Anthony's Literary Lens

Blog

  • Black Sands

    Black Sands

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

    Tap to hear it on tik tok

    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.

    Tap to view my redbubble gallery.
  • 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.

    Tap to view my redbubble gallery.
  • 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.

    Tap to view my redbubble gallery.
  • 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.

    Tap to view my redbubble gallery.
  • 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.

    If you find this content inspiring and uplifting, consider supporting what I do. Buy me a coffee on Ko-fi.
    Your support makes a difference in my life and helps me create more of what you like. Thank you!
    Tap to view my redbubble gallery.

  • 🌸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.

    If you find this content inspiring and uplifting, consider supporting what I do. Buy me a coffee on Ko-fi.
    Your support makes a difference in my life and helps me create more of what you like. Thank you!
    Tap to view my redbubble gallery.
  • 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
    Tap to buy a print on søciety6

    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!

    Tap to buy a print
    Buy on søciety6

    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?

    Tap to view my redbubble gallery.
  • 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.

    Tap to view my redbubble gallery.
  • 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.

    Tap to view my redbubble gallery.
  • 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
    Tap to buy on red bubble

    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!

    Tap to view my redbubble gallery.
Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started