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

The Breath We Live

Vast unfolding consequence of exotic dreaming raptures,

fenced by burdened reality.

Escape artists flocking to chemically false annihilation of strife,

tortured by their intelligence.

Deepest penetrating roots screaming truth to delusional ears,

tomorrow, after fleeing darkness,

problems are worse,

compounded by revelry's regretful posing.

Realisation whips us to pace, running, running, 

then, too tired to sprint, too hurt to walk,

too grieved to trudge, too depressed to talk...we hide.

In dreamer's solace drifting hidden, 

lifted on spirit gilded ethereal wings.

Particle free matter of thought's science defying breeze,

transport us higher.

Sought in sleep the Monk's retreat,

subconscious absorbing answer's clues,

we fly, at peace.

Body's jarring mortal needs stir us from heavenly repose,

dragging upright muscle mechanism,

meaning forgotten movement, we're here.

Deep breath mirrors inner monologue,

reflective pep talker's shaving grace, we're here,

ready to flee again later.

Life, in absconding thoughts,

significance of which is mostly missed, holds many keys.

Those minutes by the bus stop Tree in dappled emerald magic shades,

Sun's crystal oeillade behind dancing leaves,

veins of their ancient hearts pulsing sap in rhythms we dreamt.
The mirrored world inside a raindrop's fluid shivers,
hanging from the tip of a grey city's black umbrella,
how small yet large we are in thought,
such messages painted on water's dripping gallery.
The feather floating through the frame of your gaze,
held aloft by invisible forces that fundamentally scream, "I'm here,"
by just lifting the hair on your arms as it catches that feather symbol freedom.
Elusive glimpses of oneness,
as there you stand suited for your day in the song of the western wind...
here is your reality without constraint,
free from needs to chemically taint,
here is life,
to breathe and understand that breath,
to be filled with this,
 in each and every moment hence forth.
To live, is never to run and hide,
such is but existence,
 all things make all things turn,
live,
to be alive.

©David Nickle  Read 2014
 

Wasteland's Of The Mind

Heaving sand dune's desert presence, 

sky's ancient eye, beating backs,

molten fists of indiscriminate fire, 

punishing the trudging ones.

Disobedient of common sense, 

mad dog's dead bleached bones,

Englishmen taking photographs with

vapourising finger's click,

dust blown voyeurs blend with innate

taboo's ocean.

Tourists lay tragically sweating grease

from dying skin,

sunglasses reflecting their two weeks 

allocated time to be unknown,

mysterious fortnight.

Returning drones play back

the memory reel,

disturbed by smiles,

again they're gnashing petulant  savages,

existing in sweat soaked,

sand blasted,

drunken beach haze by gone days.

Roiling theatrical spectres,

now new nation ghosts,

society phantasmagoria,

 plague of town's lying delights,

television junkies shooting up the news,

plastic grinning anchor men,

a favorite pop opiate...

That or imagined blood,

drinking violence on the rocks,

metal bars cooling shame's temperament, 

handcuffing will to greed,

soul chained to lust and fear tied to love,

convinced that feeling needs a cure,

productivity of blood tax pure.

Outside our circus,

The White Face Clown beckons,

"Come on in folks,

step from the womb,

there's plenty of cells inside this tomb,

come...here's your certificate of mortality, 

you get another when you die,

but we're keeping your body."

Now a monetized corpse,

for your carcass they vie,

vultures studying a bloody machine,

pulling tendons of lifeless fingers,

quizzical looks from eye to eye,

limp hand dropped on the flesh operative's slab,

idiotically still...puzzled.

Spirits look down through a tear filled sky,

watching the grains of the sand dunes die,

as man becomes a desert,

a wasteland of the mind.

©David Nickle Read 2014

Our Collective Web Of Fear...Stop!

Our Collective Web Of Fear...Stop!

 Wisdom tearing knife edge skin of contemporary knowledge,

 Fear biting minds of those without acceptance of personal reality,

 Jaws dropping from cliffs of doubting existence scream at the world,

 From the wilderness giants stride to city's plastic morality,

 Stripping the skin from media's scaremonger whore masters,

 Confusion consumes the human condition's self digesting acid pools,

 Chaos rules the self blinding citizens of our race,

 Time devours our money lusting loins of ignorance,

 Bravery...is seeing it, then stopping to say..."NO MORE!"

 ©David Nickle Read 2014

 

On A Wandering Eve With Friends

On A Wandering Eve

Peace In All

All Photographs under & protected by Copyright ©D.N.Read2014

Poet's Thorns

Hello, as you may have read in my posts since the beginning of January I am writing about four small anthologies a month, then one compilation of the four. This enables me to keep the prices of the paperbacks to a minimum, £2.99 here in the U.K. Given that people regularly pay around £4.99 for a magazine that ends up in the bin, I think that's pretty reasonable, also it allows me to explore different aspects of life and the wide world in my writings in a way that I may not do if I was writing one large book. For those who want a large book the compilations of the four I write a month are still cheaper than average magazine price.

"There are many parts to a Rose, and like life, 

some parts hurt but are never the less a fundamental part of our existence,
these writings reflect that principal"     
D.N.R.

My latest is called;

Poet's Thorns

Available on Kindle now!

Available in Paperback now !

Coming Very Soon But Slightly Delayed Due To
The Fact That Inspiration Is A Fickle Thing At Times;

Poet's Flower

http://amazon.com/author/d.n.read

Here Is A Page With A Link For My Books/Now I can Get Back To Writing Other Stuff Here Too

http://amazon.com/author/d.n.read

Peace In All

The Anthologies

Hello, I have recently written two more books of poetry, the first is called "A" after the title poem, and the second is called 'Verse's Mantle'. They are both fairly short books but as always I wrote them as the muse came and from the heart and mind, they are both available at:
 http://amazon.com/author/d.n.read
I am planning on releasing a new one fortnightly, maybe more, when inspiration comes it comes you know, but at the very least monthly. If you get them I truly hope you enjoy them, and some feedback from the public instead of critics would be more than welcome, good or bad. We cannot grow without constructive criticism I've always found. I'll never sell out due to pressure mind you, if I did my stuff wouldn't be worth reading. Happy New Year to everyone everywhere.

http://amazon.com/author/d.n.read

'Vespertine's Wander'

Paper Back
and Kindle
Out Now!

'The Ridgeway First'

Out On Kindle
&
Paperback

Also,
A compilation of my last four releases in one book, called;
Poems Of The Oaken Quill
Containing;
"A"
Verse's Mantle
Vespertine's Wander
The Ridgeway First

Available Now In
Paperback & Kindle

And Now
Poet's Thorns
Also available in paperback and kindle

Peace In All

25th Flourish

My latest painting, I did this late Christmas day, one of those hour long flourishes where you just have to create something, odd, I may use it as the cover for my next book of poetry.

Peace In All

Consider This

Hello, consider this; how many times have you heard or read on someones blog or anywhere else on the internet  for that matter, folk with the same skeptical tones in resounding unison say "Yeah but that's all people do ever do...talk, nobody actually ever does anything, they just complain"? Answer...quite a lot I'm sure. These people have a very valid point which I'll get to in a minute, but first, how many of you agree with this? Most of you yes, me too. This is of course true, people do complain a great deal whether they be the ones that rattle on but don't actually say a great deal or the ones that genuinely care about the world and wish to spread their message...because of the latter, I for one will keep reading. Now consider this; we have freedom of speech to a certain degree true, however if we say anything that  upsets the wrong or right people, depending on how you view these things, then we are quickly accused of inciting civil unrest or worse, when all we actually do is speak the truth in a stifled world  of half truths and injustice, we know we're doing the right thing, very noble I'm sure you'll all agree? Well actually, no, we're not doing the right thing, noble it is to be sure, anyone doing anything for the sake of a more unified and peaceful world can be nothing but noble (unless they're the nutters that think blowing up civilians is all in the name of peace, they can *#!k off, terrorism is never acceptable!) but unfortunately just complaining is what they hope you'll do. If you're on the internet doing what I'm doing now then you're not outside their door, you're not protesting in your thousands on the streets, you're just making noise and sadly they have very powerful earplugs. These places on the internet will always be invaluable for spreading the word but we need to combine this new technology with the ways of our Mothers and Fathers, you've all seen the footage of protests in the 60's and 70's I'm sure. If you want peace then spread the word faster than ever before via the internet, tell people of a march for peace, meet in your thousands, your hundreds of thousands, if you shut down a city through sheer numbers you'll sting those at the top where it hurts them most, believe me when I say, even a traffic jam of half an hour costs them huge amounts of money, so if we're on the streets baying for peace for days (and being civilized, you militant few) it will cost them a lot.
However, for those of you at the top who think I'm inciting trouble, think again, as you would have it, I'm just venting from the safety of my front room...sucks huh! Always a pleasure to play your game your way. Seeya! 

Peace In All

Remember, peaceful protest is the only righteous way.

Free Style Bought

Write free style for a while,
fire up blood of ink,
verse or two to bring a smile,
typing as I think.

Throw them out,
line them up,
whisper to keys,
filling the cup.

Overflowing,
hear heart beats,
wander wild words,
leaving your seat.

If these letters,
had a beat,
when you stood,
you'd move those feet.

I won't trap you people,
with  wayward tunes,
whistle while reading,
breakfast bowl tap spoons.

Invent your own,
up beat lick,
or tap it blues,
whatever sticks.

I have some strings,
I play so bad,
but I got lyrics,
so not so sad.

Go fire it up,
inside your mind,
here my words,
I hope you find.

Country lane,
town centre park,
even your dog,
digs poet's bark.

Down by the river,
shore of sea,
get you there,
set voices free.

While you're styling,
spare a thought,
for this free poem,
free style bought.

©D.N. Read 2013

Britain's Ancient Law (learn from the past oh government)

This day new born,
long living sun,
immortal smiling light,
new grinding gauntlet run.
Left limping country lane,
limping right turn town,
modern pointless must,
face returns the smoggy frown,
fumes of rushing race,
island struggles not to drown.
Morning news began vile muse,
I am become vexation's freak,
try not to light petulance fuse,
synonym's ill tempered pique,
argue licentia vatum,
anger's ill verse doth speak.
Pick up a paper,
put it back,
always somewhere,
someone's attack,
paper pushing hate dealers,
publicise some morals slack.
Happily then friends are seen,
many races of one nation,
hopeful thought begins to gleam,
this kingdom of acceptance,
Albion's ancient dream.
Here where multiculture works,
heed not scare monger fear,
crush intolerance with truth,
again our duty clear,
it's hate Britain won't tolerate,
this island's heart is dear.
So on this day that shines,
not all is as you see,
we are fired up and angry,
not with each other but with thee,
there is a line don't cross it,
or you'll see then what is meant,
by don't fuck with 'WE THE PEOPLE',
you're just a few in government,
true democracy must return,
lest from you all power is rent.
The fire of your own making burns,
anger with each other, just a vent,
make no mistake the tide will turn,
upon you our eye is bent,
law of our forebears will return,
ancient message, modern sent.



I am exercising my freedom of speech and not inciting rebellion.
Papers preach violence between faiths whose entire structures are founded on peace.
Christians, Muslims and nearly all other religion at some point speaks of  the acceptance of the beliefs of others, of respect between all regardless of race, religion, colour or creed, don't let the twists of greed sent by those in power to influence the true and original message of all of our prophets confuse you and turn you into what you are not, all people are created equal. The vast majority of us are more good than bad.
Peace, Love, Acceptance, Charity, Understanding, Brother and Sisterhood working to a common goal, a better way for humanity. Pride and the need to express personal and cultural opinion is fine as long as it does not become the sort of pride that leads to ignorance of others, hate for the ideals of others and the sense of self worth over others. Pride leading to vanity or pride leading to forcing your beliefs on others is in every faith a sin. NOWHERE does it say in ANY religion's teachings that it's a sin to respect the beliefs of others. You don't have to follow another persons beliefs to respect them. If they are reaching the same end by a different road, let them, live and let live. Great Britain, to all of you out there that think you own the place (I'm genetically proven to be of ancient British stock by the way, that means first nation British to any that do not understand) has been colonised since the dawn of mankind, the British public has been made up of the blood of this entire world for longer than recorded history, that is why multiculturalism works better here than anywhere else in the world, most of the British public know this and are proud to have been made strong this way, I would advise the trouble making minority to keep that in mind. 

Peace In All

Contemplation Of The Sands

Desert blown mystic mist,
tumbling sands of roving sun,
shadows tell your passing,
with dunes though never one.

The grain upon a lizard tail,
tales of reptile life,
brushed to killing hawk feathers,
gecko blood on beak like knife.

Soaring sand child seaward,
drop from thermal height,
roll among the mighty waves,
be part of oceans might.

Stuck upon a surfer,
sliding clean into the blue,
ride a wetsuit hanging car,
shimmer in sunshine I saw you.

Contemplation of the sands,
music of the traveled few,
captured second of the eye,
poetry's unraveled view.

©D.N.Read 2013


Peace In All

Serendipity Frozen

They gather high,
this frozen night,
in wind trees sigh,
just out of sight.

The scented air,
chilling bones,
the path we dare,
leaving our homes.

Daunting clouds,
rolling forth,
the first one seen,
by light of torch.

Water's wayward,
form crystalline,
white ice feathers,
natural design.

Whipped with wind,
under our peeks,
brim no protection,
faces they seek.

They bring our smiles,
a warm heart grows,
the dark nights bright,
each time it snows.

Foolish dark fear,
taken away,
evening's landscape,
seen as strange day.

We wander far,
fur stops the bite,
serendipity frozen,
in memory's sight.

©D.N. Read 2013


Peace In All

Hello, I hope you enjoyed the last painting I posted. Here is another. The 11th of November is on the way and as such it always makes me think and respectfully remember those who fell for their countries and those who continue to do so. I painted this, 'Where ever he goes the Poppy's grow'. Don't forget your poppy's good people.

Peace In All