poetry

Callum Featherstone

Cosmonaught

Arrogance of present answers

on past tech and advances,

history’s cerebral romances

laid in the dirt asleep,

by far frog-leaped;

and also out-enhanced us.

Commonplace it justly saddens –

common faces become assassins.

As Julius imbibed Manhattans

the death-toll sparked egregious.

The space in between us

became

chasms;

intercontinental planetary spasms.

It all matters; dark and light.

It all matters; wrong or right.

What’s the matter?

Bhagavad Gita? Quoting chapters?

Nuclear war hindsight…

Science, not before but after;

made sure of atomic plight.

You are birth, life and death;

in a universal breath.

An infinite respirator

expressed;

by heavy traffic – stars and planets.

A cosmos complete yet

bereft.

Callum Featherstone

Making sense

When the eyes are opened

By Pineal once closed

A cerebral token

Of belief takes hold.

When their mouth’s deceitful

Don’t eat from chaos’ hand

Keep your diet peaceful

So that your mind expands.

When the scent overpowers

To cover their tracks

Be aware that some flowers

Set deadly traps.

When your hearing’s confused

Locked down in a prism

Paint thoughts colourful hues

Canvass yourself and listen.

And if you’re feeling out of touch

Take a moment to remember;

Our light burns out

by smothering clutch

And there is no fire

without an ember.

Callum Featherstone

Gules, argent and azure

Gules, argent and azure;

Is it really worth fighting for?

A folded flag on your coffin door;

Is it really worth dying for?

If you took the troops & civilians

Who were murdered by war

They’d measure in millions

They rest in peace?! Or at all?!

Cause the peaces don’t match

And the peace is a puzzle

War’s an itch you can’t scratch

A rabid dog you can’t muzzle

They’re inextricably linked

Dead civilian, dead soldier

Both should be extinct

But grow older and older

And younger and younger

There’s no ageism in bloodshed

But the greedy warmonger

Sees £ signs coloured blood-red

War is a game of power

99 percent of us lose in

Don’t choose graveside flowers

Cannon fodder’s not for chews-ing

Gules, argent and azure;

Is it really worth fighting for?

A folded flag on your coffin door;

Is it really worth dying for?

Callum Featherstone

Remember the Peace

On Armistice Day I’ll ask of you this

With the poppy you’ll wear

To commemorate the long list

Of young men dead – with care.

Of those we have mourned

Yearly, since nineteen-forty-five

Other pieces of Peace we have scorned

Saving countless peoples lives.

War in proximity that always relates

Is that Troubled area over the strait.

What else could we do? Celebrate?

A peace process since nineteen-ninety-eight.

And there is a list over there

Long and left without.

No clover? Nor poppy? Or something altogether more fair.

Still, Peace worth remembering without a doubt.

So when you wear a poppy.

To remember.

Or choose not to.

To remember.

Try to remember.

Those slain and lost.

In the bitterness of November.

Remember the Peace and what it cost.

Callum Featherstone

Icarus

Do not bank on a lifesaver

Coming second, first or third

As tall and looming cabers

Scrape skies – hurried and absurd.

Tossed alongside shining sabre

Toothed-Tiger looking herds

They are timid after taming.

And self-righteous bees and birds

Practice surreptitious-slut-shaming

In a world of wizened words

Reduced fruitfully like raisins.

The acorn may be small

But it’s endeavour grows so mighty

From it’s branches to it’s trunk.

And the flock’s morning call

Along with wings so fit and flighty

Launch from their wooden bunk.

Just as Icarus looked down on all

Mankind’s eyes are blinded brightly

By a couping Parliament; whose ship has sunk

To a depth that Devils dare to fall

Which constricts forever tightly.

And makes – a fake of the monk.

Callum Featherstone

Dove of Peace

From a room inside your mind

Never mind the lack of room

As the room you hope to find

On the inside of your head.

Because outside that vital place

Is without you, no longer vital

Because within yourself is grace

And outwardly your wings to spread.

Misunderstood so lately

And often only by yourself

But to others matters greatly

Through your justness dearly held.

You put your trust in others

And they only let you down

But you rode the lonely buffers

Without a grimace or a frown.

And you stand before the world

Knowing your true self post-defame

And you tamed the downward spiral, swirl

Understood your self and name.

Callum – dove of peace

Peaceful dove that hopes to give

Enough at least to teach

How understanding helps us live.

Callum Featherstone

The cost of living

As the final autumn leaves

Blanket the pavement beneath my feet

I’m reminded of tears of grief

Falling from hungry children’s cheeks.

In the guise of a vulture

Autumn austerity circles overhead

Eviscerates community and culture

Dining on poverty-stricken dead.

They call it a cost of living crisis

But when you take more than you’re giving

That’s a loss of giving crisis

And a sin there’s no forgiving.

Callum Featherstone

Sweet Dreams

You are nothing.

You are everything.

You are magic in a box high up on a hill overlooking the universe.

A box which is opened every time that you sleep.

Revelations decoded as the lid is lifted.

Sweet dreams.

Memories casting spells from the spirit-world which transport you throughout space and time.

Future presenting past – transversing as one across existence.

Immortality isn’t hard to imagine when you dream rather than think.

Your flesh will turn to dust and travel on the wings of your essence with reverie as captain.

Flying metaphysically.

Callum Featherstone

Masquerade

You look in the mirror

And see

See too much

See their mistreatment

See your failures

See it all but don’t want to.

You look in the mirror

You like it for once

And then you feel

Shame for being vain

Shame for thinking about you

Shame for even thinking. Just

Shame.

When smashing the mirror –

the smithereens –

make a realisation –

all of it was a façade =

a masquerade in glass.

Because the broken pieces

Make a broken person and

Broken people can only dream of being whole.

Callum Featherstone

A sinking feeling

The ever swelling sea

Is a discomfort blanket sloshing

Whispers woe by telling me,

“Innocent bodies will need washing.”

The rain clouds dark and dusky

Frown upon each town and city

With a thunderous tone so husky

Pitter patter has turned to pity.

Breaking banks without a penny

Snaking slalom; this rising river

Floods the hearts and souls of many

Destructive venom is delivered.

Questions for those with plenty…

Your thirst is quenched –

What remains?

A glass half full?

Or just empty?

As loss asphyxiates the gains.