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The Featherstone surname is a Northern English locational surname, derived from places in Staffordshire, Yorkshire, and Northumberland. 

The name originates from the Old English words “feðerstan” or “fe(o)ther-stān,” meaning a prehistoric structure of four stones or a tetralith (a burial chamber for a chief).

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I screamed stone — once set in ice.

Where my life’s home, was.
Immoved from.

Swallowed whole.

By, that time;

A cavern’s jaws, wide,
with teeth, all labelled:
misery.
Sidled up, alongside,
to champ the hearth,
that lived in me.

A loss, embossed,
in rock and frost,
chomped heavy, crush-
ing heartly hinterlands.

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I screamed stone — once set in ice.

Lochs of moss
were flossed across,
hillock, levied, to Hollow
Rust, darkly, in command.

Memories pervade,
in attempts to thaw,
froze alabaster’s
keen appetite,
for death’s lament.

Every murmured age,
that we spent, before,
chose as everlasting
safekeep stalagmites.

Those sentimental,
pastimed sediments.

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I screamed stone — once set in ice.

‘Til our soul’s faced, a symbolic, snug embrace. I broke free from cold, obelisk’s raze. It stoked our heart’s hug, in it’s rightful place.
After, grasping you, afterlife, screamed stones,
are, melodic, monumental tones.
And, set ice,
like you, is, warm,
yet, crystallised.
Just, as your thoughts, saw for us, precious lives. You lit up our archway with gleaming lights.
A matriarchal, tetralithic spirit-guide.

Now, you are; dreamed stones —
in our feathered eyes.

© poormansdreams

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My money was through in slanted lands.
So, I begun anew with extant, dead hands.

Solitude was conjured in the Catherine
wheels, that spun along my martyrdom.

I rode a road on pneumatic drill spike tips.
Plunging hole after hole free of lifely grips.

A question covered me in bloody rust;
“How do you govern me, I’m governless?”

At a saintly grotto, St. Colmcille’s Shrine,
a faintly motto paints the pillar’s lime;

“I am a Dove when shackled, rough.
On wings, open, clutching us together.
Far above, Father Darby’s banded cuff —
gone kin, soak in gushy luck; untethered.”

© poormansdreams

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Then, all was quiet.

Aft armies of words conquered
tongue twisting lands.
While phrased-chains
bound with gags
slave’s mouthly hands.

All went quiet
on the Western Front.
Eastern stillborn syllabic discord
silently bore the brunt.

Powerful vowels
kissed consonant prominence
at deathly hours
they were gossip’s dominance.

Squadrons o’ sashes
brainwashed pails o’ lies.
Pogroms lay bleeding
in crimson eyes.
Quadrans placed o’er
red pane’s demise.
All fell quiet
when their piece was spoken.
Common words
met their lowly end.
Swift mute compliance
when peace was broken.
A black ominous bird’s
crowed lament.

All goes quiet
when it’s bled from us.
A hushing quiet
when all said is shushed.

All were quiet
when their words were taken.

All are quiet
and our words forsaken.


All is quiet, now.


…….


© poormansdreams

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And, if all of our light
      would cease to shine.

I’d remember in dark
                  the moonrise
                            in the curve
                       of your elliptic eyes
on sinuous Autumn nights.

The harsh crunch     
as sepia leaves                 
juxtapose                                
with hazel softness
in your sight.

      Long lashes laid out
                         like black steps
                                   up to the stoop

.
                                     And, what I found
                              inside.                         
                      Your heart’s sigiled             
fluorescence.

                                 
        Your vigiled soul’s; entrance.

Crossed thresholds to our delight.

© poormansdreams

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My hidden
box.
Hides open without a lid on.

It’s mine and not Pandora’s. Yet, Her enshrined loss and ridicule sublime when outfoxed by Gods
is certainly something I’d find.
Hidden inside my forbidden box.
There’s fearful waves crashing crests fallen against anxious rocks.
There’s memoried slaves lashed and lest walled in by fated injustice rot.
All of which is ill-got like sharp pains
in my chest all found shot
in my gunslinging,
disheartened
box.

But, now has come the time
to castaway my hidden box
to smash it open fore and hind
against those anxious rocks
to shoot it smoking from my mind
with a marksman’s shot
to bid longlasting “may you never find me here again”
in the freed speech
of memoried slaves
from their recollective
walled in cage.

And, finally, put to rest in a vanquished, vanished grave
my far castaway,
gunslinging, forbidden, hidden
box.

© poormansdreams

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While, Fated Winter, waits
underneath
our tectonic plates.
The Hearts of Men
freeze over.

A Sun’s distaste
stuns through rays of teeth
a souped-sonic phrase;

“Thirsts and gusts impart a wend
toward fields rebirthed a-growing
by another giver: a mothering river
with lored creeks and surf now flowing
but first you must adopt to tend
a broader seed worth sowing…”

And, as ought to a Son let go and set below
man’s orange-red environ
“…then, a Daughter, with claret aglow,
will rosily reckon, a wet plateau.
Aft, Doomsday’s — bled horizon.”

© poormansdreams

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Slow, seeps the stone,
under a ripple,
on the water.
Washed afresh in foam,
where a trickle,
leaked an augur.

Prophecy, was cast. Spun grave,
in skipping pebbles,
prone to fall.
Like, long-established waves,
crash,
‘gainst steadfast rebels,
alas,
grown ashore.

Solace, only found, in each bounce,
that lonely lingered, ‘cross the lake.
Until, their mounds, were numbers count, on lowly fingers, born of fate.

© poormansdreams

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I remember everything: a curse of recollection.

Ingrained like sand grains
in my Cerebellum’s crevassed crevices.

Though, unfortunately,
without a holiday to a dark pit.

Where I can finally find some peace.

I don’t even try to conjure the memories.

They just appear.

A window,
screening glassy bygone events
that scream smashed panes.

The shards cut me
when I try to hold them in.

Scars on my body show my attempts
at subduing the wreckages.

I used to worry that not forgetting
would lead me to become permanently insane:
luckily for me it was only temporary.

But, I still yearn
to wash my brain at 90 degrees
in that spinning machine.

Ridding me
of the inky see-through stains
where the world had it’s way with me.

Nowadays,
I just revel in my survival:
the overriding evocation
that vanquishes all others.

A sword I drew
from my innermost scabbard
that became the foundation
of mettle within me.

My sharp renewal.

My thrusting lifeforce.

Always at my side.

Always coursing through me.

Like seppuku in reverse.

My imperfect jagged point that I chose.

I struck to be it and stuck to being..

..me

© poormansdreams

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