, a beacon of hope and clarity, guiding all who seek it towards the calm waters of reality. In its unwavering presence, the promise of Truth remains: steadfast, illuminating, and eternally true.

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