You May Remember

Hello, I hope you like the new layout, I thought a change would be nice. You may remember that I was writing a book that was essentially the contents of this blog in paperback, however due to various complications and, I'll be honest, the fact that it takes too much time away from writing poetry, prose and other bits and pieces, I've decided not to. If anyone was desperately waiting for that to happen please say in the comments section and if enough of you want it then I may reconsider. This does mean of course that I can get back to posting things on here that I think are worthy of your eyes & minds. Posting again very soon.

Peace In All

The Lord Didn't Giveth You The Gun, And He Sure As Shit Didn't Tell You To Pull The Trigger

The feeling's rise without thought's pattern
Confused medley of overplayed saddening sonnets
The heart becomes a beacon of fire
Where soul consumes the fickle scenes of temperate conviction
Care fleeing from the delicate hands that cradled the age's petulant prayers
Gone are the ghostly lips that vied to answer you
Mewing fools stirring their false cauldrons
Too intelligent now to plead ignorance
You must answer the once silent steps laying footprints alongside you
The Earth shalt shudder under the roots of God

Minds fearful twist in degenerate criticism Smirking at a word for being said
Forgiveness was written by the same pen
Tolerance was written by the same pen
Acceptance and brotherhood by the very same pen and yet...You mock?
So quick to judge are you not?
Consuming your time preaching religion's downfall
Forgetting it was simply written...it was individuals just like you who were blindly led
Who accepted the halter of the tyrants who twisted righteous peace
It was individuals who followed evil
Any one of you can pick up a book and see the good
But do you even try to?
Or do you hunt the excitement of wickedness?

It was simply written
Does blame lay with the author?
Does blame lay with the founder?
Or does blame lay with those who never question the tyrant?
So easy to blame the Priest and Vicar
To slight the Rabbi or Imam
Persecute the Monk or Guru
Is it so hard to look at one's self and say...
I was wrong to be led so
I should have read with love in my heart
But I looked to smite
I looked to revelation first
I incanted the passages of God's wrath before reading of peace?
Is it so hard to say to yourself
Wait, anger is so easy, I must read calm, then use my own mind?
Would it be so hard to be inspired by a holy book if it was not called Holy
Were that stigma not attached or it came dressed as Hollywood's Latest
Would you still so readily shun it?
Are you not capable of deciphering metaphorical reason?
Can you not just take the good?
Who's fault is it really
All these years of death?

God?

The Zealot?

Or the weak who followed without question?












From The Book 'Time To Kill'
©David Nickle Read 2014

Are You Being Fooled?

If you must buy worn jeans, buy them from someone who needs money not wants it

Blinded by the big topics
War
Famine
Disease
Economy
Poverty
Do you really think
Do you really think for yourselves

Where have all the little questions gone
Using your own mind to answer
Not what you're media spoon fed
Are things really this bad
Do we actually have to do this
Are we what they say we are
Who are we
Is there actually a problem
Something they don't tell us about
What don't they want us to know
This endless list
This obvious list
This easy answer list

How can you do it
The moaning ones
The groaning ones
How can you say it's hard
Do you not know
Is it ignorance
Is it because you're fooled daily
You buy things
Forgotten in a month
Where's my money gone

Do you need it
Or is greed the seed
Self destruction's instructions
Where's your mind gone
Can you not think for yourself
Does it not seem odd to impulse buy
Ah yes
Being impulsive is cool
I forgot while growing dinner

Silly me
Young old hippie
Bent out of shape by worldwide rape
I see a dick prodding your brains
Pleasure running down gold street drains
I see a world of fools freedom
I see you're convinced
So if you're free
Do what you want tomorrow
Understandably after work
One bright step at a time

Can you

Do you want to watch TV
Have you ever wondered
What's over the horizon you were born with
When did you last take off your shoes in the park
It matters not the season
You can return home and warm up
Buy season's clothes
Season treason
Guard against frostbite & sunburn yes
But you bought a jacket last year
Last time I heard
Adults didn't outgrow their clothes
Only fashion

Do you do it to impress
An old insecurity needing redress
Have asked yourself why
Without the answers you're  bred and fed
Without must do
Without must have
Without spend this
Without save for that
Without blind supposed to
Without everyone else does
Without everyone else doesn't
Without the television
Without cinema visions
Without other's decisions
Without predictable divisions
Without political intrusions
Without being told

When was your last original thought...

Have wandered up a country lane
Just to watch the sunset
Have you thrown stick in stream's race
Placing personal bets
Have you stopped your car
To smell a ploughed field
Have you sung nonsense aloud in the forest
Have you skimmed stones and laughed
Have you felt icey mud slip between your toes
Could you describe it
Have you laid naked in the sun lately
Have you eaten a Blackberry you've picked
Where is the last stone you kicked
Have done anything just because
Without thinking money
Without drinking money
Without eating money
Without sleeping money
Without pissing money
Going out without
Money...

I commend you to this endless list
It is yours to ponder
It is yours to answer
It is yours to add to
It is yours believe
It is your to discredit
It is yours to deny
It is your to hate or love
It is yours for free
It is yours just because

I can and so can you...

But the really sad thing is
We have the wonderful web
On which to freely air our grief
We think we're making a difference
Because everyone in the world is online
But if we didn't have this
Where would we protest
Upon the streets
Just where they don't want us
They've crippled us with our own freedom
They've silenced our voices
By ensuring we're all speaking at the same time
While we're all in our houses
Typing out our little difference to the world
We're not out there
You think we have our freedom...

Then why are we all obeying this quiet curfew?

©David Nickle Read2014

Peace In All

Your Language Needs You

OMG, FYI, IMHO this must stop!

Please Help Prevent Cruelty To Language

It's Not Too Late

SAVE A SYNAPSE

KILL AN ABBREVIATION

©David Nickle Read 2014

My latest

Hello folks, I hope you enjoyed yesterday's post, it certainly relieved the monotony for me, I love writing, typing however gets me somewhat agitated at times. It's fine though, I usually find that after a few days of clicking away I become used to it again and it stops annoying me, it's not as much fun as writing though. The other problem I tend to come across is the almost uncontrollable urge to add bits or take them away, they're hardly ever things I've not already thought of while still grasping pen or pencil, but the urge is still there, and as many of you will know, over editing, one last brush stroke or that extra something in whatever you do can sometimes be the unraveling of a whole piece. I hope I've managed to stay clear of such pitfalls with my latest anthology 'A Walk In Chaos' and as always, here is a picture of the book and a link should any of you feel the urge to own my poetry (then yours) in paperback, hope you enjoy it if you do.

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

Peace In All

The Secret Door - Picture and Poem

I've just created this piece, it can be enlarged obviously,

needed a break from typing,

mind numbing stuff,

hat's off to those who do it for a living, truly! 

Peace In All

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

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