Anthony's Literary Lens

Category: illustration

  • One Love

    One Love

    Morning storms through us,
    Midday scorches, hearts ablaze,
    Nightfall kills the flame.

    In the blue birth of dawn, when the world’s breath first stirs, 
    Our love was born, trembling, a whisper in the darkness. 
    The sky yawned, stretching its arms across the sleeping hills, 
    And in that still moment, our hearts were sewn together 
    With the silver thread of morning’s first light, 
    A bond as fragile and fierce as a spider’s web, 
    Glistening with the dew of promise and desire.

    The sun climbed higher, a golden god upon his throne, 
    And our love grew bold, laughing in the face of time. 
    We danced in the fields of youth, wild and unafraid, 
    Our bodies a blaze of summer’s fire, 
    Burning with the heat of a thousand stolen kisses. 
    Each touch was a spark, each glance a flame, 
    And we roared with the lion’s pride, 
    Believing the day would never end.

    But the sun, weary with its labor, began to sink, 
    And shadows crept across the landscape of our hearts. 
    The light softened, turning gold to amber, 
    And in that quiet hour, we spoke of dreams 
    And fears we’d hidden in the noonday glare. 
    Our love, once a roaring river, now slowed to a stream, 
    Gentle and wise, knowing the path it must follow.

    The evening fell, and with it came the cool embrace 
    Of night’s velvet cloak, wrapping us in its quiet. 
    We lay beneath the stars, our fingers entwined, 
    And the world, once so vast, shrank to the space between us. 
    Our love, now a whisper, echoed in the silence, 
    A lullaby sung to the fading light.

    And in the final moments, as the night claimed the sky, 
    Our love, having lived its day, sighed into sleep. 
    The moon smiled down, a mother to the dreaming earth, 
    And we, two shadows merged into one, 
    Became the night itself, 
    One love, one day, 
    Forever written in the stars.

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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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  • A Bird of Exquisite Taste?

    A Bird of Exquisite Taste?

    Have you ever seen a sight more captivating than a bullfinch perched amongst a cascade of cherry blossoms? They compliment each other divinely. The delicate blush of the petals, practically translucent in the spring sunlight, reflects in your breast like a masterpiece. You’re a feathered Monet, flitting from blossom to blossom, a tiny burst of colour in a world just waking from winter’s slumber.

    Bullfinch & Cherry Blossom
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    But listen up, you little charmer. That innocent facade doesn’t fool me for a second. I know your secret. 

    Beneath that adorable exterior lurks a truth as undeniable as the changing seasons: you’re a blossom-bud bandit, a destroyer of delicate dreams. 

    Here these cherry trees are, putting on a spectacular show, a celebration of spring’s arrival. They unfurl their petals, a promise of summer’s bounty. Tourists flock from far and wide to witness their fleeting beauty. And what are you doing? 

    You’re there, perched on a branch with the audacity of a feathered Robin Hood, stuffing your beak with the very buds that would become those breathtaking blossoms. You’re a horticultural highwayman, stealing the very essence of spring with each peck.

    Do you have any idea how much work goes into those buds, little buddy? How the tree meticulously stores energy all winter long, channelling it into those tiny packages of potential? 

    And you? You waltz in with your plump body and insatiable appetite, a feathered locust descending on a field of dreams.

    Look, I get it. Nature’s a cycle, survival of the fittest and all that. But couldn’t you just stick to the seeds that fall to the ground? Have a little respect for the artistry, each individual splash of beauty on display!

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    Petal rain falls soft,
    Cherry dreams devoured whole,
    Beauty’s sacrifice. 

    Anthony

    So next time you’re considering a blossom-bud breakfast, remember, you’re not just robbing a tree, you’re robbing us all of a fleeting moment of magic. 

    Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go enjoy the blossoms before they all become victims of your floral felony. Just try to keep your beak on the straight and narrow, alright?

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  • Greys vs Reds

    Greys vs Reds

    Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed scholars and squirrel enthusiasts, gather ’round for a tale as epic as the swish of a red squirrel’s bushy tail! Today, we embark on a journey into the fascinating world of our furry friend, the red squirrel.

    Red Squirrel
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    Imagine, if you will, a forest dappled with sunlight, where majestic oaks stand tall and mighty, and the air hums with the melodious chirps of birds. In this enchanted realm, roams the crimson ambassador of the treetops – the red squirrel! With its tufted ears and bushy tail, it scampers and frolics, a true symbol of woodland charm.

    But hold onto your acorns, my dear audience, for our red squirrel faces a peril as grand as any dragon in a mediaeval tale! Enter the villain of our story: the grey squirrel. Like an invasive army from across the seas, these grey interlopers arrived from North America, armed with voracious appetites and a penchant for outcompeting their red counterparts.

    Picture this: a red squirrel, perched atop its leafy throne, feasting on a delicious nut, when suddenly, a shadow falls upon the forest floor. With a menacing glare, a grey squirrel swoops in, stealing the prized nut with a swiftness that would make Robin Hood envious! Thus begins the saga of survival, as our intrepid red squirrel must outwit, outmanoeuvre, and outlast their grey adversaries.

    But fear not, noble listeners, for amidst the chaos emerges a glimmer of hope! Conservationists, armed with knowledge and determination, rally to the cause of our beloved red squirrel. They erect sanctuaries, plant trees, and educate the masses on the importance of preserving our native fauna. Together, we stand as guardians of the forest, united in our quest to ensure that generations to come may revel in the antics of these fiery furballs.

    So, my friends, as we bid a temporary adieu to our woodland friends, let us remember the moral we’ve learnt: that in the face of adversity, even the smallest of creatures can defy the odds and emerge victorious. And as the sun sets over the woodland horizon, let us raise a toast to the indomitable spirit of the red squirrel – a true hero of the treetops!

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  • A Moment of Rest

    A Moment of Rest

    Sun warms downy chest,
    Spring whispers on the breeze,
    Nest yet to be built.

    Anthony
    Spring is on its way

    Ah, that breeze feels glorious on my feathers! Just a tiny rest, that’s all I need. (Fluffs feathers) See? Much better. Though, gotta keep an eye out for those pesky hawks.

    Spring! Can you believe it? The days are getting longer, the sun a little warmer. Soon these branches will be bursting with leaves, and the best darn buffet of bugs a bird could ask for will be back in action. Gotta get that nest ready though, prime location by the old oak, perfect for morning sun. But wait, the feeder by the window, that family just refills it constantly, tempting… maybe a two-nest strategy?

    Then there’s the courting! Gotta find a mate with the flashiest tail feathers, strong enough to help gather twigs. Oh, and the perfect chirping tune, can’t forget that! Maybe I should practise that new whistle now… wait, what was I thinking? Nest building first, then wooing! Priorities, priorities! (I do like a bit of wooing though.)

    (Takes a deep breath) Okay, okay, calm down. One thing at a time. But seriously, gotta get started soon, don’t want to be late for the wormfest! Maybe a quick nap after all… just a short one, I promise!

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  • From Chuckles to Chills: The Strange Case of Coulrophobia

    From Chuckles to Chills: The Strange Case of Coulrophobia

    Looks friendly enough

    Step into my world, with a grin so wide,
    Where laughs turns to shivers, and fears reside.
    In the circus of nightmares, I’ll be your guide,
    With tricks and treats, on this dark carnival ride.

    Anthony
    “Welcome”

    In the colourful array of human fears, few evoke as much intrigue and curiosity as coulrophobia – the fear of clowns. From the big-top circus to the silver screen, clowns have long occupied a peculiar space in our collective consciousness, alternately inspiring laughter and instilling dread. But what lies behind this enigmatic fear, and why do some individuals find themselves gripped by it?

    To understand coulrophobia, we must first delve into its origins. Clowns, with their exaggerated features, garish makeup, and unpredictable behaviour, can evoke a range of emotions. For many, the sight of a clown elicits joy and amusement, but for others, it triggers a primal sense of unease. This discomfort may stem from various sources, including negative childhood experiences, exposure to frightening portrayals of clowns in media, or an innate aversion to ambiguity and masked identities.

    Psychologists posit that coulrophobia may be rooted in the uncanny valley phenomenon – a term used to describe the unsettling feeling elicited by humanoid entities that are almost, but not quite, human. Clowns, with their exaggerated facial features and exaggerated expressions, often fall into this eerie territory, leaving some individuals feeling unsettled or even threatened.

    Furthermore, the inherent unpredictability of clowns can exacerbate this fear. Their whimsical antics and exaggerated gestures may come across as erratic or insincere, creating a sense of mistrust or discomfort in those who crave predictability and stability.

    The portrayal of clowns in popular culture has undoubtedly contributed to the perpetuation of coulrophobia. From Stephen King’s menacing Pennywise to the sinister clown sightings that captivated the public in recent years, the image of the malevolent clown has become deeply ingrained in our cultural psyche.

    Moreover, the proliferation of horror movies featuring murderous clowns has cemented the association between clowns and fear in the minds of many. These depictions capitalise on our primal fears and exploit the inherent creepiness of clowns, further fueling the phenomenon of coulrophobia.

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  • Verse of the Night

    Verse of the Night

    Celestial poets
    Nightingales and blossoms dance
    In nocturnal light

    Anthony
    Nightingale and apricot blossom

    Amidst the moonlit embrace of silken night, the nightingales awaken, their melodic cadence echoing through the shadows of darkness. Each note, a delicate brushstroke on the void of silence, betraying the secrets of the sleeping world.

    Beneath the celestial glow, plum blossoms unfurl their ivory petals, a silent ballet in the moon’s tender spotlight. Their fragrance, a murmured promise of spring, mingles with the nightingales’ song, creating a sensation of timeless enlightenment.

    In this nocturnal ballet, the nightingales become poets, and the plum blossoms, muses. Together, they dance in the realm of dreams, where the fragrance of blossoms lingers in the air like verses penned by nature’s hand.

    As the nightingale serenades the sleeping earth, the plum blossom nods in silent approval, its delicate branches swaying harmoniously with the celestial melody. A nocturne of nature unfolds, a tale told in trills, warbles and gently whispering petals.

    Under the watchful gaze of the moon, the nightingales and plum blossoms become ephemeral poets, crafting verses that only the nocturnal hearts can decipher. In this moonlit reverie, their delicate partnership paints the night with the hues of beauty and quiet resilience.

    And so, the nightingales and plum blossoms remain intertwined in the embrace of the night, a celestial dance that unfolds when the world slumbers, leaving behind a poetic enchantment that lingers until the first light of dawn.

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