space

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

An Ode to Triton

To be, within,
the, effervescent;
feminine, phantom grip.
Of; Neptune’s aerated,
overhanging, fists. So,
steep.

Cascading, satellitic columns,
of, wintry sediment,
that, can only, pray, to one day;
bless with wet,
those rectangular, ninety-degree,
vistas.

The; Neptunian duress, on; Triton-
ite; spousal, symbiotic, yet, seperate;
stress. Create, angular, plumed L’s.
Of, frozen gas,
and, dust; that, dryly;
weep.

Causing; cosmic, cupped,
cloying waves, of, crested ice.
And, entombing, ferocious tides.
Betwixt her, turquoise knuckles,
and, her; cerulean-shadow-
fingers.

A frozen, and, gelid,
atmosphere, of the; unruly,
and, the unruled. Immovable fixtures;
unpondered, unthought of.
And, without-sound;
asleep.

Shifting backwards, in orbit,
twirling, as though; an iced-dream.
In the, pitch-black, twilight.
Above; unabashed hues of blue. Before;
a bitterly-vexed, desolate, and, lonely; ice-
mistress.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

What? Do you think?

What if

to err is to be human?

But, not universal?

And, we are at best

Elysian mongrels –

in a field –

of wrongful existence;

an inhumane breed

that isn’t meant.

To be?

What? Do you think?

No,

nothing,

not at all.

Despite those Janus

empirical attempts

to civilise – by both

British and otherwise.

Tasking those unfit

with tyrannical wishes

of afternoon tea,

ballroom dances

and decorum

all the while

killing both

domestic and foreign

masses. Making

“civilised” territorial advances;

civilians accosted for the

colonial-cost

of another version of history;

lost;

whitewashed.

What? Do you think?

No,

nothing,

not at all.

An inhumane answer

is cruel enough

to be considered; just.

But,

to care about one another –

is just – too much?

We; this planetary cancer

of uncompassionate

missed chances..

Founded on

beings; lost.

What? Do you think?

No,

nothing,

not at all.

On homeward soil,

does terrafirm suffering

stop?

Outward..

Galactic empathy –

would be what?

Buffering? Double-bluffing.

Never gonna happen?

Watch this space;

amass dispersal.

What if

to forgive; divine

and life’s just a rehearsal

after all?

What do you think?

If all is, really, nothing?

Yes.

Then, there’s really

nothing to lose

at all.

Callum Featherstone

Complexities

An unspoken knowledge

speaks

from intergalactic colleges

wreaks

havoc in your inner sanctum.

Would

it matter if you ever thanked some

unknowing entity –

baffled by complexity?

Could

you find the words to comprehend?

Intelligence

that’s beyond the curve and bend

of

space and time and hate and

love.

Ideas of immaculate protection

prophylactic by conception.

Mysteries of universes that expand

can never be grasped by the hand.

For, if they were to be held –

our complexities – like broken shells

would be uncovered in a grain of sand.

Sifting and shifting – beats the drum of time

expanding and expounding – a celestial rhyme,

“What does become

has been departed,

The cycle ends

just where it started…”

Callum Featherstone

Interred-Galactic

“The more you learn,

The less you know.”

Scorned the Galaxy, stern

To her Stars as they glow

Glimmer.

Star bursts, “The irony isn’t lost

On me. I’m still a bright spark.”

Not realising the cost

Of stardust culminating in dark.

Dimmer.