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Callum Featherstone

Uplifted Heart

I mill around.
In the pollinated petals.
On gusty breezes,
which rue malfeasance.
That turn the turbine of mine start.
Toward a loving blossom meadow’s yearn.
Like fine flower’s need within,
for a taste of uplifted heart.
That only with time, good;
savoury — bred a rose.

I mill around.
Agitated and unsettled.
A fizz of yeasts,
and a fell allegiance.
Far from the wellsprung baker’s cart.
Is my urge to resist the feel of loss’s burn.
Like fine flour’s knead within,
for a taste of uplifted heart.
That only with thyme; good,
savoury — bread arose.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Wild Winds

Where wild winds
they whisper
through wet thistles.
Drips close, listen
to eerie timbers.
On the mountainside
gusts linger.
While the rusty Moon
is seen by day.

Whence crunched bark
is wrapped in
meaty fingers.
Like a loggerheaded dog
caught in hand-y cinders.
With a sepia coat
and eye that cinges.
In red-hot ire plumes
black-white smoke.
As a shamanic fire
burns away.

I, in awe, saw.
The wolf’s descend
within the fog.
Their descendant’s
face roundly appear
upon burnt log.
And, I thought of those
that went before me.
Like littered wheels
downhill birthing cogs.

I smiled with moon-
shine lips on grog.
Encapsulated by
furry feet & fangs
of smoke encircled smog.
Went sphered lunar howls
up high to beckon call me.
Then, I answered with my own
loopt, wild wind whistling, agog.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

A Happy Tumble Down

My false asylum stood,
Not so far away,
On beguiling,
Not so good,
Unsteady ground. Where jagged rocks say,
“Come by here. Come around.
There’s a blood waterfall and bay,
Of night-sweat-bed and tears,
For you to take a happy tumble down.”

I jump into the crimson loch,
Upon collapse.
Whilst those,
Jagged rocks,
Say, “Good luck” and laugh.

Evil looking juts,
Cut up bone and flesh,
Like they were trying,
To pierce a stone.
The sharpest point,
Whose name is Stress,
Stared hard,
Straight through my soul.

A broken body. A broken head.
Lay aside a broken spirit. Dead.

And, from their sanguine smithereens,
I awokened.
Betwixt vermillion jigsaw dreams,
Interwoven.
Tiny pieces of me in the blood waterfall,
And bay renewed.
I mix rejuvenating reds; sweat, tears, gall,
And sand, into a glue.

On life’s granite monolith rose wet with rain,
Alive, I take a pink, everlasting breath there,
After an end to scarlet plunge suffocates.
And, I flowingly put myself back together,
Again.

© poormansdreams

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

When Winters Came

When Winters came
Awash with ire in unsteadied storm
Forged winter’s fire — ice reddy worn

When Winters came
Scorn slipt over crimson rinks
Torn limb rips skins to pale pinks

When Winters came
In hands of Iron gript
Froze dagger tips
Bled damned horizon dript
Rose ichor’s lips

When Winters came
A shed cherry kiss impressed upon
White battlefields
At the base of this mountain’s face yon
Beard — battered shields

Warcried slogan crescendos
Fell to soft, wet whispers lain
All cried broken memento’s
Well — too oft, when Winters came

When Winters came resource was rare
When Winters came we’d War our share

When Winters came and went
Then splinters flamed descent

Now, Winters gone have come back
Proud cinders shone drag us back

To that place that our mountained face
Turned to ash
And, our Winters became fountain sprays

Scattering; what remains of…

…our well–
urned past.


© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Fairytale’s End

A fastidious link was sips to their fates
On the farside

Of reflections…                               …luminary

Crosshairs jink locked lips on late
Gone to dark night

Hiding in the furrow, buried.

On the darker half of a lunar face.


“The brightest lights burn out the quickest…”

…or some other cliché phrase.


You won’t forget the light in their eyes fade.


As their hands lose our gripping…

…fairytale.


The clock’s chime
rings different after that
and their final sup of water
tastes of ale
or whatever libation
spurs them on…

…as glasses clink…


…at the end of our fairytale.


© 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