You were my friends, you were my childhood, our beds by the riverside, 
on the north side of the south, far from the troubles, far from the loyalists
and the loss, loyal to what, I ask?

I see us all now from the far side, from another side, you were always on my side, 
even when I wasn’t, sharing treats by the fireside on rainy days after sturdy stews
when even then we were off and running, dreaming in daylight of distance,
of diversions, of dignity, a ship called dignity to sail along our river,
so the deacons in blue sang, taking us away from all that was so simple,
so special, so sincere, our little lives by the riverside on the drives
and the crescents and the groves.

We drowned only our fears in that barely brook by the riverside,
by the Northside, childhood hang ups; being ginger, being tall, being gay, 
being small, I remember it all today, flowing in from yesterday,
bobbing along on the bottom of a beautiful steady stream
of memories, madness, moments, mothers.

I remember you all from here, from the other side of the river, on the far side
of the world, from the far side of growing, accepting, they call it, understanding,
surrendering but not forgetting, never forgetting, the pampering and the parties,
the new years with old friends, Dave’s guitars, John’s fireworks
and everyone’s songs; should old acquaintances be forgot, as if they could.

I see you all there still, even those who are no longer here, for me
you will always be there, be smiling, be eternal; barking, bold, brilliant, beloved,
you can never be missing if you’ve always been loved, and the others;
who blossomed, who grew, who married, who flew, some have children now,
grown from being children into children baring children.

We were friends, once, in the endless summers under tents with no pretence,
singing songs on the radio, singing through our little lives, a family of friends
who kicked our cans, as you said, played chasing, played games, played house,
mowed lawns, walked dogs, swapped toys and clothes, care bares and fancy paper,
next to the power station, ‘I love you to the power station and back again’,
wasn’t that what was said, when the power station was the end of the world.

All those fine families and faithful friends carried on now,
like the flow of the water, carried away from that riverside,
carried away to life on the other side, following along the course
but never once forgetting the source.



All Words by Damien B. Donnelly. Photographs from back at the Riverside.



We were flowers in a garden,
we were wild flowers,
we were weeds for the wasps
to suckle on,
to suck us off
to suck us dry.
We were unclear
out of focus,
a wash of colour
in the distance,
already extinct
never distinct,
ever changing
ever wilting
ever wanting
something more
something more lasting
someone more substantial.
We were flowers in a garden
beauty being stung
too soon
too shallow
too light
never quite right.
We were wild flowers
dying before we’d been plucked.

All Words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly



Screen Shot 2016-02-21 at 17.51.32
It was this morning and yesterday again,
          a smell, a scent, on the metro, in my nostrils,
                    a decent into the memory, a revery playing, replaying 
                while the crows counted Round Here, they sang, 
          this year and that other year, all at once,
we sang our own song, once, once, once
          but time, like the metro, took us off and on
                     into different directions, obligated to other distractions, 
                                           men and marriage, movements and meanders,
                                 an Irish song we sang, you sang, I listened 
                    and then I left while you stayed on,
        stayed on track in that other year 
but I came back and you were still there
           still here, Round Here, as the crows sang,
                     are still singing, those counting crows
                                   their words still ringing 
             in my ears, today, on the metro,
  with that scent, that odorous accent
            that opened a gap in time between yesterday,
                                            when we were young, and today,
                                                              grown worldly and wider, 
                                           this morning as my mind rushed
                            and passengers crushed onto carriages
            commuting, lines crossing, junctions joining
as I went to work remembering who we were,
     I wore waistcoats even then and you a brown coat
                            that caressed your curves and concerns,
                                   I went to work while traveling onwards,
                                                     along the same rails,
                                          in the same direction
                      as before but different too 
                             some things old
                                  and some things new,
                                           still me on the metro,
                                                  still me and there’s you.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

A Little Vow Left Dead


This is Jennifer Calvert from Ink and Quill- read, listen and hear the beauty of her words and then go to her blog and checkout how beauty grows…

Jennifer Calvert Author

I made a promise,
A little vow,
Whispered on the wind,
Pledged –
A curse to my weeping heart,

What will take to hold you dear?
To feel the stir of your emotions,
To taste the passion of your lips?
What can I do to move you to tears?
To assure you, my eyes are rendered yours,
Sheltered by the shift of your indifference,
A shield maiden I’ve become,

Moved beyond recognition,
On meadows lost to night –
Stars behind the clouded skies,
In grapping wound, the bite of your words –
A tongue lost in the shallow on your mouth,
The promise of our love,
Biting down,

The tears, which fall,
Mingled with blood –
Dried in withered waste,
A flower shrivelled inside my head,
You sink your teeth, further into my skin,
The hole,
To fill,
To seal the hurt within,
A promise broken,

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Friday with Georges, Centre Georges Pompidou 

The modern art museum built inside out, towering above the city and bursting with creativity 

Going up

La Tour Eiffel is never far from view


Juan Gris 

Warhol and Taylor 

Gerard Fromanger

Cafe Georges

Castles in the Sand 

Miss Jones 

Looking down on life

Reflections at the exit

Inspiring ceilings 

Going down.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly at the Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris, France.



And so lives sound,
a chorus of sound, a glorious cacophony, a clatter,
a sound of ladies looking, laughing, touting, shouting
a shuffle of feet, tiny feet, tiny ladies, on a tiny street, on the ladies street
with brollies, bright brollies, tartan brollies, cheap brollies, silly brollies,
bending brollies, brollies broken by the sound of the rain falling down,
of the ladies laughing, of the buyers buying, of the colours clashing,
brollies battered by the weather, polyester being pelted, pounded,
brollies held by ladies, as they barter, as they battle for the better buy,
the ladies at the ladies market, in Hong Kong, on a Sunday
and I’m jet lagged and bargained out
and that bitch saw me coming
and is laughing at me going,
holding all my money
in her hands, not mine!
And so lives sound,
raindrops on tartans
and high pitched voices,
squeezing, screeching
and giggling, always giggling
and golden cats nodding,
nodding at golden dreams
as tiny feet plod in puddles,
ladies feet in little puddles
that are free, the only things
that are free on Sundays
in the rain, at the market,
the ladies market and I bought too much Kitty,
too much kitsch, too much crap but it’s market day
and I’m jet lagged and the little ladies are scary
and my head is weary, big feet in little puddles,
foreign puddles, in China, in far away China, big trouble in little China
although it’s not so little but filled with big chips and cracks
and nodding cats grinning in glaring gold,
do you need shades? They have shades
on a tiny street with towering blocks chipped and cracked
and looming overhead, in the clouds, drowning in the dragon’s breath
but there are lights and movement,
a chorus of lights, a cacophony of movement
and the lights are bright and the buildings broken
but the movement is magical.
A dragon starts dancing in the distance
with men underneath, a polyester dragon,
a pink polyester dragon with many legs
moving, marching, mens legs on the ladies street,
on the ladies market, winding through the ladies faces
and shouting and bartering and rubbish,
in my bags there is rubbish, seriously overly priced rubbish
but I’m smiling at the faces of the ladies and the dragons and the legs
and dodging the brollies, the bobbing bright brollies, all racing with the dragons,
on Sunday, at the market, and the dragon is marching onwards, ever onwards
and the cats are forever nodding or bowing or laughing on the dark side of the day,
on this ladies day, on this Sunday, at this market, while the foreign rain is falling.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photograph taken at the Ladies Market in Hong Kong.



tumble weed

I lost my way
amid the rushes,
between the bushes,
torn from thorns,
as I turned and tumbled,
was twisted and thrown

and that day the sun burnt
like a blazing beacon upon my body.

I lost the path,
parted from perception,
a play of nature’s deception,
the nature of nature,
as I faltered and fumbled,
was fooled and fowled

and that night the stars stared
like sentinels upon my shadow

along the midway of the midday,
the world wound round
and its spirals knocked me down
while the towering trees
threatened me with their trunks,
turning and twisting
out of shape,
out of sight,
out for rape,
for revenge.

I lost my way
along the track
trying to find my way back,
gaining nothing on the gate,
as my grounding gave way
to a growling gravity,
to a sudden surge of velocity
and I,
twisting like a tumble weed,
caught up like nature’s seed,
wondered if I’d ever be freed.

Twisting through the tracks,
through the bushes
as movement rushes,
tumbling through the well threaded track,
all footprints being pushed back,
twisting and turning
and tumbling like tumble weed,
like nature discarding a troubling seed.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photographs taken by the underground caves in Maastricht , The Netherlands