Author: Callum Featherstone

Callum Featherstone

Three Little Words from a Father to Son

Those, three little words, from, a father, to son.
Take flight, like, the birds, in, the broad, midday sun.
Sprint, like, limbs, so absurd, after, starter pistol’s gun.
Like, Achillean heels, undeterred, tragedy kills them, for fun.

Those, three little words, from, a father, to son.
Crushed, by, hooves darkly furred, the words, cower when shun.
Fade into obscurity, unheard, like, unjocular puns.
Are lost, and, never return, like, miscarried orphans, or, runts.

Those, three little words, from, a father, to son.
Become, unspoken, reserved, weighing down, like, a ton.
The weight, weighs heavy, and, hurts, the shoulders, of, spiritual ones.
Creates, heads, bent, and, curved, as horizoned eyes, look, over yon.
For, blue sky, but, grey has emerged, now, the grey skies, are fading, to none.

An echoing remainder, leaves heart-shaped,
“I love you”s, beset, in wrinkles, on a face.

And, those, three little words, are, like,
the stubborn, fatherly stone, that’s unbled.

They whisper, “There’s, no peace, future, or, solace, in, loving words, to a son, left, unsaid.”

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Time, In Sum

Sometimes, I go, wander.
In worlds, of yesterday’s, yonder.
I fly, in the skies, under water.
I swim, in the clouds.
Above, lofty men, proud.
They look down, while we’re given, no quarter.

Sometimes, I retreat.
From the rain, snow, and, sleet.
In the hopes, I’ll be, no longer sodden.
I keep, a kerchief, close by.
For mankind’s, wept eye.
To wipe, the lonely tears, of the downtrodden.

Sometimes, I am, lost.
My compass, in frost.
The coldness in me, makes, a blizzard.
When, charting my course.
Winds rage, to storm force.
Casting fore, like, an Antarctic wizard.

Sometimes, I am, found.
Dulcet. Feeling, so sound.
My mind, dances. On, crotchets, and, quavers.
Underneath, my mind’s feet.
An audible seat.
To sit, and, sample, bold, rhythmical flavours.

Sometimes, I am, weary.
Sullen, sad-eyed, and, teary.
At, the thought, of mankind’s, destruction.
Wondering, where, it went wrong.
A lamentable song.
Plays on, through Compassion’s, abduction.

Sometimes, I am, jolly.
Happy, joyful, in folly.
When, my life, greets, mellifluous smiles.
Time, hearkens, unquickened.
Alive, ever-listened.
As, the worth, is resound, for that, while.

Sometimes, I’m aghast.
At, overcoming, what’s passed.
The stories, make, for bone-chilling, reading.
The graves, left, unmarked.
Make, my gravely, bones, stark.
And, a broken expression, all-revealing.

Sometimes, I do, wish.
For, a time, to flourish.
Where, we yearn, for one another, to grow.
So, the purposes, sown.
And, the wings, that have, flown.
All, can rise, to long-gloried, plateaus.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Lost-Connec-tions

To have, your etheral, heavenly, final-shot;
miss.
At, an, otherworldly, eternal-beckoning,
bliss.
Only, to; foolishly, unforgettably, flounder,
in, the all-pervading,
mist.
Is, an, outstretched, grasping,
hand, with, a broken;
wrist.

To hold, someone, you love, for, the final;
time.
As, they, slowly, succumb, to, a flattened-
line.
Hardens, a heart, in, outpoured,
ugly, concreting-grief’s;
bind.
And, makes, what, was, a good-heart,
egregious; emboldened, italicised, and; underlined.

To yearn, for, richer-knowledge, of, the spirit;
realm.
By, riding, bullet-trains, with, the devil, at, the
helm.
Creates, caustic, combusting, bonfires,
and, kindling, of, your inner
Elm.
As, the sorried, buffeting, scattered-ashes,
become, ubiquitously, able, to;
overwhelm.

To trap, for poorer, thirsting-souls, by, wanton;
ignorance.
Builds, bars, cages, prisons, upon, a land, of,
deliverance.
And, causes, a drought, in, paradise‘s,
bountiful, and, oasis-like,
wilderness.
While, lonesome-tears, provide, the lubricant.
For, apathy, begetting;
indifference.

In sickness, mortality, becomes, wizened;
pictures.
Screwed-up, and, crumpled, like, the pages, from,
scriptures.
An inability, to find, the balance, between,
apothecary, and, apocalyptic,
mixtures.
Pluming-smoke, in, rapturous-potions,
obliterates, all, longstanding;
fixtures.

And, in health, the prism’s, guiding-lights, are;
overlooked.
Like, the wise-words, of, holiness, spoken, by, a;
crook.
When, the crook, of, a neck, is, swinging, like,
a pendulum, from, a fisherman’s,
hook.
Welfare, cast, didn’t-fare-well, and, the farewell note,
quivers, on delivery, as, it’s read, and;
shook.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

A Telling Fortune

A fortune,
told, or, spent…

…has, many colours,
from; fuschia pink,
to, undulating,
mammoth-mountained,
hills of green,
to, shimmering,
chasms of gold,
and, all hues,
in-between.

A fortune,
wisely owned? Or, lent…

…to dullards,
won’t stop, to think,
while masquerading,
that, it hasn’t counted,
every bean,
and, hidden in,
those eyes, of old,
the coins, on lids, imbued,
unfareness seen.

A fortune,
buried, long ago…

…made by; currency,
inheritance,
or, everything,
you’d want to know,
are, all kept,
under, lock, and, key,
but, none, are found,
under, haloes,
or, in secrets, left untold.

A fortune,
scuppers, flooded souls…

…wrecked, by money,
the ring-ed fence,
bullion bars, that glow,
are, woefully inept,
to swim, in; cosmic seas,
they begin, to drown,
under, they go,
as, fortunes told,
ken, sinking, slow.

And, in; sparkly, shiny, final breaths.
They realise, the ugly truth…

…What proved; invaluable, until death.
Has; no value, in; universal sooth.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

The Poor Man’s Dream, Pt. 2

The poor man’s dream,
had, wealthy fields, at night,
but, nightmares, unserene,
flashed, their toothy bite.
The wealthy field of green,
silkwormed notions white,
and golden rays that gleam,
are trapped, in horseshoes, tight,
glued, under, farrier’s seam,
they yearn, for a rasp, of light.

The luscious grass, turned, hay,
is chewed, and, swallowed down,
by equine guts; decayed,
that, delect in poor men’s frowns.
The neigh-saying, nagging, bray,
is heard, for miles around,
the dark sky, cried, “Mayday!”
Rains lashed, the colour brown,
and, with nothing left to say,
dreams, in fawn puddles, drowned.

The nightmares, let loose,
come from, a deviled stable,
and, the farriers, in use,
sit at, the highest table,
looking down, at all, produced,
they smith, each, and, every, fable,
to fit, losing, and, winning shoes,
to hooves, that trample, and, disable.
Until, they finally, wrap the noose,
to necks, that succumb, to cable.

With no wealth, of which to speak,
to dream, or ponder, now, in death,
his body lay barren, like, the field of dreams,
his soul has no need, for worldly wealth,
farriers, and, nightmares, trot, and, creep,
to find, the poor man’s, hidden self,
he ascends, to paradise’s foggy breach,
climbs lion’s, cloudy manes, there, met,
with a roar, to farrier, and, nightmare, each,
now, free, he howls,

“Your devilish search beset,
for unbridled wealth,

will; end you,

in unaccounted debt!!!”

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Whitewashing

The uncredited, uncared for,
unsung, heroes;
noble, kind, and, unselfish acts.
Fade from sight, and, sound,
into obscurity,
like; a bum-note on Karaoke Night.

Antagonistic fake, plastic, white knight’s,
plume breasts, at round tables,
bedecked, in, platinum-plated,
silver-screened armour,
whilst, counting up, all of the zeroes,
on, starstudded, Hollywood cheques.

A milky, American audience,
cries, for seconds, and, encores.
They, all, scream, and, shout,
collectively, for, ‘More, more, more!!’

False narratives, are made;
tokenistic, faux-ethnic, clichéd,
along with, cult-enamoured attempts,
to; woo culture, by way,
of, condescending amour.

And, reality, is…

Cut.

The irony, has, killed, the protagonist.

Now, pale, sickly, snowy, whitewashed, avalanching; imitations,
slowly die, rebirth, and, infect,
the coffee-coloured plotlines.

And, the precious, Black, woollen yarns,
are, sheared, subjugated, spun, and, then sold. Enslaved, by, a contractual story, untold. From, the embittered, twisted hands, and, lips, of, the corrupt, directing,
Californian farmers.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

The Phoenix, called; Consumption

How big, has, the Phoenix, called; Consumption, grown?

Big enough, to fill, eight-billion caskets.
Plump enough, to fill, every pot.
Wise enough, to answer,
any question, should you, ask it.
Deadly enough, to kill, any myth,
dream, wordsmith, or, naïve romancer.
It smothers, all the people, of the world, with less,
and, their; untold stories, in a vicious, ugly bind,
betwixt; it’s fiery wings, and pluming breast,
and, with a beak of fury, pecks, their eyes out, blind.
Whilst, pecking, gravely, holes in every, single plot.

How far, has, the Phoenix, called; Consumption, flown?

Around, the planet, a multitude of times.
Sprinkling, holidayed tears, in tsunamis, of, €$£¥-shaped, misery,
like, wrathful; albino equines,
or, shipwrecking; Easter, Yule -tides,
from, blinkered eyes, that, roll back, and, forth,
with, undercurrents of currency,
that, lap, and, land upon egg-shaped shores.
And, as, misfortunate souls, are lost,
to, seas of disfavour, what remains tries to remain brave,
as, Consumption, caws, upon a giant, green wave, of, destruction,
and, revels, in, the tsunami’s death-toll, and, it’s, unreported costs.

How high, does, the Phoenix, called; Consumption, fly?

Always, in, upper-echelons,
and, at, eye level, with, ivory towers.
Looking-down, upon, wistful, wretched ones,
whilst, perched on the shoulders, of, those in power,
creating, a landing strip, of, the depressioned ones,
mixing, their, black, and, dogged woe, to make, tarmacadam,
and, alongside the runway, which runs, only one way,
the verges, serve as, a eulogising memorandum,
as, there, planted, are lonesome, bereft Lily flowers.

Why, oh, why, won’t, the Phoenix, called; Consumption, die?

It only, lives as long as, you, let it.
If you, feed it, it, will always, come back.
It only, lives as long as, you, let it.
If you, need it, your spirit, will rot; green
and decay, until, finally; turning to black.
We must, pluck, and, be rid, of, the feathers; golden, and, unabashed,
from, this; bird of prey-ing on the meek,
once, we’ve killed, the Phoenix, called; Consumption,
we, can raise, a dyeing tincture, called; Future’s Freedom, out of, it’s, ash.

Callum Featherstone

The Missing House

Written by Callum Featherstone   There’s a house missing, on the road you paved, in this bustling city, that is my heart.   It was home to all our reminiscing,  on the misty cul-de-sac, I’d wave, with knees, grazed, and, gritty, as you smiled, like an arc.   The beloved bricks and mortar, that held  […]

The Missing House
Callum Featherstone

One Hell Of A summer

Written by Callum Featherstone   The dying embers, of the summer-sun, lay, like barbecue coals,  underfoot. It’s been one hell – of a season, peppered; with grief-stricken – condiments,  and, gruesome – herbs. Parties, and, meetings, where sapient meat, became disturbed. Flame flashes rashers, shanks, loins, and, many rarer cuts. Heart-shaped burgers; bitten, burning, and, […]

One Hell Of A summer
Callum Featherstone

Gone West

Living…

…in a world, gone west-
wardly warped.
So west,
that we, had to, create our own.
Digital downloads,
of, final cuts, so sharp,
from keyboards,
to TV screens,
to mobile phones.

The blind mice…

…are wired,
twenty-four-seven,
and, the cheese, fills,
every rectangular box.
The WiFi speed, denotes,
your strata of heaven,
and, the text message,
has, fallen,
angelically, to usurp, the vox.

But, why, would we want,
to view screens,
over one another’s,
broken-hearted frowns?
It’s the same reason, the only time,
anybody, dares to dream,
is, with, a pillow beneath them,
to, cushion; coming down.

Generational Trauma,
is, a video-game, played out,
“In Real Life”,
since, nineteen-eighty-three.
And, we, are,
“virtually”,
all, virtually connected, now.
But, have, never been, further apart,
in, this; Internetted allegory.

© poormansdreams