What to report?

To what port must you swim,

in how little can one drown

(shallow is often

the sister to shady)

air is not anything

until it is nothing


and nowhere,


(sometimes existence

is only revealed

through disappearance)

are you someone

until you are seen

in the eyes of another?


What to report?

to which port do we reinvent,


is it possible for one to prevent,

(can prevention deter

a discernable direction)

fear is not anything

until it is everything


and everywhere,


(this skin does not tingle

until it’s been touched

or torn)


is there still a light

in the darkness

of the ransacked room

of this ravaged organ?


What to report?

How do you report

the trust that was taken (for granted)?


I tied to report it

but trust,

once taken,

cannot be listed

as things stolen

on a police report.


All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly



Silence surrounds

this sweet stillness,

icicles are falling;

tears streaming

new paths

down old windows

once home

to fading reflections

and the robin

and his red chested breast;

forever stained, forever beating,

flaps through the open field

in search of a hushed hope

in buds that will soon bloom,

in life that will soon turn

below the hardened earth

and muddied soil.


We have spilt blood,

been drunk on its bitterness

and still we parch for more.


Sweet is this silence;

these mornings breaking,

crisp and cold,

cutting through the layers

we are desperate to shed,

we too are seasonal;

we rise with a spring

and tumble through each fall,

we are hot headed

and cold hearted

when comfort constricts,

melting pain down windows

too frosty to show any solutions

until we are emptied

and in the silence,

in that slowly

sweetening stillness

we are renewed;

ready to cut new reflections

into the smooth surface

of that shatterable glass,

our faith fluttering

on wings of hope.


All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud





seeing time

as something silky

you can slip though,


rearranging reality,


the hours revolving

around minutes

around molecules

neither past nor present;


the future still waiting

to be moulded,



of tempering time;


of breaking it


of bending it;


redrawing curt corners

into kinder curves,

rerouting long roads

into achievable lengths.


I bend time

beyond this bed

of twisted sheets,


these withered webs,


tired and torn,


and mend

in my mind, slumbering,

that which was cracked


before the mirror

catches its reflection

of disruption,

of distraction,

of rejection.


And I wonder

in all this bending,

in all this mending,


how much the mind

will remember


and how capable am I,

in waking,


to let time forget?


All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly



In the shadow of all its history,

in the sorrow behind its sparkle,

I sprinkle fairy lights on the drying roots

of this dying tree.


At the summit of all its beauty,

from the forest freshy felled,

I place a blood red rose on this tree

cut down from hope.


All words and photographs by damien B. Donnelly



How does

the heart

still pump,

how does

the blood

still run

when these

feet won’t move?


How do

the bones

not break,

how does

this skin

not shed

when these

hands cannot hold?


We dress

ourselves in

solid shields

of security

(see this shining steel)

that cannot sooth

the single soul

still shivering

in a body

still pumping,

still running,

still searching

for the answer…


are we

a whole story

here alone

and naked

and beating

and pumping

and bleeding

and crying

and crawling

through the hope


or just a half truth,

never truly told,

never really held,

never fully realized?


All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly


Snow falls and the darkness drowns in silence, a hush
from heaven, falling, so slowly, even crystals cry.
Are these the tears of angels weeping who’ve watched us
falling, like this slow snow, like tears, trembling?

Snow falls and there’s a stillness and still this silence
between us. Bruises covered in a cold candid coating
of fragility, every day more freezing, more frozen,
just not enough to numb. Snow falls and paths disappear.

I thought our tracks ran deeper, like this winter, this weight,
like this waiting, behind the window, behind this glass
I can’t see through, beyond the storm falling, Slow falls
the snow and sorrow slips, cold where once there was comfort.

What happens to my tears, who’ll watch them with wonder
as I look out at the snow, slowly falling, and think of angles?
Wasn’t I once your angel? Are you watching, now, at some
slow distance while these snowflakes concrete all confusion?

In time, this too shall melt and be no more than memory,
even snowflakes fall for but a season. Snow, falling, slow.
Wishing it were spring. Even white is blue in the falling light.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud