In a patch of the park
bench and bark are bound
like hands that once held hearts
on seats in summer
when days were only dawning

in times now twisted
into memory like roots
now turning in the turf
beneath bench and bark
in a patch of the park.

In a patch of this earth
shadows slip over soil
and all that once was
whispers on the breeze…

Break the benches
where we once rested,
cut down the trees
where we once sheltered

but roots,

roots are like hearts held

their impressions last longer
than benches and barks
in patches on parks.

All words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on SoundCloud:



Hashtag your photo with the words #We Remember to join the global event and show how we will never forget. 27th January, Holocaust Memorial Day. 

The loss did not start in the gas chambers; it started with words of hate.



Particles of what once was
whisper on the wind
Hush and listen!
See it dance in the light
faint though familiar
fragile but fading

As if to say goodbye
particles of what once was
caress my cheek
stop and feel it
as they catch the wind
and like wings take flight
and darker falls the night

To shine on other sands
to rain down on other skins
hear it falling
while on mine, I see lines,
indelible lines etched over time
the precious particles of what once was…

All Words and Photographs by Dami en B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:



Balloon, see the balloon, see thoughts float through space, meander through the mind; wild thoughts, drifting thoughts, blue thoughts, white thoughts, read thoughts, thoughts arriving unannounced, uninvited, unaware of the current climate, thoughts that rise like balloons on silent streets, on sleepy Sundays in the suburbs, to the south of her centre, where it’s slow to shock and surprise, though if no one ever sees it, was it ever really there? Thoughts float through time, suggestions, signs from unconscious minds, disruptive thoughts, distracting thoughts; I held his hand in a taxi while thinking of another and then came back but he was gone or I had changed or the memory was never a true account of the reality, maybe he’d held mine. Thoughts trickle as I float through strange streets, mounting Montsouris and its misplaced meridian on a Sunday, drawing conclusions of held hands next to monuments out of line, drawing on inspiration wherever necessary, wherever noticed; see the balloon! Thoughts float like balloons, like bodies, like taxis, never knowing if it’s a considered curve or just a current we’re caught in and if it cannot be captured, can it ever be caressed? If I leave will I be remembered, if I run will I be missed, if I come back, could it all have been a dream before? They thought this was the centre once, drew lines to draw them back to where positions could be measured, redrew them later when location fell from their favour. Thoughts float like balloons though the air, oxidising, fuelling, thinking, thoughts float, fragile and free, some never to be caught, some never to be caressed. Thoughts fade; even the marker on this monument has been ground down, thoughts float; balloons blow and then burst, roads lead out and to reverse is not to replay. Capture me, it, them, all, everything before I, we, it, all fade, before I, we, it, all burst. Balloon, see the balloon, see the being, see the beginning, see the beginning of something bright, even on silent streets, in the sleepy suburbs, on Sundays, south of all that seemed, once upon a time, to be central, see it all, where simple things can shine. See it all now, here, on front, before it bursts.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly



Time waits for
shimmering snows
to melt into memory
like kept kisses
from lost lips.

Time waits
for saturated skies
to seek sustenance
in blushing blues
since stolen
by frantic frost
and fragile freeze
like drawers deserted
of his clothes
and her shoes

as the wind whips
the chasm carelessly.

Time waits
on the sidelines
for shades of spring
to slip over shrubs,
like seductions over skin,

now stilted,
now submerged,
now surrendered to silence,

now frozen in frame
as if posed for a painting
or preparing for purification.

Breath paused
in place of still air

still water

still winter

still single

but life is lissome underfoot.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available at Soundcloud:




First day,
first frost,
fragile steps,
crisp blanket under foot
on grass like glass.

Crisp air,
slow movements
susceptible to change,
to ticking time,
travelling through
like the snow flakes
on sturdy shoots
above warmer roots

Fine day
for starting out,
finding freshness
in the unforeseen,
favouring the future
on lists
that never linger long,
resounding resolutions
penned in dissolvable solutions
on crisp sheets
all shattered
before the sun
can melt the snow.

A blank page,
a clear canvas,
crisp to caress,

careful how you press.

We are each of us
through twisting time
often unreachable,
looking for a leaf
to light upon,
a place to rest
on this new day
in this new year.

Crisp white hope
glistens on fragile branches
that are already bending…


All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly