It’s hard, this life at times. Like; carv- ing algebra equat- ions into granite. With mysty mynds and all of those, why?, god- ammits. Yet, pers- ever- ance has found me, lost. And, carried me when I’m nought & cross. It’s not easy, but if it was, would we care, as much? For, every raindrop, that fills the puddle, the lake, the river and the ocean. Has it’s journey of which to speak of, through it’s own cascading potion. A feeling, an emanation, a glimmer, an emotion. A way, to make, a shimmer in the sheen, over brook or stream, in every fountain, of our mysty mynded ; notions.
Subtle, soft, rippling creases in Manannán mac Lir’s forge.
An uisce — Scotch coalescent Irish Moss.
That only sea and river Gods could in thoughts divulge through incantation’s soak of aquatic creatures.
Then, out of the swell’s depths a Selkie leapt over a Merrow like a silver birch long slept somersaulted by a sparrow where wet secrets are kept under the lid of mine eyes and those on the faced design of my stone- made pebble that became their coin arrow.
For there is mystic magic in spirit dreams of the uisce.
And, so, I fathom ..
.. that each wish that we cast from the rock to the coffer only bears fruit at steeped last ..
Nighttime’s daughter, is waiting for a bus. Stopped. To come on home. With her mind’s eye, a yellow half-moon.
Pavements all pool. Lagoons. Guttural gully rumbles. Rolling on back, beseeched. By runaway days.
“Walking through our streets, laden with reminiscenct mists. Past is heaviest under feet, where souls bawled into fists.” Spits, the hiss of factory steam.
I meander on. Mesmerised by, flash- backs. A gleam, in ancient river’s stream. Flash- caught, in semi-crescent spy’s tide.
Fine and smooth are Autumnal rains. That pine to soothe, then, wipe away, the whipped raze of zealous rays, that crack and blister over staves, and under paves. Proud and boastful in Summer days.
The wilds remove bare, insomnal cage, a skyblue booth, when, white turns grey, as drips came, quelled was jealous rage. A blackened vista, covers brave, bands thunder made. Loud unroast on wondrous scape.
The Featherstone surname is a Northern English locational surname, derived from places in Staffordshire, Yorkshire, and Northumberland.
The name originates from the Old English words “feðerstan” or “fe(o)ther-stān,” meaning a prehistoric structure of four stones or a tetralith (a burial chamber for a chief).
I screamed stone — once set in ice.
Where my life’s home, was. Immoved from.
Swallowed whole.
By, that time;
A cavern’s jaws, wide, with teeth, all labelled: misery. Sidled up, alongside, to champ the hearth, that lived in me.
A loss, embossed, in rock and frost, chomped heavy, crush- ing heartly hinterlands.
I screamed stone — once set in ice.
Lochs of moss were flossed across, hillock, levied, to Hollow Rust, darkly, in command.
Memories pervade, in attempts to thaw, froze alabaster’s keen appetite, for death’s lament.
Every murmured age, that we spent, before, chose as everlasting safekeep stalagmites.
Those sentimental, pastimed sediments.
I screamed stone — once set in ice.
‘Til our soul’s faced, a symbolic, snug embrace. I broke free from cold, obelisk’s raze. It stoked our heart’s hug, in it’s rightful place. After, grasping you, afterlife, screamed stones, are, melodic, monumental tones. And, set ice, like you, is, warm, yet, crystallised. Just, as your thoughts, saw for us, precious lives. You lit up our archway with gleaming lights. A matriarchal, tetralithic spirit-guide.
Now, you are; dreamed stones — in our feathered eyes.
My money was through in slanted lands. So, I begun anew with extant, dead hands.
Solitude was conjured in the Catherine wheels, that spun along my martyrdom.
I rode a road on pneumatic drill spike tips. Plunging hole after hole free of lifely grips.
A question covered me in bloody rust; “How do you govern me, I’m governless?”
At a saintly grotto, St. Colmcille’s Shrine, a faintly motto paints the pillar’s lime;
“I am a Dove when shackled, rough. On wings, open, clutching us together. Far above, Father Darby’s banded cuff — gone kin, soak in gushy luck; untethered.”
Aft armies of words conquered tongue twisting lands. While phrased-chains bound with gags slave’s mouthly hands.
All went quiet on the Western Front. Eastern stillborn syllabic discord silently bore the brunt.
Powerful vowels kissed consonant prominence at deathly hours they were gossip’s dominance.
Squadrons o’ sashes brainwashed pails o’ lies. Pogroms lay bleeding in crimson eyes. Quadrans placed o’er red pane’s demise. All fell quiet when their piece was spoken. Common words met their lowly end. Swift mute compliance when peace was broken. A black ominous bird’s crowed lament.
All goes quiet when it’s bled from us. A hushing quiet when all said is shushed.
poorman'sdreams 