ocean

Callum Featherstone

Two

After, many days, unwritten I, finally, broke.
In:

— two.

I am read today.

Crimson pages sp/lit,
in a scarlet leather,
bound book.

I have bled today.

Not on the outside.

Inside. Where my cage, unfit,
is a gaping sØre,
raw, like, a far-opened, paper cut.

I have read today.

Vast vermillion versions,
of the same sorry stories,
I’s sore/stuck.

I am bled today.

Of all the planned paths,
& every excursion,
I put my heart in vein two:
suffering’s bløød.

Pulmonary shelves,
full of bronchial notions,
pull heavy breaths,
across gasping oceans.

I can feel each let-
ter bre/ak/ing in ph-on-et-ic,
— two
whilst my heart is aching,
for an ending, new.

E.a.c.h. B.e.a.t,

falls

f.  a.  d.  i.  n.  g.  f.  r.  o.  m.  i.  t.  s.  t.  u.  n.  e.

Two,
a phantom sound,
unfurled,
that, never, quite,
rings true.

Fairytale myths.

Are the only,
worlds & words;

I have the write;

two-cling-two.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Fifty-two lightning strikes; deserted.

Escaping,
bitter seas,
of, slippery grips,
betwixt,
waves of gritted,
inhumane hands;
are; ferocious tides,
of, untimely;
porous – reveries,
scattered notions,
of buckets and spades,
abandoned;
castles of sand.

Amongst,
searing footsteps,
of, downtrodden,
Atlas-burdened,
vanishing – caravans;
yearns; a purpose,
however, unlikely;
changing tact,
or, track?
Parting seas, or, ways?
Searching for answers,
or, the truth?
Fearing God, or, man?

Eviscerating,
the pot-bellied,
beach,
with hurled,
long-ranging bolt,
of, Zeus’,
electrifying brand;
galvanis-ing;
crack,
and, crash,
sublime-ly;
exploding;
bashful,
pock-marks,
on the coastline’s;
dusty naval,
then, birthing
mishaps,
of, misshapen,
yet, fierce; fulgurite,
a serendipitous,
by-product,
of a,
vengeful,
God’s
plan.

Callum Featherstone

Love’s perilous shallows

Those sunken…

relationships,
cause wrecks,
when love is perilously shallow.
Reluctant and scorned, the captains,
dive into their slippery,
ill-gotten, untitled, reckonings.

A backpedalling pool,
of thick, cementing gruel,
turning stomachs,
into, trodden, broken,
ceramics,
and, once, placid waters,
into, viscous, panics.

“King Cnut was awash,
with humility, and, a gut-wrenching knot, in his defeat, to the seas,
and, deemed them; majestic,
Godly, and, hallowed.
For, he knew, then, that his reign,
could not stop, the rains of April,
nor, reverse the ocean tides,
despite his courtiers’ love,
being perilously shallow.”

The salty waves,
of harpoon-shaped tears,
submit to sandy cheeks of forlorn,
creating crestfallen beach tides.
Memories resurface; embittered,
and, resentful,
as, sodden spite, is beckoning.

Frostbitten, arctic remarks,
chisel those, once, bleeding hearts,
into cold, scuppered; currachs.
Punctured, and, capsized,
from, ice-veined, blue-blood, it freezes, and, attacks;
subverting, and, destroying the voyage; of doomed solicitude;
when love is perilously shallow.

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.