poem

Callum Featherstone

In Common

There is more
in common
here
than not.

Crock, kettle, boiled pot.
Blackness after stratosphere.
And, after body’s stiffened rot.
Melancholy and the fear
when set upon by black dog.
Burst clouds over heading near.
Foot stuck in the bog.
Doomed days blurred, unclear.
The jamming of the cogs.
No end in sight but
that’s more common
than it’s not.

Yes, there is more
in common here
than not.

A vision, now, I can steer
and see blue skies over every plot.
The motor’s running easy, top-tier.
I’ve got my foot loose from the crop.
The rain is more like happy tears.
What I thought was a houndly leer
turned out to be a gaze from a log.
Happiness’ touch in the eyes of deer
has pierced straight through my fog.
I’m glad to be alive in sheer
rocket sensed uplifting agog.

Either way you look it here.

There is so much more
in common
between us all
than not.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Iron and Bronze

Reflections on.

An ancient past.

Of Iron and Bronze.

Look through glass.

Far in flames.

Betwixt fire’s wrath.

Molten cascades.

From a risen cask.

Taught to honour

The Sun;

Venerating His dune.

For Her calmer disposition;

They prayed to the Moon.

Each setting over rock-

stone henges.

And, the burial mound’s

vowed avenges.

Where sounds of crowds

proudly stretches.

To worship in

clovered hop

excesses.

Equinoxed

solstice.

And, lunar cycle.

In rocks exalted.

For future’s tribal.

Their props

were faulted.

In sutures vital.

Stone boxes haunted.

By ruler’s title.


© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Thank You, Hummingbird

Travelling toward; aglow.

A Hummingbird of fire,
hanging wingly snow,
that obliterated ire.

It delivered me — a message,
in envisioned freedom’s essence.

When, I feel it, again, at my snowblind end,
I’ll thank it for a lend, of belly-flamed repent.

As, I flew amongst those frozen blazes,
that purloined balance from our ages,
and, called upon prophets and messiahs, doomed to burn to dust; Ignatius.

Like, so many, uplifting, scriptures pages.

Yet, my fiery, snow-tipped Hummingbird,
never turned, or, forgot my words, nor, faces.

I’ve worn many through my stages — books, profiles and cases.

But, my Hummingbird,
floating there in stasis,
is a transcendental dirge,
that lives to soar within my traces,
a vestige not seen or heard,
by other people’s gazes,
nor ears buzzed and stirred.

My Hummingbird,
saved me from,
extinction,
with a cold and warm embrace,
that I’ve since adorned,
within my graces.

So, it might sound and look absurd,
but, thank you, for my life; Hummingbird.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

The Tunnels of Leen

Water dug a new slipstream.

Caught running through stunned
Was me
Spun in this dream.

Down sleepy funnels extreme
Round freecoming blues.

By the tunnels of Leen.

A cormorant drying
It’s wings by a bank
Without need for green
Nor worry or thank.

Whispered, “I’m flying
While you all are sank.”
I smile
With dank pockets
Empty
And lank.

Brown trout and an eel
Carp, tench and a bream
All proudly swum t’ward me
In a fashion much pleased.

They shout..

“You might well be sunken
But at least you are free
Like a soothsayers unction
Rolls their tongue
Comes a sea.”

I responded..

“Yes, when I am sunken
I’ll return to the turf
Either dusty or shrunken
While you bask in the surf.
Aft asunder, I’ll meet you
Again by the stream
In no wonder I’ll greet you
By the tunnels of Leen.”

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Ceramic Vagabonds

A bitten lip, stressed. Gristle’s tip,

pulled through daggered teeth.



Like, a thistle, twisted, then, tugged,

by ceramic vagabonds from West,

to East.



Caught-on a vicious,

thicket’s rug of fog, lugging

it’s thickest mist.



Bursting crimson derision slips,

from tooth chipt to chin,

whilst tongue averts a-lick.



Drip after drip is erstwhile, quick,

as cascades profer their glistened gift.



Blended carmine, silver and fuchsia pink,

all pour their praise on,

disaster’s glassy fist.



As, the last of the claret,

makes a scarlet shawl,

on a mouthly drink of mink.



Ceramic vagabonds are only as strong,

as the gummy hammock,

they rest their laurels on.



Their end is swift just like the thicket’s mist,

that pulls undone holes for hollow’s songs.



We are, all, simply, ceramic vagabonds.



Temporary teeth, in the mouths,

of larger, edifying orthodons.



Though, we may build a giant edifice,

or, pray before a mighty tetralith,

we are one pull away from an ending kiss.



An abstract caress becoming genesis.



© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Away

I was away.

When I became
a blazing iconoclast
of innocence.

Aside Swan’s azul canal
serenely passing
by.

Shards collated
like cerise husks of
glass feathers.

Falling wholly from Her
eye.

The falling pieces
they scar the surface.

Marring my purpose
along the stretch.

As stalling features
were caught in cursus.

Barred & berthless.

A thronging wretch.

Piercing crimson crunches;

Let me —

down.

Whilst the Swan’s
unfolded wings
steal Her, white, away.

On silver plumaged
gown.

Away from;
my shattered scarlet sting.

Away from;

a jilted rufous thing.

A part of me
it went away that day.

I watched unstayed
whilst I stood & list.

Never to return.

Under Swan’s glassy lee
my pinion virtue fades;

skypaths white, now, lain
ichor chimney mists.

Dishonour’s furnace burns;

away.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Escaping A Name

“The letters twist inflected shame.

You shan’t exist to escape your;

Name.”

Poisoned is the moniker. Acrid lips of bile.

Wrapt around, a venomous harmonica.

Notes steal away from you each chime.

Kiss inflates. Heir’s disgrace.

Chronicled.

As, paralysis, sets the pulsing throb,

In rime.

On the tongue wet, now, a frozen;

Cognomen in time.

“The letters twist inflected shame.

You shan’t exist to escape your;

Name.”

If you could afford the antidote,

Would you sup, Elixir’s taste?

Though the snide, affecting,

Side effects,

Cast, your looks in creosote,

From a spunly, ailing,

Face?

The crumple of your profile,

Would wriggle,

Offspring free of decades,

From carbuncle-formed belittle-

ment, whilst, the shackles’, taut,

defame.

“The letters twist inflected shame.

You shan’t exist to escape your;

Name.”



© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

The Beggar’s Dream

A lotus flower, closed leaves upon a lonely hour for light reprieve, before the dawn.

The gloaming, sour. Shows a grief-struck lowly glower. Sore, in sights retrieved. Pre-mourning awe.

All the while, a moonlit smile casts its cheddar gleam across the lake.

As wet beguile, twists yellow spirals, on blue beggar’s dreams of cheese & hake.

It’s in these Isles, of fantasies fine whiles,
the edge of streams, hopscotch landscapes.

Clambered stiles and climber’s trials, tribulate tributaries, where rivered oceans spake.

When dawn is broken, we’ll have never spoken
but the fondest memory in mind, always, stays.

So, inside a beggar’s dreams of the inbetween, there is no foot above to keep downtrodden.

There, lessers leap over the successor’s seats, and the throne is cut like a rug, from its top to its very bottom.

Justice done by those who suffered under its rotten, deadly feet.

Devoid of liberty, enough to eat, cold, and left forgotten.

Remembered for goodness’ sake,
begged dreams of cheese & hake,
in my mind’s hungry pockets, often.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Two

After, many days, unwritten I, finally, broke.
In:

— two.

I am read today.

Crimson pages sp/lit,
in a scarlet leather,
bound book.

I have bled today.

Not on the outside.

Inside. Where my cage, unfit,
is a gaping sØre,
raw, like, a far-opened, paper cut.

I have read today.

Vast vermillion versions,
of the same sorry stories,
I’s sore/stuck.

I am bled today.

Of all the planned paths,
& every excursion,
I put my heart in vein two:
suffering’s bløød.

Pulmonary shelves,
full of bronchial notions,
pull heavy breaths,
across gasping oceans.

I can feel each let-
ter bre/ak/ing in ph-on-et-ic,
— two
whilst my heart is aching,
for an ending, new.

E.a.c.h. B.e.a.t,

falls

f.  a.  d.  i.  n.  g.  f.  r.  o.  m.  i.  t.  s.  t.  u.  n.  e.

Two,
a phantom sound,
unfurled,
that, never, quite,
rings true.

Fairytale myths.

Are the only,
worlds & words;

I have the write;

two-cling-two.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Tiny Pieces of; O’clock

Broke..

Broken.

Smithereens sprawl

upward past

spaces unspoken.

A brokered unpeace

maims my burst and splintered tock.

Tiny pieces of;   o.  ‘    c.   l.      o.       c.   k.

When the watcher placed his watch on me.

Then my problems faced forgotten me.

A timepiece smashed

it’s own arms and hands.

A lapsed hammer lashed

down on minute demands.

Ticks of approval taste silence

for their first and final time.

As moss grows on death’s violin.

Her bow embossed with lime.

Hours & minutes all flash bygone, gone, bye.

Tiny pieces of; o’clock, now: lost in time.

Dissolved erasure’s metro-moans aside:

fade into chagrin’s yon endless sighing syne.

© poormansdreams