war

Callum Featherstone

When Winters Came

When Winters came
Awash with ire in unsteadied storm
Forged winter’s fire — ice reddy worn

When Winters came
Scorn slipt over crimson rinks
Torn limb rips skins to pale pinks

When Winters came
In hands of Iron gript
Froze dagger tips
Bled damned horizon dript
Rose ichor’s lips

When Winters came
A shed cherry kiss impressed upon
White battlefields
At the base of this mountain’s face yon
Beard — battered shields

Warcried slogan crescendos
Fell to soft, wet whispers lain
All cried broken memento’s
Well — too oft, when Winters came

When Winters came resource was rare
When Winters came we’d War our share

When Winters came and went
Then splinters flamed descent

Now, Winters gone have come back
Proud cinders shone drag us back

To that place that our mountained face
Turned to ash
And, our Winters became fountain sprays

Scattering; what remains of…

…our well–
urned past.


© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Starvation

Now, here, I forever wait.
On the horseback cusp, late.
Of a wish’s, yet, to come, truth.
An outlier,
fallen under hoof.
Broken, misspoken.

Eating other’s empty words.

But, I, green, unstill,
have black-sanguine dreams.
In my tossed,
turned,
undying sleep.
Of misfortune returning me,
unto this bitter Earth.
Where peace can’t take root,
only; rumble,
brief,
under warmonger’s boot.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Shell shock

My sword, my shield, are heavy now,

the battles rage, my neck feels bowed.

Once more;

my head’s above the parapet,

princely darkness; devil silhouette.

Rancour,

blood and fire, steel and death,

cling to the air; grasping breath.

Encore,

there is no time for plaudits’ sorrow;

every ‘moment’ had – scorned by tomorrow.

This suit of armour wears a chink,

whenever the owner bears to think,

deeply;

in ocean beds; discomfort lurking,

from the pearl of wisdom; I’m undeserving .

Discreetly,

these battled wits within my mind,

devise painfulness, a brand new kind;

obliquely.

This ever present convalescence

makes; funeral pyres of my presence.

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.