poetry

Callum Featherstone

A Cascade of Yellows

A cascade of yellows
came to follow
me today.
From
the
out
side
of a chest-
nut tree cover-
ing it’s bay. Although
it went unnoticed by
a multitude of folk.
The way it chimed
profusely I could
swear it to me
spoke;

“Here
my fronds offer
our platitudes in the
inked half of the year.
In the blondness is our
gratitude before they
sink unto the rear.
You will find
within
the


fall


that you’ve made a fallen friend.

And green beginnings
change just like flaxen leaves.

Yet do return
aft gloomy season’s end.”


© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Carnelian Jewel

Nighttime shadow thieves stole my gleam
Once upon a cerulean Moon.

They bobbed and weaved awash with greed.

With my one carnelian jewel.

A crimson and green festoon
Was it’s bed of leaves.

The sweetest berries I exhumed
To give comfort, ease.

While guile in eyes of theirs did loom.

My jewel is not a gemstone rare
Or, a precious piece of art.

But it means a lot to me in care
Because it is my heart.

Without it, I wander in aimless air.

Without it, I’m lost, apart.

Nighttime shadow thieves
Alight their maddest schemes
With the gleam
Tore from my chest away.

By spite in Adder’s teeth
Bites tight a damedest deed
In my dreams
Scorned poison left decays.

I’m weary, and I’m battle torn
From eerie, bent, grappled horns
That they used to pierce my slumber.

Unclearly in gravelled spawn
Their fearly, well-travelled cause
Cast grey ooze that steered me under.

I returned each night to retrieve my jewel
My torso agape and open
I was urged to fight with those twilight fools
That yearned to forsake me broken.

But I turned from spite and their actions cruel
I know they take from me a token
Of brilliant light which signifies renewal
Like, the beating ache in hearts awoken.

And, now, I see
Why they took my heart
For their eyes, they could not open.

Nor, their mouths feel light unspoken.

So, I let them keep
My piece of luck.

My carnelian jewel…

…we, together; brighten; darkness; stolen.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Autumntime

Greens have gone,
From foggy view,
Days are dust,
In darkened hue,
Hours vast light,
Now, dwindles, few.

Thronging sepia, scarlet, yellows,
Waylay, the walkway, steps unsettled,
Slipt strides skulk their creptly echoes.

Harvest comes to croon its yearly cast,
Dyeing embered leaves on weary paths.

Yet, the songs seem to taste,
Of cindered yore,
Like, a belly full of fire gone to war.

The ash in its haste,
Falls fret and sore,
Whilst the Tinder and the Kindling’s,
Flames burst fore.

And, I sit in burning meadows,
Neath black cloud,
Raindrops flit, a yearning sizzle,
Steams;

A shroud.

Covering our footprints with,
Falls, dusty, wet,
Entwined with blazing leaves,
Beckoned syne,
Taut mind — affixes hazy memories,
Reckoned, pined,
For joy’s while, betwixt mazes free,
.
From echoed;

Autumntime.


© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Cursed

Waters splurge.
Flowing out, from Her words.

Soaking in perturbed nerves.
So much so, Her verbs churn.

Waters break, unearthed berths.
No later. It’s the worst first.

She’s ‘well’ versed.
As the droplets fall down her cheeks below.

And, She’s wet through from her cascades.
Sweat, dew from her last waves.

Eyes are holes ’cause they have burst.
Cursed.

She’s cried her weight from her vast caves.
Dehydrate. Despite bay’s spate.

Her eyes are holes ’cause they have burst.
Cursed.

And, when they ask Her,
“How are you these days?”

All the while,
She smiles and says,

like, the rain;
“I’m fine.”


© 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

In Common

There is more
in common
here
than not.

Crock, kettle, boiled pot.
Blackness after stratosphere.
And, after body’s stiffened rot.
Melancholy and the fear
when set upon by black dog.
Burst clouds over heading near.
Foot stuck in the bog.
Doomed days blurred, unclear.
The jamming of the cogs.
No end in sight but
that’s more common
than it’s not.

Yes, there is more
in common here
than not.

A vision, now, I can steer
and see blue skies over every plot.
The motor’s running easy, top-tier.
I’ve got my foot loose from the crop.
The rain is more like happy tears.
What I thought was a houndly leer
turned out to be a gaze from a log.
Happiness’ touch in the eyes of deer
has pierced straight through my fog.
I’m glad to be alive in sheer
rocket sensed uplifting agog.

Either way you look it here.

There is so much more
in common
between us all
than not.

© 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

Thank You, Hummingbird

Travelling toward; aglow.

A Hummingbird of fire,
hanging wingly snow,
that obliterated ire.

It delivered me — a message,
in envisioned freedom’s essence.

When, I feel it, again, at my snowblind end,
I’ll thank it for a lend, of belly-flamed repent.

As, I flew amongst those frozen blazes,
that purloined balance from our ages,
and, called upon prophets and messiahs, doomed to burn to dust; Ignatius.

Like, so many, uplifting, scriptures pages.

Yet, my fiery, snow-tipped Hummingbird,
never turned, or, forgot my words, nor, faces.

I’ve worn many through my stages — books, profiles and cases.

But, my Hummingbird,
floating there in stasis,
is a transcendental dirge,
that lives to soar within my traces,
a vestige not seen or heard,
by other people’s gazes,
nor ears buzzed and stirred.

My Hummingbird,
saved me from,
extinction,
with a cold and warm embrace,
that I’ve since adorned,
within my graces.

So, it might sound and look absurd,
but, thank you, for my life; Hummingbird.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

The Tunnels of Leen

Water dug a new slipstream.

Caught running through stunned
Was me
Spun in this dream.

Down sleepy funnels extreme
Round freecoming blues.

By the tunnels of Leen.

A cormorant drying
It’s wings by a bank
Without need for green
Nor worry or thank.

Whispered, “I’m flying
While you all are sank.”
I smile
With dank pockets
Empty
And lank.

Brown trout and an eel
Carp, tench and a bream
All proudly swum t’ward me
In a fashion much pleased.

They shout..

“You might well be sunken
But at least you are free
Like a soothsayers unction
Rolls their tongue
Comes a sea.”

I responded..

“Yes, when I am sunken
I’ll return to the turf
Either dusty or shrunken
While you bask in the surf.
Aft asunder, I’ll meet you
Again by the stream
In no wonder I’ll greet you
By the tunnels of Leen.”

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Ceramic Vagabonds

A bitten lip, stressed. Gristle’s tip,

pulled through daggered teeth.



Like, a thistle, twisted, then, tugged,

by ceramic vagabonds from West,

to East.



Caught-on a vicious,

thicket’s rug of fog, lugging

it’s thickest mist.



Bursting crimson derision slips,

from tooth chipt to chin,

whilst tongue averts a-lick.



Drip after drip is erstwhile, quick,

as cascades profer their glistened gift.



Blended carmine, silver and fuchsia pink,

all pour their praise on,

disaster’s glassy fist.



As, the last of the claret,

makes a scarlet shawl,

on a mouthly drink of mink.



Ceramic vagabonds are only as strong,

as the gummy hammock,

they rest their laurels on.



Their end is swift just like the thicket’s mist,

that pulls undone holes for hollow’s songs.



We are, all, simply, ceramic vagabonds.



Temporary teeth, in the mouths,

of larger, edifying orthodons.



Though, we may build a giant edifice,

or, pray before a mighty tetralith,

we are one pull away from an ending kiss.



An abstract caress becoming genesis.



© poormansdreams