dreams

Callum Featherstone

Complexities

An unspoken knowledge

speaks

from intergalactic colleges

wreaks

havoc in your inner sanctum.

Would

it matter if you ever thanked some

unknowing entity –

baffled by complexity?

Could

you find the words to comprehend?

Intelligence

that’s beyond the curve and bend

of

space and time and hate and

love.

Ideas of immaculate protection

prophylactic by conception.

Mysteries of universes that expand

can never be grasped by the hand.

For, if they were to be held –

our complexities – like broken shells

would be uncovered in a grain of sand.

Sifting and shifting – beats the drum of time

expanding and expounding – a celestial rhyme,

“What does become

has been departed,

The cycle ends

just where it started…”

Callum Featherstone

Aye, Aye Captain

Boatswain or Bosun?

Both sons of oceans,

flags and masts,

packed bags

and

chequered pasts.

WHAT. SAY. YOU.

As Jolly Roger flies –

skull and cross bones

and hallowed eyes

for the lost, the loners.

Putting the onus

on a prophetic prize

that’s –

to be a Pirate;

swashbuckled but

never broken.

SIGN. YOUR. LIFE. AWAY.

X marks the spot.

All hands on deck

me hearties, me hearties.

AYE. AYE. CAPTAIN.

Crossed t and i’d dot.

Here’s to self respect

on nautical safari.

I’d rather be a Pirate

than a pen pushing slave.

Never clock-in or get fired

by the crest of a wave.

HOIST. THE. MAINSAIL.

I’d sing a sea shanty

from morning to night.

Watch ocean foam

romance glee

in bountiful

candle light.

EARL. Y. IN. THE. MORNING.

So, Ahoy matey!

Don’t walk the plank.

Send Long John Silver

me thanks.

I’ll swab the deck and

grow my beard long

and hair lank.

Sail the seven seas over

so shiver me timbers

‘til peg leg,

parrot and

scallywag

have sank.

DEAD. MEN. TELL. NO. TALES.

That’s the life for me

treasure troves of free-

dom. Far away from lock and key;

roving on the highest seas.

Argh, to be a Pirate,

a buccaneering riot.

No more hypocrisy

from government or tyrant…

CLEAVE. THEM. TO. THE. BRISKET.

But it’s all a dream

and I wake to no change but the climate.

After realisation is gleaned

in my attempts to scream

all that comes forth is a

sigh and

then…

Quiet.

ON. TO. DAVY. JONES’. LOCKER.

Callum Featherstone

A Voyage to the Impossible.

What matters the most to you shouldn’t be able to be experienced from your bodily senses. It should come from deep within your inner most depths and be intangible. Far away from the noise of this world and way into the realms of the impossible.

Transforming physical possession and perception into transcendental prosperity.

Despite the wonders of our minds and their ability to perceive so many things, we are taught in a blinkered, binary, positive/negative fashion from a very young age – good/bad, right/wrong, happy/sad.

But, we are all of these things at all times throughout our lives. Think about it;

An evil man can make a just law.

A good man can follow an unjust cause.

Both could be the same man;

of a different sort,

on different days too

and in different lives.

So, before you judge; pause.

Remember;

A journey’s map isn’t always to hand.

True wisdom is always food for thought.

Ignorance within your mind betrays you.

And, your everlasting infinite soul survives…

Always.

Your very existence is an impossible journey and, yet, here you are…

Life is the swelling sea, your mind is the swinging ship and your soul is the ripple of every wave which laps up against both life and mind, sea and ship, on a voyage to the impossible.

Callum Featherstone

Pink.

In this;

beguiled reality

avarice makes mincemeat of charity

and conceit fucks vanity.

The sick and the needy

die at the hands of the greedy.

Death by hate filled hearts;

scolding via network

scaffolding.

All the while, living in

wholly

indecent matrimony;

wedded by insanity.

“History always repeats itself.

History always repeats itself.”

A war of roses; red and white

without their heads

soon lost sight.

And stem of green then realised;

roses without petals

aren’t needed

nor recognised.

Angry is the blood.

Broken is the bone.

Nothing good can come from

a world wide webbed

throne

where lies are spun from.

And when all is said and done

it seems even odd to; think?

Before your actions

become

the difference between warring factions

and your essence becomes

on the brink

of existing.

Is this;

existence masquerading as extinct?

Or is this,

really;

extinction pretending

to be

in the pink?

Callum Featherstone

Cosmonaught

Arrogance of present answers

on past tech and advances,

history’s cerebral romances

laid in the dirt asleep,

by far frog-leaped;

and also out-enhanced us.

Commonplace it justly saddens –

common faces become assassins.

As Julius imbibed Manhattans

the death-toll sparked egregious.

The space in between us

became

chasms;

intercontinental planetary spasms.

It all matters; dark and light.

It all matters; wrong or right.

What’s the matter?

Bhagavad Gita? Quoting chapters?

Nuclear war hindsight…

Science, not before but after;

made sure of atomic plight.

You are birth, life and death;

in a universal breath.

An infinite respirator

expressed;

by heavy traffic – stars and planets.

A cosmos complete yet

bereft.

Callum Featherstone

Making sense

When the eyes are opened

By Pineal once closed

A cerebral token

Of belief takes hold.

When their mouth’s deceitful

Don’t eat from chaos’ hand

Keep your diet peaceful

So that your mind expands.

When the scent overpowers

To cover their tracks

Be aware that some flowers

Set deadly traps.

When your hearing’s confused

Locked down in a prism

Paint thoughts colourful hues

Canvass yourself and listen.

And if you’re feeling out of touch

Take a moment to remember;

Our light burns out

by smothering clutch

And there is no fire

without an ember.

Callum Featherstone

Remember the Peace

On Armistice Day I’ll ask of you this

With the poppy you’ll wear

To commemorate the long list

Of young men dead – with care.

Of those we have mourned

Yearly, since nineteen-forty-five

Other pieces of Peace we have scorned

Saving countless peoples lives.

War in proximity that always relates

Is that Troubled area over the strait.

What else could we do? Celebrate?

A peace process since nineteen-ninety-eight.

And there is a list over there

Long and left without.

No clover? Nor poppy? Or something altogether more fair.

Still, Peace worth remembering without a doubt.

So when you wear a poppy.

To remember.

Or choose not to.

To remember.

Try to remember.

Those slain and lost.

In the bitterness of November.

Remember the Peace and what it cost.

Callum Featherstone

Icarus

Do not bank on a lifesaver

Coming second, first or third

As tall and looming cabers

Scrape skies – hurried and absurd.

Tossed alongside shining sabre

Toothed-Tiger looking herds

They are timid after taming.

And self-righteous bees and birds

Practice surreptitious-slut-shaming

In a world of wizened words

Reduced fruitfully like raisins.

The acorn may be small

But it’s endeavour grows so mighty

From it’s branches to it’s trunk.

And the flock’s morning call

Along with wings so fit and flighty

Launch from their wooden bunk.

Just as Icarus looked down on all

Mankind’s eyes are blinded brightly

By a couping Parliament; whose ship has sunk

To a depth that Devils dare to fall

Which constricts forever tightly.

And makes – a fake of the monk.

Callum Featherstone

Dove of Peace

From a room inside your mind

Never mind the lack of room

As the room you hope to find

On the inside of your head.

Because outside that vital place

Is without you, no longer vital

Because within yourself is grace

And outwardly your wings to spread.

Misunderstood so lately

And often only by yourself

But to others matters greatly

Through your justness dearly held.

You put your trust in others

And they only let you down

But you rode the lonely buffers

Without a grimace or a frown.

And you stand before the world

Knowing your true self post-defame

And you tamed the downward spiral, swirl

Understood your self and name.

Callum – dove of peace

Peaceful dove that hopes to give

Enough at least to teach

How understanding helps us live.

Callum Featherstone

Sweet Dreams

You are nothing.

You are everything.

You are magic in a box high up on a hill overlooking the universe.

A box which is opened every time that you sleep.

Revelations decoded as the lid is lifted.

Sweet dreams.

Memories casting spells from the spirit-world which transport you throughout space and time.

Future presenting past – transversing as one across existence.

Immortality isn’t hard to imagine when you dream rather than think.

Your flesh will turn to dust and travel on the wings of your essence with reverie as captain.

Flying metaphysically.