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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: storm

  • Mutant Ink | An X-Men-Inspired Battle Poem About Wordplay & Rebirth by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some writers pick up a pen. Others discover they’ve accidentally assembled an entire mutant power set.

    Mutant Ink is my love letter to the X-Men universe, where every ability becomes another way to bend language, twist expectations, and leave a mark on the page. From mind-reading and magnetic control to teleportation, razor-sharp claws, and storms summoned through rhyme, this poem turns familiar mutant powers into weapons of wordplay. The references are playful, the bars are sharp, and the name-drops are absolutely intentional.

    But beneath the comic-book chaos is something that reaches beyond fandom. Creativity is its own kind of evolution. Sometimes a line needs to be dismantled, a verse needs to burn, and an entire draft needs to die before something better can rise in its place.

    That’s where Phoenix comes in.

    Because the goal isn’t simply to write another poem. It’s to become something more through the act of writing it. Every revision, every failure, every spark that refuses to die becomes part of the next transformation.

    Call it mutation. Call it ascension. Call it poetic evolution.

    Just don’t stand too close when the ink catches fire.

    — Rowan Evans

    A poet wields a glowing fountain pen amid floating metal, a teleportation vortex, storm clouds, and orange flames as a fiery phoenix rises from a burning manuscript, symbolizing mutant-inspired wordplay and creative rebirth.
    Sharp lines. Mutant powers. Burning ink. Sometimes the poem has to die before the Phoenix can rise.

    Mutant Ink
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m not Walken,
    my name’s not Christopher—
    I’m stuck in the chair,
    like my name’s Xavier—
    reading your thoughts
    displayed on the page—
    ink laid—I bend bars,
    the way Magneto does.

    And my mind is sharp,
    like my lines are,
    It’s Snikt!—
    every time I write bars,
    words so sharp—
    they’ll cut and leave scars.

    BAMF!
    That’s not a sound effect,
    that’s just what they call me.
    BAMF!
    I never left, no other dimension,
    I’m still here, you’re trippin’.
    They say it’s teleportation—
    I say misdirection—
    look away for one second,
    now I’m somewhere else
    in the sentence—

    I ink storms, and that’s why I
    always start with the dryline.
    I’ll hit you with cyclonic rhymes
    from a twisted mind—
    do you know what happens when
    a Toad gets struck by lightning?
    The same thing that happens
    to everything else—

    and the sky turns Grey,
    it’s usually blue as my Jeans are.
    But that’s what happens
    when Summers mix with Frost—
    turn the heat up, Hellfire Club.

    When the heat gets too high,
    I don’t break—
    I burn.
    Call it evolution,
    call it ascension,
    call it the moment every line
    catches fire at once—

    I go full Phoenix,
    rising out the rhyme scheme,
    feathers made of flame,
    every word a rebirth—
    because sometimes the only way
    to finish a poem
    is to let it die—
    and rise again, stronger.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Gothic Bob Ross: Happy Little Blood Splatters | Rowan Evans | Neo-Gothic Confessional Poetry

    Rowan Evans

    ✦ Author’s Note ✦

    Art is a shadowed conversation between creation and chaos. In this piece, I explore the alchemy of patience and fury, the delicate balance between trembling reverence and untamed rebellion. Here, the mundane becomes macabre, and the act of painting transforms into liturgy. Let this poem draw you into the sanctuary where darkness is sacred, and surrender is an art form.

    Dark gothic studio with storm, blood-red paint, crows, candlelight, and surreal shattered objects – illustration for Gothic Bob Ross poem.
    Gothic Bob Ross: Happy Little Blood Splatters – Rowan Evans transforms chaos into art, painting shadows, storms, and raven whispers into a Neo-Gothic masterpiece of devotion and rebellion.

    ✦ Invocation ✦

    Come, children of ink and ember,
    step softly into the hours where the world frays at the edges.
    Hear the hum of candle flames, the scrape of claws on cobblestones,
    the whisper of wind threading through shattered mirrors.
    Let your senses awaken: the scent of wet asphalt, the metallic tang of rain,
    the hush of wings brushing shadowed rooftops.
    Breathe with me the sacred chaos,
    let your heart beat in rhythm with storm clouds and raven cries,
    and know that in this hour, creation itself bends to your will.

    ✦ Gothic Bob Ross: Happy Little Blood Splatters ✦
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I can be patient—
    but watch me lose patience.

    Go ahead. Test me. Push me.
    Please—
    twist me. Bend me. Break me.

    I’ll snap back, teeth bared, claws ready,
    painting happy little blood splatters
    next to storm clouds and crying ravens,
    the iron scent of rain heavy in the air.

    Yeah, I’m timid…
    but push me to my limits,
    and I bite.

    I mix shadows into my morning tea,
    steam curling like ghostly fingers,
    whisper secrets to the moon,
    and smile as the stars lean in close.

    Draw blood, right next to a happy little tree,
    Gothic Bob Ross with a palette of chaos,
    every brushstroke a confession,
    every smear a warning
    traced in smoke and midnight ink.

    I sprinkle ashes on canvas,
    watch them swirl like fog over abandoned graves.
    I teach crows to count my sins
    while rabbits nibble on forgotten bones,
    their teeth ticking like tiny chimes in the dark.

    Lightning forks across my horizon—
    I smile and carve a happy little slit
    in the edge of the sky,
    a touch of crimson for contrast,
    the taste of ozone sharp on my tongue.

    I stitch roses onto the night,
    petals sharp as knives,
    scent intoxicating,
    and hum lullabies for ghosts
    melting like wax on cold stone.

    I build castles of broken teacups,
    cathedrals of splintered mirrors,
    and in each reflection
    I see the grin of someone
    you really don’t want to know.

    Patience is a thread I hold…
    until it snaps.
    Then I am a storm with brushes for fingers,
    laughter like glass shattering
    over candlelight and cobblestones,
    every crack a confession, every crack a curse.

    So go ahead. Push me.
    Twist me. Bend me. Break me.
    I’ll bite back,
    paint that,
    laugh in black,
    and leave you a masterpiece
    you’ll never forget.

    ✦ Benediction ✦

    Go forth, children of shadow and creation.
    Carry the chaos in your veins and the ink on your fingertips.
    Let the brush of night guide your hands,
    the echo of storm and crow sharpen your senses,
    and the taste of rebellion color your heart.
    When the world demands stillness,
    remember the storm you conjure in silence.
    In your shadowed devotion,
    you are both artist and altar,
    and the masterpiece of your darkness will endure.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    Nocturnal Crossing | Rowan Evans
    “Nocturnal Crossing” traces the nightly voyage where two souls separated by oceans meet in dreams. A neo-gothic meditation on longing, devotion, and the sacred intimacy of the subconscious.

    Greed — 7 Deadly Sonnets | Rowan Evans
    ‘Greed’ reveals the hunger that is never sated—the clutching hands, the endless thirst for more, and the hollowness left behind. The third of the 7 Deadly Sonnets.

    To Be Near Your Flame | Rowan Evans
    A haunting meditation on love, longing, and the quiet courage of staying close to the one who sets your heart ablaze. Includes a benediction for connection and devotion.

    Like Lambs to the Slaughter | Rowan Evans
    A visceral, urgent poem confronting the dangers children face and the inaction of those in power. Like Lambs to the Slaughter is a call to awareness, empathy, and collective responsibility.