moon

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

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

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

Something within

They said,

“well, at least, you don’t miss

something

that you never knew.”

this pater-shaped hole

began to impress;

began to exceed excess.

And, once begun,

it couldn’t be undone,

it made both

beginning, and, ending;

without gravitas. Gone.

A filicidal forecast looming

within,

gloomy;

whether he reigned or son shone

“A victim of cruel circumstance?”

this pater-shaped hole

became a grave of discontent,

deep.

So, very, deeply;

without.

No heaped shovel or search

within

could ever uncover it,

nor, taste of stark reality

– stomach it

“A by-product of uncertain romance?”

this pater-shaped hole

has a

dangerous potential

to permeate

generations,

going from keyhole;

within, to black-hole;

exhuming –

gravity without fixture,

irrevocably vacuuming;

sons of Mars,

Venus’ daughters,

zodiac stars, suns, moons,

and all of their explorers,

solar systems, nebulae,

and, galactic formations

of future paterfamilias,

of all things familial,

intergenerational idioms,

inscriptions and incantations

“I didn’t miss what I had never known.

I just knew that something within was missing.

Half the time I felt apart, alone.

Half of my history in absentia whilst existing.”