poem

Callum Featherstone

Once, by the Mountainside

In Tibet, where a lonesome shepherd
held aloft his pointed staff of hope.

* Once, by the mountainside.

And, wished for a family
upon Heaven’s pedigree

unto — a flock of stars.

Once, with regret, within the jebel was a leopard
that from tangled tusks on antelope
was paint expansively
with dusky, camouflaging scars.

A wooden cudgel,
rod, shillelagh
carved with a galaxy’s belief.

Can prove enough
protection ably
to break a mountain leopard’s teeth.

Once, by the mountainside.

For, while the herdsman’s
back was turned
through the bushes
crop did creep.

That mountain leopard’s
hunger spurred
on by rustling
starry sights of sheep.

As the cosh, it clubbed and clanged
a panther’s chime, soon mute
rang out with spirit’s rise.

Once, by the mountainside.

A proud and deadly beast, defanged
round a neck, was loot
for havoc’s hollow prize.

Now, protected sheep, they graze.
Their herd it crowds and multiplies.
Like shadow-puppet-strings
cast o’er scornful campfires burn
tell of his legend — solitary.

Whence a brood’s lives were stole
belonging to the pard.

Where twin infant panthers gazed
with empty mouths and eyes.
Reflects a Shepherd’s wish
as it is mournfully returned:

** ” རི་འདབས་ལ་གྱེས། ” ;

heard, wistful Heaven’s pedigree.

Embarked this leopard family
dwindled but for their souls.
Once, unto — a flock of stars.

© poormansdreams

* Snow/mountain leopard:
Panthera uncia (previously: Uncia uncia)
The genus name, Uncia, is derived from the Old French word :- once, which was originally used for the European lynx.

** Modern Lhasa Tibetan translation:
“Goodbye to the mountainside.”
རི་འདབས་ལ་གྱེས།
ri ’dabs la gyes
IPA: [ɾì tɛ̀p̚ la cʰé]

Callum Featherstone

the Dark.

Searching —
in;
the Dark.

Behind closed
eyelids.
Where silhouettes
become
equine arced
horizon’s
wide bids.
To dressage
unforgets.
Canter shadows
in
the moments
of our syne.
Incantations
of the
kin
we left
behind.
Coalescencing
with
the patterns
come
the night.
Inconspicuous
are guises
called, ‘the Dark’.
Behind those
closing, tired
eyes.
I gallop
towards a blink
in
ever’s memory.
I shall not
cower
at pinks, greys, and blacks
linked together;
emery.
When I brush
and tangle
with my thoughts
in
the mane
I charge on forth.
To the lushing
greenly meadow
of our
reverie.
This is
happening.
Yet, has already
happened.
From the start.
And, too, will happen.
At the end.

This is, truly, seeing.
This is, truly, being.

Searching —
in;
the Dark.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Keep Me Close

Keep me close.

Like, speechly toast.

Like, teacher’s notes.

Like, see-through ghost.

Keep me close.

When you’re making

all of your

wishes.

I’ll do my most

to bring your

premonitions;

true.

For you.

I’ll scour

the lands

the oceans

and the coasts.

Just, as long as,

like, treely host,

like, seas do boats,

like, beachy moat;

you
keep
me
close.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Water

Waking by the lakeside
where water walked
like a messiah.

A river takes in snake’s wind
hawk’s reflection
in the mire.

Liquor danced around
the ashen clouds
sickly somersaults on higher.

Cascading down
in fluid’s ribbon shrouds
silver sunk cerulean’s perspire.

Can you hear the liquid sanctify
all below in their desire?

Can you taste the juices amplify
the knowing font’s admire?

When the waters swell
their waying courses
will you wait with all damned liers?

Or, wish upon them well
like snowy horses
wavely crest’s fall before sand’s ire?

A dream I had said, “Break nigh
simply bend forked
by trident’s wetly wire.”

It curled crashing o’er forsaked eyes
a flooding torrent wrought
as I awoke by the lakeside
where water walked
like a messiah.


© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Lockerbie

Hearken to the whisper
Three-hundred feathers — falling
From inside the reminiscer;

Going down.

Amongst the heather
Where purple cushioned silver
O’er the broad landscaping vista.

As their wings fell like a kite.

Now the white’s amongst the heather
And the bright’s brought down to nether
They were flying home for winter.

But that winter lasts forever
In the hearts of those left never
By those last words spoke together.

Three-hundred feathers falling
O’er the town, the brae, the valley
Evermore each mourning’s tally..

Brings; three-hundred, fore — each night.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Rebels

And as the gale enchantress
Spoke her gusty spells
In leaf-blown words
Through branches.

A lake’s eye moved across
To follow her grey, dismaying skies
His brow was a mirrored, bandy cumulus
Furrowed at the ugliest day’s demise.

Whilst I wandered the rebel city
Without a pocket or pence
Nor a name to barter with. Free —
From burden, pay, lamp and sense.

Rich and poor’s ancient shadows
Contended for wealthy moonlight
‘Til flocks of silhouetted arrows
Brought piercing dawn’s
Shed new light.

Beggars huddled and bunched
Like laces in doorways, sleep
Pulling their hoods up to the morning
Adjacent to the snoring
Castle’s keep.
Their energy is too tied up
In knots to beseech
Their outturned fingers
And palms
Clasping bronze faces
For a silver peace.

Yet the scarlet-orange
Price decay
Of princely nights
Turned to pauper’s days
Once more round was paid
Beneath uneven ground
Where the rebels vanished
In pavements
Lain.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

A Cascade of Yellows

A cascade of yellows
came to follow
me today.
From
the
out
side
of a chest-
nut tree cover-
ing it’s bay. Although
it went unnoticed by
a multitude of folk.
The way it chimed
profusely I could
swear it to me
spoke;

“Here
my fronds offer
our platitudes in the
inked half of the year.
In the blondness is our
gratitude before they
sink unto the rear.
You will find
within
the


fall


that you’ve made a fallen friend.

And green beginnings
change just like flaxen leaves.

Yet do return
aft gloomy season’s end.”


© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Carnelian Jewel

Nighttime shadow thieves stole my gleam
Once upon a cerulean Moon.

They bobbed and weaved awash with greed.

With my one carnelian jewel.

A crimson and green festoon
Was it’s bed of leaves.

The sweetest berries I exhumed
To give comfort, ease.

While guile in eyes of theirs did loom.

My jewel is not a gemstone rare
Or, a precious piece of art.

But it means a lot to me in care
Because it is my heart.

Without it, I wander in aimless air.

Without it, I’m lost, apart.

Nighttime shadow thieves
Alight their maddest schemes
With the gleam
Tore from my chest away.

By spite in Adder’s teeth
Bites tight a damedest deed
In my dreams
Scorned poison left decays.

I’m weary, and I’m battle torn
From eerie, bent, grappled horns
That they used to pierce my slumber.

Unclearly in gravelled spawn
Their fearly, well-travelled cause
Cast grey ooze that steered me under.

I returned each night to retrieve my jewel
My torso agape and open
I was urged to fight with those twilight fools
That yearned to forsake me broken.

But I turned from spite and their actions cruel
I know they take from me a token
Of brilliant light which signifies renewal
Like, the beating ache in hearts awoken.

And, now, I see
Why they took my heart
For their eyes, they could not open.

Nor, their mouths feel light unspoken.

So, I let them keep
My piece of luck.

My carnelian jewel…

…we, together; brighten; darkness; stolen.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Autumntime

Greens have gone,
From foggy view,
Days are dust,
In darkened hue,
Hours vast light,
Now, dwindles, few.

Thronging sepia, scarlet, yellows,
Waylay, the walkway, steps unsettled,
Slipt strides skulk their creptly echoes.

Harvest comes to croon its yearly cast,
Dyeing embered leaves on weary paths.

Yet, the songs seem to taste,
Of cindered yore,
Like, a belly full of fire gone to war.

The ash in its haste,
Falls fret and sore,
Whilst the Tinder and the Kindling’s,
Flames burst fore.

And, I sit in burning meadows,
Neath black cloud,
Raindrops flit, a yearning sizzle,
Steams;

A shroud.

Covering our footprints with,
Falls, dusty, wet,
Entwined with blazing leaves,
Beckoned syne,
Taut mind — affixes hazy memories,
Reckoned, pined,
For joy’s while, betwixt mazes free,
.
From echoed;

Autumntime.


© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Cursed

Waters splurge.
Flowing out, from Her words.

Soaking in perturbed nerves.
So much so, Her verbs churn.

Waters break, unearthed berths.
No later. It’s the worst first.

She’s ‘well’ versed.
As the droplets fall down her cheeks below.

And, She’s wet through from her cascades.
Sweat, dew from her last waves.

Eyes are holes ’cause they have burst.
Cursed.

She’s cried her weight from her vast caves.
Dehydrate. Despite bay’s spate.

Her eyes are holes ’cause they have burst.
Cursed.

And, when they ask Her,
“How are you these days?”

All the while,
She smiles and says,

like, the rain;
“I’m fine.”


© poormansdreams