WHEN SUMMER FINDS YOU

 

Water turns on the tide,
roots find ways through the rubble.
Nature is adaptable.

But the body is bound to the bone,
movement moulded to our muscle
and the shadow cannot de deceived

and yet you itch.

You claw at this fleshed reflection
on front of you
and see in its faults
the fraud of its form.

Nature is nurtured by adaption,
not blood tests
or mind games.
Nature does not wait,
is not answerable to anyone.

Skin softer than before,
you paint yourself into a portrait,
waiting to be a person,

wanting to be seen,

not sneered,
no longer sad.

Shapes shift
in clouds crossing,
in rivers winding,
in the bloom breaking into beauty.

But this skin restricts
and these angles
arch out as obtrusive.

Masculine is the mould
now marked like measles
that no cream can quickly cure.

There is an itch.

I know you want to pull
a finer form from this flesh
that no longer fits to your feelings.

The air too stale
within this shape
for it to be any longer sustainable.

Nature is easily adaptable
but you too will find your way into beauty
before your summer is up.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

FRIENDS FOR A SEASON

 

They were just girls in a stifling city,
each but a slip of the seasons,
baring a hope for what they might see
and running for different reasons.

Jenny was winter and already withered
and looking for comfort from the cold,
she was journey and distance all rolled into one
and the secrets she stored had never been told.

Mary was springtime and fragile under foot
yet thoughts took root in her head,
she was innocence dressed in a short mini skirt,
a fledgling of faith, a seedling to be fed.

Sarah was stuck in a summer since parted
always looking for what she had lost,
as illusive as tides that trickle through time,
she sunk beneath skin now frozen from the cost.

Together they lived and together they fought
for a season on the old river lane,
but when fall came calling all connection unraveled
and the three girls parted with their bags still full of pain.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

TURNING CARDS

 

In tarot
I turned over cards
like time turns darker days
into enlightening nights,
fortune found me first
in the Fool’s hold;
a kiss of ignorance
upon freedom’s feet,
a deep dive into depths
I processed no questions for.
In the World
I saw the circle close in to caress,
a formation of balance
at my finger tips,
the elements clear
in corners to comfort,
a sphere of strength;
a celebration of the fine fragility
of my frame, naked
as it found its form
before the scales of Justice,
judgement residing
in my own hands
so long abandoned
by the satisfaction of self serving
while Doubt; the dark knight
in a brighter battle,
cast his concern to the cracked cup
and not the chalice overflowing.
Later, the Lovers
watched the light in its rising,
no longer grounded
by the mountains I had to climb,
no longer fearful
to let the light shine
while a family
stood beyond the bluebirds,
below the rainbow of 10 chalices,
waving me onwards
or calling me back to a home
I had never known;
accept the unexplored
or set a quest to uncloak the confusion.
I turned careful cards
like age turns knowledge
into something more tangible,
more truthful, and I saw myself in the end;
man-child on the back of the bravest of beast,
casting off the shroud of scarlet,
sighing under the glow of the internal Sun
as flowers bloomed over a library
of words waiting to be written.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Tarot reading by Alice.

NOSTALGIA

 

Nostalgia
is what we try to believe,

the truth
is what we try to escape.

Curious how comfort
can often be found cowering
in the corner of a cell.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly