dreams

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

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

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

A Timeless Land

Cartwheeling
went the grand-
father clock’s
arms & hands.

Along each ceiling
above the strands
of unstarts unstops
in A Timeless Land.

Where waters reach
wrapping wisteria around
themselves in every vine
a wetter version of a minute.

There, solsticed leaves
untrapped grow free & proud
& houred grapes squeeze syned
durations to taste like winely spirit.

Spans do not run late
& do not stand still
for they have no limbs
nor face to tell.

We mere mortals
with time to kill
the enchanted incant-
ation of our spell;

“What time is it?!”

“Make sure you’re
there on time!!”

In nighttime’s journey
to A Timeless Land
we don’t hear the clang-
ing bells that chime
empty questions
or commands.

You are no longer
a slave to master Time
when eyes do close
with slumber’s sand
your soul there is whole
ev’ry second of your while.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Slumber’s Crashing Visions

Slumber’s crashing visions, green-
go-under, Past’s collisions. Where,
I, sleepily, bump — broken, sev-
ered. Detachment, he comes, speedily.
Avoids, picking up, my limely, shrapnel pie-
ces. He unputs me, bilious, back together.

Wreckage strewn in metallic, scurvy sweat
drops. They shine on a motorwaying
shroud. In straw bedcloth’s revving night.
Slumber’s crashing visions, never wait for me
to cross. They’re laughing amber’s crunched
derision. At my tunnel’s, citrus face, aloss.

Crimson trickles: traffic lights; all red, running from, scarlet
sharp-brake eyes.

Callum Featherstone

the amputee

he’s sewn up,

sore.

and, missing;

something?

some things?

or,

somewhere?

missing.

missing; somewhat?

or, is it, someone?

a jigsaw piece;

minus it’s edge.

a garden hose;

but no hedge.

a windowsill;

without a ledge.

this fascination

with forbidden lust

is an –

amputee –

both arms;

taken;

forsaken.

and, with that being said,

he’s; still;

besotted

with a pair of gloves.

but, nevertheless,

trustily supported

by two good legs.

epiphany;

disregarded.

for, what one lacks,

sore,

one doesn’t

necessarily know

not to need

in these

matters of amour.

and,

regrettably,

one should never

overlook;

what’s beneath,

when able

to take a ride

on

romance’s

intimate see-saw.

nor,

turn their backs

on

true love’s

magnificent stampede;

in boots;

inconsiderately worn.

Callum Featherstone

Relief, awaited.

When dodecahedron bombs fall;
will you be my buried and sturdy shelter?
When cohesion is trodden to asphalt;
would you wage pitched and bloody welter?

Breakfast,
served at his majesty’s pleasure, often ladles out food for thought…
The menu – provides;
convicts, politicians, businesspeople, and, royalty,
with plenty to discuss…
Such as, ‘do the high and mighty ever dream of tasting prison porridge, as they commit high crimes, whilst they starve and cull the poor?’
And, ‘can beggared worms chew through royal lead-lined coffins from a dead beggar’s ulcered stomach sores?’ Yet, what lies in the unasked? The public inquiry into corrupt power, like lunch, awaits.

Relief without a branch
to cling to. Bare, shaken,
but, also, beyond agonising
disbelief. Avalanche met Alpine
Firs; a collage of bitter viridescence – often mistaken,
as, not life, but, death, imitating art.

What a relief!!
That’s the “good stuff”;
the pinprick and the poison-pill…
The Medicine Men have long traded in shady deals,
of jabs and hooks,
wearing labcoats lined with vaccined, pain-killing schemes.
Patiently making case studies of us all,
all the while,
toasting, our declining health,
along with silent, complicit and sickly governments.
Sláinte!

Encrypted night;
puzzling and studious, awaits
us all,
along with an unshrinking denial,
a half-blinked eye,
a non-thinked; why?
And, a nihilistic sigh. It is all, so…
insalubrious.

Awaited relief of a final breath when no more lies can be proferred no more lines can be crossed or excuses offered no more questions unanswered no more victims no more cancers no more derision and pain due to another’s conceited vision and gain no more losers no more winners no more abusers or willers of forgiveness.

Just peace; unreplicated.

And, relief, no longer, awaited.

When dodecahedron bombs fall;
will you be my buried and sturdy shelter?
When cohesion is trodden to asphalt;
would you wage pitched and bloody welter?

Callum Featherstone

Lost, properly

Another

night lost –

to this infernal game

of sleep. Another light lost –

to this internal

flaming

heap.

Another day, found; wanting,

ever-seeking, left

behind. Suffer

darkness;

unfounded: daunting,

ever-creeping, when in mind.

Another time or another place,

Another line on another face,

Another calm before the storm,

Another baby to be born.

Another life is another death,

Another fight for another breath,

Another want, another need,

Another plot – for which to bleed.

Another jab, another hook,

Another play – not by the book,

Another lie becomes the truth,

Another, “why?” crushed under boot.

Another step in lands of Hinter,

Yet, another long, bleak winter,

One more liberty carelessly lost,

Bitterly frozen by piercing frost.

Another

toll cost – to

the extending tarmac

adam. Another soul lost – to

the never-ending

blackened

chasm.

Another scarlet debtor, found;

humanity is justly,

repossessed.

Smothered faces

turn raging red, thrusting,

brutality; into Robin’s breast.

Callum Featherstone

Do the colder months collude?

And, I wonder,

are the colder months colluding?

Would warring Winter, pause?

Could audacious Autumn, wait?

Or, does the vexed, brooding

and unruly thunder

shape the sordid

cause

of the lightning,

hale, snow and rain?

Why does the gourmand, wolfy-pack,

have to, spit,

growl, and, attack,

the Spring, and, the Summer?

Do they resent;

the clement, balmy days.

Or, just, yearn to take their place?

Mankind has reached it’s own;

November,

suffering unscrupulous mists; a fog of charging cheats,

compassion is a disillusioned ember, smothered and crushed

below;

fraught

autumnal

feet.

A stampeding fall persists,

clenched in the dying undergrowth,

of doomed and dark deceit.

So, do the colder months collude?

That remains, forever, to be

seen.

But, the human race to season, enroot, ended in; self-defeat.

Fallen;

from favour;

from grace;

gone

trees.

A final, lonely leaf of fortitude;

fell, and, lost, beyond the evergreen.

Callum Featherstone

Where are ye, Robin Hoods?

Where are ye, rebels?

Ye, Robin Hoods?

Who robs the rich to feed the poor?

Who traverses the bleak, uneven levels,

to rid the bad and keep the good?

Cap of Lincoln green,

a sight long unseen,

Nottingham archer’s

bow,

and, steely arrow.

The poor man’s dream

of outlaw heroes seem,

broken, from the

bone,

unto the marrow.

Who dares be rebels?

Be Robin Hoods?

To replace, replenish, restore?

To reverse the cycle of Avarice’s pedals,

and, stand up for the misunderstood?

Marian, like life, is no longer fair.

There are no merry men.

John has all but been destroyed,

he’s;

bereft, bemused, belittled.

Enduring strife with every breath of air,

should you suffer it again?

When will our children’s simple joys,

bequeath;

retribution in every giggle?

We are the rebels!

We, Robin Hoods!!

We must rise, revolt, make war!!!

Dampen the spirits of those greedy devils,

who bathe in pauper’s bloods.

Robin Hood statue outside of Nottingham Castle