sun

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

A message from Gaia.

Where did all the compassion go?
Is it lost; in the Sun’s, ashen glow?
Is it locked; in hearts, that unfasten, slow?
Please, find it, and, return it to Me.

I talked to My Brother;
testy Ares,
His rage spoke of Him watching,
Me burn, convulse and freeze.
He saw those smothering,
fleshy fairies,
self-caged, hate-soaked, plotting,
with yearned pulse, for Me, to seize.

My Sister; loving Aphrodite, too,
cried, agonised,
weeping, at human destruction,
Her dusty tears, made clouds of ash.
Her vista turning, grey, from blue,
My blackened eyes,
from bloody knuckles, of consumption.
Unjust; I fear; gnawing fists, unabashed.

I heard My Siblings, both, and vowed,
never again,
to become, abused and broken,
enduring an insane plight, scared,
and, rid Myself, of this parasite.
This poison growth, is overproud,
severing Men,
will leave Me bruised, yet, awoken,
from an inhumane nightmare,
and, back, to health, and joy, and light.

Where did all the compassion go?
Is it lost; in the Sun’s, ashen glow?
Is it locked; in hearts, that unfasten, slow?
Please, find it, and, return it to Me.

Callum Featherstone

Something within

They said,

“well, at least, you don’t miss

something

that you never knew.”

this pater-shaped hole

began to impress;

began to exceed excess.

And, once begun,

it couldn’t be undone,

it made both

beginning, and, ending;

without gravitas. Gone.

A filicidal forecast looming

within,

gloomy;

whether he reigned or son shone

“A victim of cruel circumstance?”

this pater-shaped hole

became a grave of discontent,

deep.

So, very, deeply;

without.

No heaped shovel or search

within

could ever uncover it,

nor, taste of stark reality

– stomach it

“A by-product of uncertain romance?”

this pater-shaped hole

has a

dangerous potential

to permeate

generations,

going from keyhole;

within, to black-hole;

exhuming –

gravity without fixture,

irrevocably vacuuming;

sons of Mars,

Venus’ daughters,

zodiac stars, suns, moons,

and all of their explorers,

solar systems, nebulae,

and, galactic formations

of future paterfamilias,

of all things familial,

intergenerational idioms,

inscriptions and incantations

“I didn’t miss what I had never known.

I just knew that something within was missing.

Half the time I felt apart, alone.

Half of my history in absentia whilst existing.”

Callum Featherstone

The Sun and The Son

The Sun carries the fate

Of our future on its back

The Son carries the weight

Of his past in his pack.

The Sun practices beaming

Ready for the summer show

The Son forever dreaming

Of freedom free to grow.

The Sun solemn staring

At a world disintegrating

The Son struggles caring

In a world hell-bent on hating.

The Sun won’t last forever

But will far out last the Son

The Son’s a trifle clever

But he won’t surpass the Sun.