CONCRETE CONDITIONING 

  Imagination is forgotten as we grow into compromise, into concrete, cities cover the condemned in a cloud of conditioning and leaves the child  imprisoned in us all.   All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly 

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MOMENT AFTERWARDS 

  In absence lips lean out in longing, clouds gathering, a chill in the air, the warmth slipping.   Memory is a playful thing, you tease and turn over and back to before.   We kissed, I feel it intensely, I see it clearly in the mirror still marked from a night now over.   […]

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BURNING STARS 

  We are liars, all and often, lying in folds familiar, hoping for holds to fill the failure, settled into settlements we never wanted but thinking something, anything, this thing is better than nothing, while the Poet prefers to pen the pessimism than to perish with it. And still we are liars, the pen turns […]

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SEASONS TURNING 

  Trees tremble in winter’s clutch, hardening soil hardens hearts, frost will follow till spring’s breath beckons icicles to gently weep.   All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly Inspired by a twitter poetry prompt from #WrittenRiver

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CEAD MILE FAILTE 

Country roads wind where shadows linger in the light, where whispers have withered like leaves out of season,  where the green grows in grandeur  over this ancient land, often fought for, never forgotten, where former footprints entwine around the rolling hills and half fallen walls of wishes that once held lovers, that once courted kisses  […]

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IMAGINE 

  Imagine… precious petals pouring from pistols instead of pain instead of panic instead of man gone manic? Can you Imagine… floral falls of fine fragility, falling over hostility, over tears, folding over fears.   All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly. Photograph taken at la Musee de la Vie Romantic, Paris.

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LIQUID RHYTHM 

  Expanding on the magnetic poetry oracle… Need is hard (to give in to that craving for connection) ‘Not yet,’ I said (to Time, teasing along twitching ties), ‘Drink me not, dark angel’ (we are light still and far from brewed). Joy is a dance of liquid rhythm (lithe are we, fluid forms falling into […]

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