And down fell rapture, fell down, not up,
having claws now, clenched now
over the faithless who couldn’t fathom
what their lies and legions had begun,

and off flew the doves that once divined,
by his hand, (by whose hand exactly?)
that dry land where ships could stand.
They soar once more in search of other shores?

Worry not their weakening wings,
those precious things, make them not
our whores, have them listen not
to manmade myths once bound in books
by human hands, by hooks that humans
hang to, bare back brave bird, flap not
in fear, for hear this, here, this, this is it,
after rapture has turned to wrath,
after the columns have conceded,
there is only rubble to rummage through.

Raped were the fine forests
with ferocious flames, with claims
to conquests and conquerors
and contractors of condos,
and ashes are the only monuments
to the woods now, so no Arc, now!

Hark now, how the angles weep
over drought, and the shadow of doubt
over mankind, man now drained of kind,
no more the floods, (gone, just like those
woods) as oil is sucked from starving soil,
from sacred sands once known as native lands

And down fell rapture, not up, fell down,
crashed into oceans cast with cadavers
of the countless who’d been cast out,
cast off, caught in the current of a concern
that we couldn’t seem to cope with, refuge
reduced a raft we couldn’t keep afloat,

pain has purged paradise and all pleasure
plucked out by those pinched claws,
gripped jaws, savage with selfish
sensationalism, fallen too far
to the right to ever be truly right.

See me, it sings, serve me, and it slivers,
before the ravenous roar of wronged
rapture itself is swept from the stage.

In the end, there are no encores.

Rapture. No Rapture. A new rapture!

A deathly departure!

Down with the darkness it dives,
deep down, and with it ignorance
and arrogance, deaf ears and blind eyes,
and mouths that eat their own tongues
for no more is there need for words.

The war has been won and rapture
has fallen down, is done.

And no one stands in wait for us.
The Coming they prophesied
has properly been and gone.


But then wake did I
from darkening dream
and turn did I
to open window
where light was cast
in joyous beam

and thought did I
on entering day
that sights from dreams
in day don’t stay,
but slumber still
behind closed eye,
and tucked down tight
neath blankets sigh

and so walk did I
and work did I
and laugh did I
and hope did I
and eat did I
and smile did I

and the sun retired
and the stars stretched out
and I thought
there is not a single doubt
as I stared upon
the heavens gesture
and thought not man
can this vision fracture


then turn did I towards end of day
and hear did I, though in the distance,
a wing in flight, a fear now calling,

no dream this time,

but that rapture falling.


All Words and Sketches by Damien B. Donnelly

Congratulations to everyone who took part in #NaPoWriMo2017! Now Breathe!

Audio version available on Soundcloud: 



Day 29; National Poetry Writing Month 30 Days/30 Poems #NaPoWriMo


I am
that fine line
that divides
what is feminine
from what is
That fine line
that flushes
the fabulous
out of the fickle.
The reflection
of what once was
in something else
and might
one day
be called
another new look.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photograph taken at the Fashion Forward exhibition, Musee des Arts Decoratifs, Paris 2016


Day 28: National Poetry Writing Month #30 Poems, 3 days #NaPoWriMo


on a bench
where they both sat down
in a far away field
in a stranger’s town
on a Sunday
when the flowers were waiting
they had no idea
of what fate was planting.
on the edge
of a changing sky
a seed was strumming
the strings of goodbye,
by the bark
and pressed into bench
two lives unaware
of the encroaching trench.
at the dawn
of a spring yet to bloom
they saw not the blossom
that shadowed their doom,
in the hook
of a bench and bark
a promise still whispers
of hope that missed the mark.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly




There’s a lady with a leek,
on the metro, next to me,
a vegetable, vegetating
while she’s reading a book,
and that leek, next to me,
moving through the miles,
like vegetables, on shopping aisles,
vegetating, waiting be cut,
to be cooked, killing time;
twisting, stopping, starting.
There’s a leek, on the lap
of the lady next to me
with the book that holds
no answers in the turned pages
as we move on the metro,
this morning, leek playing dead
so she won’t cut of its head
at home, later on, not here
on the metro, not here
with a knife (that wouldn’t be right)
not a lady with a knife
on the metro moving
cause there are checks now,
at the stations, you know,
so the homeless now
can have a job, don’t you know?
Funny things when you travel
on the metro, when you think
on the metro, next to ladies
with leeks, scouring cook books
for something to eat, something
to get us out of this state,
on metros moving through aisles
and dodging the missiles
that are coming increasingly now
more than just once in a while!

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly



A Poem about the GPO, Dublin’s iconic General Post Office

a site that’s seen more than just letters of love in its time…

for Poetry Day Ireland 27th April 2017




Beneath the pillars 
of your past, 
I posted letters 
between your walls 
and wondered 
if they rubbed up against 
the souls of your saviours,
if they met with memories 
that were made and measured, 
bruised and battered,
between your bricks and mortar
before being buried in blood


How many letters of love, 
lined in lust and longing, 
have perfumed your pillars
working their way 
through your worthy walls
and haunted halls 
in search of hungry hearts 
to hold them,
to open them,
to hear them.

All Words by Damien B. Donnelly. Photograph borrowed from internet (I will give it back)


Day 26: National Poetry Writing Month #NaPoWriMo

Screen Shot 2017-03-28 at 20.39.20

Still morning,
still forming,
breath baying
over brook and bank,

still learning,
still changing,
stillness flowing
through field and thought,

still searching, 
still drinking,
the night passing, 
the day not yet told,

still waving,
still rippling, 
still remembering
that which is done,

still cloud,
still covering,
awaken not to quickly
for the day is yet to come.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly


Day 25; National Poetry Writing Month #NaPoWriMo 

If I could reset the world
I would start it with a kiss
on a silent night
In the corner of winter,
summer has claimed the light,
dark corners need our attention
more than the sound of the sea
and the smell of the sunscreen.

If I could reset the world
I would start it with a kiss
on lips I’ve never tasted
in a place I’ve never been,
I am done with parted passion,
others have since traced these lines
and found the tremble too intense
and the trench too tough to traverse.
If I could reset the world,
I would start it with a kiss
and seal it with a bond
That time can’t comprehend.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photograph taken in Ayrshire, Scotland.


Day 24: National Poetry Writing Month #NaPoWriMo

Hot flames
burn beneath
the breath of
whiskey’s heat,
dry and stale,
the eyes
like coal
never burn out;
never burnt enough,
trapped by heat,
suffocating heat,
slowly smoking
more smoke,
light, no light
in the darkness,
find the match,
burn it,
break it,
matches break,
all that is matched breaks
snaps like thin sticks,
fragile like brittle bones,
they all burn out
or break
but linger in the air
like whiskey
on the breath,
dry, stale…

All word and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on SoundCloud:




Day 23 National Poetry Writing Month #NaPoWriMo

Decades by four
and one year more
have tempered time
to twisting root
beneath this ever
changing shore.

Lands by four
and to one returned
as curious caught
upon my boot
my bags now tipped
with lessons learned.

Summer fires
have blazed this land
flames that fired
forbidden fruit
that etched their mark
upon this sand.

Kisses that sank
beneath the grains
while others I thought
to be absolute
now wait for time
to shift their stains.

The sun has often
turned to storm
hearts were hot
then tears dilute
as I break and fall
and rise through form.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly


Day 22 National Poetry Writing Month #NaPoWriMo

Silent in her own darkness
she takes a place
by the canvas of creation
and before its stillness
she lets the light
pour over all
that has slipped
between the shadows

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photograph taken on front of La Fee Electricite by Raoul Dufy at Musee d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris