I’ve seen you
on faces,
in places 
you’ve never been,
in places
you’ll never be,
on faces, 
other faces,
not your face, 
in a place
that has no claim 
to your space
since life
took your trace
from all of space.

I’ve seen you
on faces,
in foreign places 
looking for traces 
of the ‘what has been’
and the things I’ve seen,
looking for the layers
you laid on me,
the depths you drew
onto who I was
and what you knew
to be true,
the hope that was me
and the growth that killed you.

I’ve seen you
on faces,
your trace
impossible to erase,
with no regard
to time or space.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:



Screen Shot 2016-04-18 at 23.04.09

We scuttle and scurry
through stepping storms
and stormy skies,
through coughs and cries
and hellos and goodbyes.

We scuttle and scurry,
seasoned citizens
battling the seasons,
the blistering breezes,
the rains and the sneezes,
the smothering sweats
and the winters that freeze us.

We scuttle and scurry
from blankets to brollies
beneath covetous clouds
through clustering crowds,
over pools and puddles
splashing mud on our muddles.

We scuttle and scurry
through this life
in such a hurry

that it’s often gone
before we’ve got it.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photography taken under a stormy sky by The Palacio Real de Madrid, Spain.



A bridge in blue
between me and you
no car can carry me
no boat can bare me
no bike can bring me


A bridge in blue
between me and you
too deep to dare
too cold to consider
too close for comfort

all connection crushed by the current.


All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Amsterdam at Sunset




There is a bloom bursting in the bleak of winter
There are shadows that lurk in the sun’s embrace
There is a crow overhead looking mean and sinister
There’s an order disordered in time and space


There is a light that shines on shadows in autumn
There is pain in the thorn of the blooming brier
There is a crow that flies though nobody sees him
There is deception in things we think we desire


There are people are laughing without rhyme or reason
There are others counting up all they have lost
There is beauty in bloom no matter the season
While that crow overhead is counting up the cost.


There is a shadow overhead watching us wither
There is a bird in flight just biding his time
There is destruction flapping on feathers that flutter
There is a crow who now covets our reason to rhyme.

All Words and Pictures by Damien B. Donnelly



On foreign soil
I laid my feet
in foreign arms
I kissed on foreign streets.

In other beds
I gave my body
on other beds
locked in naked bodies.

In fleeting holds
I found my needs
while fleeting was
the hold that let me feed.

In other hands
I saw you take
wondering what
hold in mine you’d make.

On tender lips
I left my taste
on other lips
I lingered long on waste.

On sleepless nights
I laid awake
twisting nights
the darkness could not break.

On salty sands
I walk on waves
and salty tears
I cast for time and tide to fade

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly


Screen Shot 2016-04-15 at 21.44.17

is as subtle 
as settling shadows
while simplicity shines on streets 

as streets shine in simplicity 
and the shadows settle
into subtle


All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photography taken on the road in Hong Kong.

My own take on a Mirror Cinquain- it’s not the standard but neither am I.


still moving on the metros

Moments on the metro
still moving
still cruising
still choosing
still cosy with commuters
who don’t communicate,
why does commuter
look like communication
when no commuter
Moments on the metro
still moving, still stopping
still breaking, still taking chances
still stealing glances
penning poems
nodding into naps
bags loaded into laps.
Moments on the metro still
madams with makeup
making faces
like painting Picasso’s
checking mirrors
to see if the eyes line up,
lines, lines of metros, moving
moving down the carriage
of non communicative commuters
cool, classy, kookie, crazy,
the man behind who smells
of starvation and stale streets,
buskers belting out bad notes
and getting bad looks
instead of crisp notes,
the red hat with the short skirt,
the tall ones, the tired, the tourists
plotting their positions on plans
too small to make sense of
too much to capture,
Moments still moving on metros
trailing tracks through tunnels
on the underground
under the ground
under the cars and the bikes
and the feet walking and taxis swerving
and cursing at bikes and pedestrians crossing
the wrong way, the wrong side
as rain falls and puddles
splashing into gutters
as water trickles down
from daylight into darkness
onto tunnels where it finds us
moving still,                     on metros.


All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly



And off she ran
a blonde bird in flight,
a bright baby bird
into the night,
focused and flapping
as if chasing the morning,
as if orchestrating the trees,
as if transported by the breeze
flying over fields of youth,
twists and turns and truth,
folds of frivolous folly,
courting clouds in curiosity,
looking for a reason
to rhyme upon,
a reason to ride on

and she will fly
in spiralling circles
that surround you
before circling you
in widening widths,
further stretches,
further afield,
a blonde bird
but blue to you
and the agony of letting her go
and the ecstasy of having her back
but she is bound
with those big eyes,
those beautiful eyes,
to brighter breezes,
to warmer beaches,
bound for bigger things
like the grass growing
over fading footsteps,
like the trees
towering over ticking time,
like the clouds
wild to the will of the wind,

to far flung lands she will fly
as you sigh,
to other fields,
to foreign fields
to set down findings,
feelings, foundations,
familiarities foreign to you,
foolish to you
but faithful and fruitful to her,
a home in other hills,
a happiness to harbour
in other homes

and then one day
when the breeze beckons
you catch her scent on your shoulder
where it wasn’t there before
and you will find her
once again
in a field familiar to you both.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly




He moved in shadows

in ghostly strides that gained on nothing 
but grains that slipped through the hands of time,

She lingered in loss

under caged cobwebs where the widow in black
had weaved her the witch from a pantomime.

She lived two floors up

an attic assembly of ageing antiques
fading to dust and distinctly untouchable,

He was basement left

a sunless space where nothing grew
disregarded, depressed and growing dysfunctional. 
She existed in memories 
where arms that once held her faded in frames

He shivered in silence 
too afraid to attempt, too old to make claims.
She cried on Saturdays 
and still shopped for two in her one roomed space, 

He ate from boxes
of pre prepared food and longed for taste.
She died on a Tuesday before morning mass 
he died that night from a cold he thought would pass .

They laid them together, side by side,
in the depths of the morgue, in a silence that sighed.

Two people who’d never exchanged a word, 
two people lost in the shadows of the world. 

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly