poetry and writing

Callum Featherstone

A Matter of Life and Death

Life, will have, plentiful, ups and downs,
and, cause, your vessel, lasting,
scar-shaped, ugly, frowns,
made, for, your masking,
like, an inside-out clown,
appearing, without asking,
use, every, magic trick, around,
to, make, a scared present, a past thing.

A, declining, health,
where, inclining tumors, grew,
saw steep lengths, depths and breadths,
from, which, to jump, into, a sedentary pool,
at, the basis, a few words, sit, upon, a stool,
saying, “There’s a duty in drawing breath,
but, there, is beauty, renewed,
beginning, in, death.”

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Keepsakes

I used to give,
so, truly,
to, many,
undeserving hands.
But, their fingers,
bit, unruly,
a deathly,
gripping bite.
So fierce,
that, I could, never, understand.
The nail, poked,
so cruelly,
in, open wounds,
unmanned.
Fangs, tore flesh,
ripped, unduly,
with ferocious,
ripping might,
making, morsels,
of, a spirit, big, and, grand.

So, now, I guard,
my giving,
from, a watchtower,
in, the skies.
Protected, with prayers,
to, the benevolent unliving.
They’ve, no need,
for, sleep,
and, shine, essenced lights,
on, the unforgiving lies.
Their end, is, my
beginning.
Their misfortune,
is, my prize.
As, they remain,
forever, willing,
for, souls, and, se-
crets, to, keep.
Keeping, my keepsakes, close,
to, their chests, every, night.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Books-a-Burning

Thoughts and memories,
line lofty, laddered shelves,
in the library of my mind.
Nostalgia bound reveries,
flamboyantly hide themselves,
in the hopes I try to find.

When turning pages,
of dusty, thickened books,
I sometimes quickly shut,
it has taken many ages,
to steady hands that shook,
from deep and nasty papercuts.

There is a restricted section,
lurking, darkly in the corner,
that I am too scared to go,
in my mind’s eye’s reflection,
the mirrored contents torture,
I daren’t reveal what’s unshown.

So I stick with the unrestricted,
by ever-glowing, lamp-ish lights,
and try to list the lucky texts,
I want the lurking dark; evicted,
to move out hindsight,
but I know that’s just a foolish jest.

I hope to read a winning mantra,
that makes me brave enough to grow,
to a fresh museum from library of old.
To cut the nose off ‘great’ Alexander,
climb Kilimanjaro’s peak of snow,
and scathe the Berserkers foretold.

But until the day I speak candor,
when darkly, lurking books do glow,
I’ll keep my stories on shelves untold.
When I’m a fire-resistant salamander,
when my thoughts are aluminium tableaux,
that’s when burning writ will be on the wall,
and,
my ashen past, in flames, will, call,
simply, to unfold;
a rekindled present, scrolled;
a revived parchment, quenched;
a resurrect, disenthralled escrow.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Vikingr

To be within the mind,
of a Vikingr let loose,
on seemly pleasant,
green and sacred shores,
smelling the allotted,
pillars of salt,
on fastly running,
back-looking gusts,
remembering a spouse’,
face in your lowly brooch,
ahead are vicious skies,
that are painted war,
you vanquish gut-lain,
fears and assaults,
you devour anxieties,
like herring-ed crusts.

Those seemly pleasant,
pastures are now,
where your long boat,
wrecked and sparked,
yet you still walk within,
weathered place names,
that the modern folk,
do often mispronounce,
your -fords and -dales,
are as common as the cow,
and Thor’s thundered,
drum is still hearkened,
though your longboat,
is no longer lit aflame,
the ash can still be tasted,
in scathing, soiled mounds.

A ransack of memories,
like a club to legs,
makes deadened,
bereft and forgetful,
staggering gaits,
and awful anger afoot,
for histories lost,
drowned and capitulated,
a new beginning takes,
sagas of broken eggs,
and lega-seas unfound,
are always regretful,
so when you swim,
in the footsteps of King Cnut,
beware of the billowed,
tides, seiðr, fated.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Newly, Emerging.

The hirsute,
emboldened,
mist, descended.
Like, a creeping,
crawling,
barber’s floor.
With, surging,
vapoured,
hairs, extended.
To cover,
the clippered,
unseen, unsaw.

Like, rusty,
knees,
knelt and bended,
to sweep,
the offcuts,
a million score.
Dustpans, were made,
from, grey streets,
wended,
and, hand-held,
streetlamps,
for, the chore.

The blinding, fog,
then, pounced,
it’s chance,
like, a lion’s mane,
on, a Zebra’s,
corpse.
And, like, a lash in eye,
it caught,
a glance,
of, why, misconception,
agonises,
sore.

The unforetold,
ensconced,
romance,
became, a butchers block,
of, knives,
and forks,
set, within,
the murky mist,
and, discontented,
foggied, manse.

Finally, the silver, outcasted, plumage, received, a scourging…

A prevailing wind was, newly, emerging…

A haar-shaped,
basket,
carried by, a stork.

Landed,
softly, gently,
by, a lonely door.

An angelic cloud,
kicked,
and danced.

As, the prevalent wind,
made a fist,
pretended,
and, knocked,
three-times,
then, took a walk.

The cloudy child,
then, took mystied,
breaths, into, human-form.

And, a long-trying, couple,
found, at long, last…

…that, an open door,
meant, their mist, and, fog,
had, ended.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Castaway

How far, do your, wing-ed tears, fall,
before, they fly, into, comfort’s arms?
Do you, wish them, to float, further,
                           afield,
                            or, is,
                            this..
    …horizon…..enough…..for…..you?   
The future, keeps, it’s eyes closed, and, I

can never, rouse them, open. So, I guess,
     I’ll fester, in, your firmament, until,
                 you, find me, here.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Questions for the English (language)

Would you bid
someone ‘ta-ra’
(tabhair aire) if it wasn’t
for Irish Navvies?

 

Would you
tell a ‘bloke’
to shut his ‘gob’
if it wasn’t for Irish Pavees?

 

Would you drink
a cup of ‘char’
if it wasn’t
for Indian farmers?

 

Would you sleep
well at night
if it wasn’t for Persian
‘pyjamas’?

 

Would you drink
‘alcohol’
if it wasn’t for
Arab cosmetics?

 

Would you know
a wound made rotten
if the Greeks
didn’t call it ‘septic’?

 

Would you enjoy
‘Karaoke’ Night
if it wasn’t
for the Japanese?

 

Would you have
‘ketchup’ on your fish and chips
if it wasn’t for the Malay
and Chinese?

 

If Rome hadn’t conquered
long before you
would you eat
‘al dente pastas’?

 

Would your pale faced
children say ‘wah gwan’
if it wasn’t for
Jamaicans or Rastas?

 

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

The Wishing Well, Waits

waiting wishing waiting wishing
wishing waiting wishing waiting
      waiting wishing waiting
      wishing waiting wishing
              waiting wishing
              wishing waiting
                        for the
                        down-
                        fall of
                        my de-
                        tested
                        enemy
                        was….
                        well….
                        the best
                        invest-
                        ment of
                         time
                        spent I
                        will ev-
                        er know.
        

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

in another’s shoes

to put yourself
in another’s shoes
imagining
their choice, their health
even their views
to move their way
each stride and tread
patterning
the words they say
or where they’ve fled
to reach checkpoints
in their footprints
travelling
within connected joints
being shedded skins
to chew with their teeth
feel the broken bones
shattering
sense what lies beneath
see through cover, blown
to focus on their scars
both visible and not
inhabiting
their sweaty palms
a body, mind, uncalm
to watch their sorry eyes
reflect, a mirror smashed
fragmenting
to understand their lies
and shards of broken pasts
to sniff a chancing nose
of losses, draws and wins
gambling
scent their highs and lows
as fetid wheels spin
to try to understand
what has always been
happening
like a tailor’s hand
immersed in their seam
to kiss with their lips
discern their taste of love
fastening
to be a doting fit
like, fingers in a glove
to stroke their coiled hair
wrap around their spiel
flattering
to be their lung-filled air
for you to really feel
to sail riverly hearts
navigate their brains
staggering…

…just, faded footprints, apart…

…from walking together…

…our memoried lanes.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Three Little Words from a Father to Son

Those, three little words, from, a father, to son.
Take flight, like, the birds, in, the broad, midday sun.
Sprint, like, limbs, so absurd, after, starter pistol’s gun.
Like, Achillean heels, undeterred, tragedy kills them, for fun.

Those, three little words, from, a father, to son.
Crushed, by, hooves darkly furred, the words, cower when shun.
Fade into obscurity, unheard, like, unjocular puns.
Are lost, and, never return, like, miscarried orphans, or, runts.

Those, three little words, from, a father, to son.
Become, unspoken, reserved, weighing down, like, a ton.
The weight, weighs heavy, and, hurts, the shoulders, of, spiritual ones.
Creates, heads, bent, and, curved, as horizoned eyes, look, over yon.
For, blue sky, but, grey has emerged, now, the grey skies, are fading, to none.

An echoing remainder, leaves heart-shaped,
“I love you”s, beset, in wrinkles, on a face.

And, those, three little words, are, like,
the stubborn, fatherly stone, that’s unbled.

They whisper, “There’s, no peace, future, or, solace, in, loving words, to a son, left, unsaid.”

© poormansdreams