nature

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

Floral Rains

fine.   rain.   gone.   away.   comes.   back.
rain.   gone.   away.   comes.   back.
gone.   away.   comes.   back.
away.   comes.   back.
comes.   back.
fine.

^^^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^^^^  ^^^^^
water.                  quickly.              trickles.
tickling.                spines.
&.
petals.

unpi-
cked.
apart.

along.
floral.
border-
lines.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

A message from Gaia.

Where did all the compassion go?
Is it lost; in the Sun’s, ashen glow?
Is it locked; in hearts, that unfasten, slow?
Please, find it, and, return it to Me.

I talked to My Brother;
testy Ares,
His rage spoke of Him watching,
Me burn, convulse and freeze.
He saw those smothering,
fleshy fairies,
self-caged, hate-soaked, plotting,
with yearned pulse, for Me, to seize.

My Sister; loving Aphrodite, too,
cried, agonised,
weeping, at human destruction,
Her dusty tears, made clouds of ash.
Her vista turning, grey, from blue,
My blackened eyes,
from bloody knuckles, of consumption.
Unjust; I fear; gnawing fists, unabashed.

I heard My Siblings, both, and vowed,
never again,
to become, abused and broken,
enduring an insane plight, scared,
and, rid Myself, of this parasite.
This poison growth, is overproud,
severing Men,
will leave Me bruised, yet, awoken,
from an inhumane nightmare,
and, back, to health, and joy, and light.

Where did all the compassion go?
Is it lost; in the Sun’s, ashen glow?
Is it locked; in hearts, that unfasten, slow?
Please, find it, and, return it to Me.

Callum Featherstone

Nature versus Torture

The natural landscape is an elderly, insightful shaman.

Each rugged ridged mountain top, swell within the ocean, jagged nettle, cracked tree stump and dancing desert is a wisdom filled wrinkle, thought or expression.

The ritual undertaken by nature combines meticulous process, indefinite time and arduous repetitions. Yet, the arrogance of the human race – the young pretender – mistakenly and pompously believes to know better than nature.

If you really take a minute and think about what our planet is telling us then you would realise what it’s relationship with us has turned into.

That of a hero toward a villain.

It’s only option left is to destroy us before we harm our hero and it’s universe any further. Rising sea levels, rising world temperatures, natural disasters, wildlife extinctions and crop failures… (the list goes on) all point to one thing;

the planet must extinguish that which destroys it.

It’s enemy.

Us.

Unless, of course, this youthful pretender learns from it’s hero…

Learns that process, time and repetition are valuable within nature. Learns that nature, in turn, is valuable. Learns that nature can live without humanity but humanity cannot live without nature.

And, most importantly, learns that although we foolishly teach one another that it is never too late to change, it is too late for us to change the permanent damage and atrocities we have caused to our hero, our planet, our Earth.

However, there is still a chance to rectify further damage; if we care for nature the way nature cares for us. And, our every morsel of being.

Don’t be a fool or young pretender.

Be a hero.

Be nature.

Callum Featherstone

Ten thousand starlings’ murmuration

Dip and dive, twists and turns
Forming shapes and sizes
That could never be learned

Plumaged joy for all to see
As scornful sky criticizes
Winged beauty so wild and free

An unmatched mystery to all below
Flighty festoon falls and rises
Without care, fear or woe

Elastic, electric, exemplified elation
Creating endless surprises;
Ten thousand starlings’ murmuration.