Anthony's Literary Lens

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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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  • Beyond the White Veil

    Beyond the White Veil

    The author tapped their pen against the worn notebook, frowning at the blank page. Outside, the hills of west Wales slumbered in an afternoon lull. They were supposed to be writing about wild hills, about the way the mist rolled in, swallowing everything whole. But the words wouldn’t come. Was it because the real hills outside looked so tame, bathed in a weak spring sunshine? Or was it because the very idea of writing about the wildness, the untamed nature of the world, felt utterly inauthentic?

    Preseli Hills, Pembrokeshire, Wales

    Pen searches for truth,
    Wild landscape in the mind blooms,
    More real than the mist.

    Anthony

    In the fictional world they were trying to build, the mist rolled in with a purpose, a living entity driven by some unknown force. It wasn’t the kind of mist that rolled in most afternoons, shrouding the valleys in a milky haze. This mist was hungry, it devoured the landscape whole, leaving only the skeletal outlines of trees and the ghosts of forgotten ruins.

    But here, in the real world, the mist ambled in, a lazy afterthought of a sea breeze. It did little more than dampen the enthusiasm of the ramblers, forcing them to pull on their waterproofs a little earlier. The author sighed. How could they write about a mist that devoured the world when the most dangerous thing the real mist devoured was a tourist’s picnic plans?

    An idea flickered. What if the wildness wasn’t in the mist itself, but in the way it exposed the wildness within the characters it touched? The author started to write. The first line came easily: “The mist rolled in, uninvited, as it always did.”  This time, the mist wasn’t a malevolent force, but a catalyst. It seeped into the cracks of their lives, revealing the buried anxieties, the unspoken desires. The characters, a young couple on a weekend retreat, found themselves arguing over neglected chores and unspoken resentments, their petty squabbles echoing in the muffled landscape.

    The author smiled. The wildness wasn’t in the mist, but in the way it held up a mirror to the human heart. And perhaps, that was a wilder thing after all.

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  • One Plant.

    One Plant.

    Plastic pot, real soul,
    Struggle in fluorescent purgatory,
    Bloom defies the gloom.

    Needs Nourishing

    You open the fridge. Same sad parade of limp celery and fluorescent cheese. Nothing that ever bloomed, nothing that ever fought for a scrap of sunlight. Pathetic. You’re surrounded by the walking dead of the grocery store, and you feel the same. A hollow husk shuffling through the fluorescent purgatory of your life.

    That’s why you need a plant. Not a plastic monstrosity gathering dust in the corner. A real one. Something scrabbling for life in a pot too small, with dirt drier than your dating prospects. It’s a metaphor, see? You gotta nurture that sucker, just like you gotta nurture the shrivelled husk you call a soul.

    Watering it becomes a ritual. A daily baptism by cold, hard reality. You can’t cheat it. You can’t drown it with neglect or smother it with love. It needs a balance, a tightrope walk between life and crispy death. Just like you.

    And then, maybe, just maybe, that crusty little constant pain in your side will reward you with a bloom. A defiant splash of colour in the beige wasteland of your existence. Proof that even in the most artificial environment, something beautiful can still struggle to exist.

    It’s a constant reminder: you’re not that different, you sad office drone. You wilt under fluorescent lights, crave nourishment, and dream of escaping your plastic pot. But with a little care, a little struggle, you too might just manage a pathetic bloom in the grand scheme of things.

    So go get yourself a plant, you desiccated excuse for humanity. Maybe watching it fight for life will inspire you to do the same. Or, at the very least, you’ll have something pretty to look at as you wither away.

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  • 🌸Take a Moment🌸

    🌸Take a Moment🌸

    As in William Wordsworth’s timeless verse, I found myself wandering through the vast expanse of my thoughts. Just as the poet mused upon a solitary cloud drifting aimlessly, I too ponder the intricacies of life and nature.

    In each petal, life,
    🌸Courage rises from the soil,🌸
    In each bloom, a sigh

    Flowers – these unexpected bursts of colour and fragrance, have captivated humanity since the dawn of time. We find ourselves drawn to their delicate forms, their vibrant hues that seem to defy the boundaries of the natural world. Perhaps it is their fleeting existence that gives them such power. They are a poignant reminder of the relentless cycle of life, death, and rebirth, blooming with an energy that seems to defy their inevitable wilt.

    Is it the velvety caress of a rose petal, the intricacy of stamen and pistil in a lily, or the heady perfume of a jasmine vine that speaks to our soul? Or is it something deeper, a connection to a forgotten past, a memory of Eden etched into our collective unconscious?

    Take a moment, dear reader, to pause in your hurried existence. Let your gaze linger on the beauty of a floral arrangement. Inhale the subtle perfume.  Allow yourself to be transported to a realm of tranquillity, a space where worries dissipate and the simple beauty of existence takes centre stage.

    What whispers do the flowers share with you? What resonates within your soul when you behold their fleeting splendour? Share your thoughts in the comments below, let us delve together into the allure of flowers. If you feel, write a blog and leave a link.

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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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  • Ridin’ High

    Ridin’ High

    The sun beat down on me back hot as a blacksmith’s furnace, but I didn’t care a jot. Not today. Today, my legs pumped like pistons, pushin’ that brand new two-wheeler down the dusty lane. My brand new bicycle! It gleamed like a blackbird’s wing in the afternoon light, the handlebars all shiny and the red paint still smellin’ fresh.

    The Old Family

    Da had surprised me with it just that mornin’. Said it was time I had a proper way to get about, seein’ as I was turnin’ twelve come Michaelmas. Now, twelve might not seem like much to some folk in them grand city places, but out here on the farm, it meant you were practically a man already.

    Our cottage, well, it ain’t much to look at in this picture, is it? Patchwork of tin on the roof, holdin’ back the worst of the rain. We don’t got much, Ma says, but what we do have, we make do with. There’s Ma, of course, lookin’ a bit worn ’round the edges these days. Look after five of us, she does, what with Da away workin’ on the big estate most days. And Auntie Gwen, blind in one eye but seeing more than most with the other, her sharp wit keeping us all in line.

    And there’s Gran, lookin’ stern as ever in the picture. Don’t let that fool ya, though. She’s got the softest spot for all of us, especially little Lily there in the middle. My sister, always got her nose in a book. On the other side of me is Elsie, me other sister – tougher than a badger that one, always bossin’ us about.

    But today, none of them mattered. Today, it was just me and this magnificent machine. I whizzed past the chickens scatterin’ like feathers in a gale, then down by the sheep field, pretendin’ I was a knight chargin’ into battle. The wind nearly took my hat, and I could almost taste freedom on my tongue.

    This bicycle wasn’t just some toy, mind you. It was a lifeline. Now I could help Da collect the eggs quicker, maybe even get into town on market days to sell some of Ma’s jams. It was a chance to earn my keep, to be a proper part of this family.

    As the sun begun to set, I looked back at the day and I knew this bicycle was more than just metal and wheels. It was a promise. A promise of a brighter future, of adventures waitin’ just around the bend. And with a wide grin, I pedalled on, my heart light as a feather.

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  • Finding Clarity in the Mist

    Finding Clarity in the Mist

    Mist veils the pathway,
    Through shadows and uncertainty,
    We walk with purpose.

    Anthony
    What Lies Ahead

    As you stand at the entrance of that narrow path, shrouded in mist, each step forward feels like a leap into the unknown. The trees, towering like guardians, whisper ancient secrets as their branches reach out, creating a canopy that obscures the sky above. The long grass brushes against your legs, concealing the ground beneath, reminding you of the uncertainties that lie ahead.

    In this monochromatic world, devoid of color, every shadow holds a mystery, every rustle a potential revelation. As you venture deeper into the mist, the path ahead seems to both beckon and challenge, drawing you onward with the promise of discovery while testing your resolve with its ambiguity.

    Just as in life, this journey through the unknown is not without its obstacles. The uneven ground beneath your feet reminds you of the unpredictability of the terrain ahead, while the twisting branches of the trees force you to navigate through their maze-like embrace. Yet, with each obstacle overcome, you grow stronger, more resilient, and more prepared to face whatever lies ahead.

    As the mist envelops you, obscuring the path behind and the destination ahead, you realize that this journey is not about reaching a specific endpoint but rather about embracing the experience of exploration and growth. Just as the path disappears into the mist, so too does the future remain veiled in uncertainty, waiting for you to step forward and carve your own path through the unknown.

    And so, with each step forward, you embrace the journey, knowing that while the destination may remain elusive, the beauty and richness of the experience lie in the journey itself. For it is in the midst of uncertainty that we truly discover who we are and what we are capable of, finding strength in the face of adversity and wisdom in the embrace of the unknown.

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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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  • My Elusive Dream

    My Elusive Dream

    Through ancient paths, seekers stray,
    Amidst the woods, where my dreams lay.
    With every step, anticipation looms,
    Lost in wonder, pure magic blooms.

    Anthony
    Bluebells and ferns

    For weeks, I’d been on the hunt. The elusive bluebell woods, whispered about in hushed tones by fellow nature enthusiasts, had become my personal grail. Everywhere I turned, the internet boasted photos of these magical glades, carpeted in a mesmerising sea of blue. The dream? To capture that scene myself, a vision of sapphire and emerald.

    The hunt, however, proved frustrating. One lead sent me down an old muddy farm track where I met a grumpy old muddy farmer. The fleeting window of the bluebell bloom was narrowing, and a sliver of worry began to gnaw at my resolve. Each failed expedition chipped away at my optimism, leaving me with nothing but wellies caked in mud and a knapsack full of disappointment.

    Then, on a whim, I decided to explore a barely-there track on the edge of a sleepy village. The rusty gate, its paint peeling like sunburnt skin, its ancient latch, which yielded with a satisfying groan, marked the entrance. Anticipation intensified, the air itself held the sweet promise of spring.

    Sunlight, which filtered through the ancient beech tree canopy, dappled the path ahead. Decomposing leaves crunched underfoot, their earthy scent mingling with the fresh, green perfume of emerging life. Primroses peeked out shyly, tendrils of ivy, like scrawny fingers, reached out from the gnarled trunks, and jewel-toned flies buzzed lazily past, their iridescent wings catching the fragmented light.

    The first hint of blue came not from a flower, but a flash of a blue tit flitting amongst the branches. It was a prelude, a tease of the main act.

    And then, there it was.

    Bluebells and beeches

    A gasp escaped my lips. The woodland floor wasn’t carpeted, it was engulfed in a breathtaking sea of bluebells. Their delicate, bell-shaped blooms swayed gently in the afternoon breeze, the blue contrasting effortlessly with the verdant young beech leaves. In that moment, my world seemed to shrink to this small glade, all my worries and anxieties melting away.

    Beside this breathtaking display, another patch of magic unfolded. Lush green ferns, unfurling their delicate fronds, created a textural contrast with the smooth bluebells. This wasn’t just a carpet of colour, it was a living, breathing artwork, a masterwork of nature.

    My frustrations melted away entirely, replaced by a profound sense of wonder. Here, in this hidden haven, I had found not just a breathtaking scene to capture, but a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. I suppose the photographs were a reason to search, but being here is what I really wanted. The elusive bluebells had revealed their secret, they had gifted me a memory that would forever be etched in my heart.

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  • Frozen Flight of Fancy

    Frozen Flight of Fancy

    White on white, a world subdued,
    Nature’s hush, a solitude.
    Swans like whispers on the stream,
    A frozen dream, a tranquil theme.

    Anthony
    It was a bit chilly

    This image depicts a tranquil scene of two swans gliding gracefully across a wintery river. The artist has captured the elegance of the swans with their long, slender necks and  pristine white feathers. The artist has used  subtle brushstrokes to depict the movement of the water as the swans glide effortlessly through it.

    In the background, the artist has rendered a  detailed landscape of trees laden with snow. The use of a subtle colour palette, with browns and whites, creates a sense of winter’s chill. The artist has  skillfully captured the way the snow  blankets the trees, creating a sense of peace and serenity.

    The use of light and shadow is  reminiscent of  the works of the Dutch Golden Age masters, such as Jan van Eyck or  Pieter Bruegel the Elder. The artist has  used light to  highlight the  whiteness of the swans and the snow,  creating a sense of  calm and tranquillity.

    Overall, the image is a  beautiful and serene portrayal of a winter landscape. The artist has  skillfully captured the elegance of the swans and the beauty of the wintery scene.

    Written by a proper art critic (promise;)

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