It's Out

Hello,  I mentioned in my previous post that I am releasing a new anthology called,
'A Walk In Chaos' I finished working yesterday, formatting, reformatting and plenty of other tedious things that unfortunately go with the territory. It is however, all done, and is available in kindle format and should be out in paperback before the week is out, as soon as it is I'll let you folks know. I can now get down to the business of creating the other book I spoke of yesterday, I haven't thought of a title yet so if anyone has any ideas please feel free to comment, I may not use them but at the very least I'll create a top ten. This is assuming of course that anyone at all comments, people seem to come, read and leave, which is absolutely fair enough. It is at this point that I would actually like to thank you all for visiting so often, it's something I enjoy immensely and I sincerely hoe you do too. As always I'll keep you posted as to the progress of the 'Untitled As Yet Book' and I hope you enjoy sharing in it's ups and downs as much as I will, that is of course once it's done, and I'm looking back at it, instead of tumbling in the usual madness that presents itself whenever I get locked into a project.
Should be fun.

Peace In All

A new Book

Hello, I've been writing a new anthology, or rather, writing poetry as I always do and the things I think folk will appreciate I've turned into an anthology. I got to thinking of what people may appreciate in a literary sense and it occurs to me that I should publish my blog in paperback, you guys seem to like it and there are many folk out there such as myself who prefer the feel of a book in hand. I've toyed with the Idea before now and never really done a great deal about it, however after making some inquiries as to the popularity of such a book I have decided to go ahead with it. I'm not just going to copy and paste the whole thing and have it printed, no, instead I'll be adding notes along the way, using the months as chapters and the years as parts. It's been interesting to look back over the things I've written and painted or photographed and see the changes there have been along the way. I've never really mentioned it before but when I started writing my blog I was two years along the road to recovery from illness, I'm fine now, and feel incredibly lucky to have been given another shot at things. I was far to zealous a fan of drinking back then, way before I published my first book and way before the blog. My last rampant spree of the madness involved wandering around Europe with a journal and several bottles for company in 2011. The writing helped, I'm a firm believer that a pen and some paper is the best psychiatrist going, far cheaper too. The emotional release gained from expressing yourself artistically and the freedom it brings and thus, the benefit to the soul, cannot be measured.  I've always written but it wasn't until I became myself again that I realised I could not only enjoy what I do but possibly help in some small way, even if it's just a photo of mine brightening someones day. Even if it is just 'one' person. It's going to take a while to put together and I'll keep you updated as to it's progress, I may even include this post and some of the posts along the journey as the last pages...what a bizzare feeling, writing that which  will be written? Anyway, until then I hope you enjoy the ride too, and the anthology I'll be releasing in the next few days is called    'A Walk In Chaos'   which will, as usual be available through Amazon, blah, blah...you know the rest.

Peace In All

My Brother's Art

All art comes from the same essence

The horror, beauty, feeling and sense of the world around us

As artists, it is tattooed to our eyes and lips

For all to see and hear

 It is who we are 

It is what we are

The most beautiful people I have known

Wear their art tattooed to their hearts

It is only when stirred by the world

When deeply moved

That we cannot help but hear their great hearts beating

©David Nickle Read 2014

Yesterday Shadows

Caged in feral thought's blind chasms

Stark reality's border descends

Awash with leaden fool's gold whims

Covering my naked form with soulless perspective

Tactile delusions run in winds of forced creativity

Contrived art spitting in the eyes of their painters

Given still life without truth they rebel

Brush stroke's hatred leaching from gallows' canvas

Cracked stains of futile blood

Adding validity to the oil murdered scene

Don't paint me without truth

Or you'll paint only my yesterday shadows


©David Nickle Read 2014

Peace Pheonix

Stark situation's dark reeling mind fire

Blazing uncontrolled

Forest of burning thoughts beget their own wind

Canopy of sanity

Chaos emblazoned vortex of crazed taunting falling flame

Free reined momentum gathering insanity's terrifying pace

Grasping for stone simple semblance

Finding ice within the pyre

Cool smooth uncomplicated understanding

Lucid hands of desert rain snatch you from inferno's grasp

Lays you down resting by still crystal misted waters

Lush verdant foliage

It's soft womb like embrace stroking the hair of terror's child,

Slowly softly drifting sleep

Dreaming quiet stillness

Rasping breaths of gasping panic 

Ceasing gently calming deep

The only sound your breathing harmony

The wind

Swaying meadow's waves of grass

Touching light within peace

©David Nickle Read 2014

Temples Of The Painted Mind: Sacrificial Ink

Temples Of The Painted Mind: Sacrificial Ink: You must strive for perfection, minds lashed by the whips of yearning, something foundation shaking, consequence to self be damned. ...

Sacrificial Ink

You must strive for perfection,

minds lashed by the whips of yearning,

something foundation shaking,

consequence to self be damned.

You must be epic souls personified by your lives,

otherwise you'll just exist,

something to immortalise,

some crucial tale's new twist.

You must be living contradictions,

to walk as giants with humble footprints,

something to inspire the lost,

your art stealing the senses.

You must capture thought,

forging light in a furnace of burning life,

something that cannot be twisted,

spinning the coin to sphere blind both sides.

You must be yourselves all the while,

being actors away from the stage is the world's madness,

something bound by truth's pain,

relevance of past, present and future.

When I say you I mean but a few,

they know who they are,

those who toil while others sleep,

humble altruistic souls,

giving everything to give,

imparting beauty through their art.

We are born perfect,

as we grow we are given to believe,

that we are intrinsically wonderful,

when we think this,

we are not...we are intrinsically flawed,

with much sleeping potential,

we become wonderful,

by living our lives  once more.

©David Nickle Read 2014

For Those Who's Words Lift Us

Beech tree crook pools,
the poet's mind,
trickles of prose escape,
dried in Woodland's shade,
dappled Field Fair feather's light,
the eye of readers blind,
words that drift to mist.

Such is it's need for Summer Storms,
these pools might overflow,
where rivers of poetry flow in bark canyons,
verdant leaf light burning bright waterfalls,
cascades in miniature,
filling root ringed Fairy pools,
reflecting Rainbows of a passing gift,
here we readers drink,
refreshed in Soul.

Rain passes once more,
Beech Tree crook pools hidden high,
saved for those who sup the source,
only reached by those who fly.

The Encore's Tear

Curtains rolling in the wind,

reeling billowing waves of lace salutations,

greet heavy eyed thoughts of slumber,

caressing the frantic pain of day's chaos.

Harbour town's dark hour hymns drift through Georgian windows,

lifting invisible dust of Ghost's memorial muse,

setting the scene of the dreamer's stage,

Seagull crying hushed curtain calls,

he's about to sleep,

take your places,

centre stage.

Lace lapped windows morph to fluid scarlet satin,

tired lights stoop lazily down,

eyelid's Moonlight fluttering last glimpse,

silence...the show begins.

Curtains drawn slowly dusting a line across idea worn boards,

revealing the ethereal pantomime's lucid madness,

crazed distorted faces mirroring true sight's reflections,

folk of the dreamer's disappearing reality,

rubber smiles he passed in grey city's pretentious real world act,

smiles that snap tight shut in lines of climatic greed,

when you're not looking licking lips.

Upon his vast unconscious stage,

Angels dance among paper fiends,

unnamed colours lighting blessed footsteps consuming shadow,

tracks of the spirit's waltz.

Here his mind is healed,

scorched flesh carry mortal scars,

a soul carries only being,

washed in a dream's self cleansing aura,

soothed by subconscious balms of effervescent laughter,

warming as the Desert morning's Sun.

Dawn's light stirs the curtain,

cracked eyes swallowing blue endless skies,

Bird's high chorus swirl in melodies,

wrapped around notes of horn crying boats,

and here our dreams will linger,

brushed across the waking world to paint first inspirations,

but still the Dream...encore,

one more dreams the encore's tear,

one more waking fear,

encore.

©David Nickle Read 2014