Exploring Colour, Featured Guest, Poetry, Time in Two Hemispheres

Ladies and gentlemen,

I give you the link to Exploring Colour, a beautiful blog from Liz, in New Zealand, as she shares her colour experiences, thoughts and, today, her poetry. A greeting for the dimming lights of the northern hemisphere from the buds and blossoms finding the light in the south…

Clink on the link below and explore the other side of the world…

https://exploringcolour.wordpress.com/2018/09/01/poem-time-in-two-hemispheres/

Poem: Time in Two Hemispheres

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Northern hemisphere folks in my experience are apt to forget their current time and season are totally opposite to our current time and season in the southern hemisphere…even those of us aware of this dichotomy can find it pretty weird!

Time in Two Hemispheres

——

Up There, in the Northern Hemisphere

Time trickles through the Hourglass

You’re falling into Fall

Days are shorter

Longer nights

Less Light

Less time

Less

is

More

More time

More Light

Shorter nights

Days are longer

Roots are reaching

Buds are breaking
Blossoms making
Scents awaking

Spring has sprung

Down Here, in the Southern Hemisphere

 

You can find the background of the poem and the rest of Liz’s inspirational blog at this link below. Please take a moment to visit the other side of the world…

https://exploringcolour.wordpress.com/

JOURNEYS, PART 12; THE ALMOSTS

Trust time to remember the dream

where the river was a rhapsody

we attempted to outrun,

never knowing

how much the melody

would meander.

We were minor steps

trying to make our motions major,

swept up in golden grains of thoughts

that slipped through our minds

like the waves along the shore.

Trust time to remember

the journeys we never fully dreamt.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

JOURNEYS, PART 11; BEING BOLD

Beauty is raw
beneath this blood red sky
where we lie delirious,
licking at lazy, drunken ships
trudging through bitter beds,
frantic to find our way to smoother seas.
‘Man is but a whisper,’ the Shadows
sing to the Sun but I
want to milk the storm
before my summer sinks
beneath the shade.
The moon cannot be the only light
to cast its reflection upon these waters.
Surely we too can be as bright
as the night.

Beauty is raw
but bold can be breath-taking.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

JOURNEYS, PART 10; THE REST

Revisiting a past poem as my journey hits its 43rd Birthday

THE REST

I was once silent amid the noise,

shadowing the world in stillness

while all else found its motion,

watching dreams slip swiftly

through fumbling hands.

I’d been held and felt nothing

in that very touch

but the visceral arousal

of man at his most primal.

I’d seen a lifetime of possibilities

with single glances

and built worlds in my mind

before blinking them away.

I held a man’s hand in a taxi

as we raced through a foreign city

I’d once called home, while my mind

ran to thoughts of someone else

before remembering a touch,

of another, from long before. Once,

I circled the globe and returned home

to find that home was but a word,

a word that wakes a memory

to plot a beginning,

as weightless and mobile

as the drifting traveler.

Once, I was silent

but in that silence,

in all that stillness

I found a voice.

I am, like you all,

no more than a burnt-out,

used-to-be, falling star,

sparkling in front of you

although my future’s already faded

somewhere light years away.

As I hurtle through this journey

my eyes fall sleepy;

but my mind rushes towards the rest,

looking, always, for the rest of me.

All words by Damien B. Donnelly

JOURNEYS, PART 9; ONCE, UPON A SUMMER

 

It was summer stock
and season of blondes;
darker tones bleached
to an inch of white,
at first so fair and fragile,
translucent tracks
tethered to nothing more than
temporary teases, interval acts
pitching and playing and parting
before the important performers
took their permanent positions.

I was high on a hiccup
of happiness that had long eluded me,
basking beneath the blinding spotlight,
a swing without a line on stale streets
whose stories I envied
as you slipped in between
the numbing neon distractors
and saw the blinkers that floundered me.

I was bound and breathless
before we’d even bent our bodies
into a bed that never quite fitted
the pair of us and yet still I stayed,
as you crept along the curb of the couch
not quite sure if you wanted to catch a star
or just court a curiosity.

We were players of unequal parts,
me too light on lines
and you too too busy
following those fragile white lines
that took you away from me
while I lay there next to you, waiting
to see if you might come back.

We lost each other
on another side street
after sunset, when the light
no longer blinded me
to those darker tones you tried to dye.

It had been my season of blondes;
buffed bodies that blurred lines
but your costume caught on reality
before the curtain made its final call.

We were separate journeys
caught up in the changing of the tracks,
too temporary to be truthful,
too tempting to not to taste.

Memory has not moulded us
into anything more meaningful
than a moment that was never really meant.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

JOURNEYS, PART 7; METAMORPHOSIS

How still it is, silent
beneath the somber shade
of night, beyond the light
already departed. Alone in thoughts
that twist and turn and dig deep
amid the this and that,
the important and the redundant,
the stillness builds, oblivious
to the restlessness beneath my skin,
between my toes, a sense of something
unseen, somewhere a future
already on the move, shaken
into substance, substantially self-sufficient,
while I sit in silence, in stillness, in waiting,
wrapped up cocoon like beneath
the hibernating blanket of this interim,
this condition of considered change.

I will soon slip into a sleep
born of the metamorphosis
of the moment,

aware of who I was,
in the knowledge of who I am
and accepting of what I will,
in time, become.

Tomorrow awaits the memory
of who I was while today exists
only the dream of what will come.
This stillness is as teasing
as the unknown route ahead,
the trail my feet have yet to thread,
to carve out a crater
that smacks of existence
long after I have journeyed on
and found fresher, unexplored lands
I shall, one day, for a time call home.
Somewhere, just out of sight,
on the edge of this stillness a night owl
toots a tale of transition
above the silent slumber of a world
with eyes closed, unconscious
to the weighty wisdom of tomorrow’s light.

The erudite Owl,
once perched in another land,
in another time, on the shoulders of Athena,
witnesses the world through eyes
that see beyond the darkness
of all that has been and has yet to unfold
and carries, in his very presence,
on this very night, in this very stillness,
while all else surrenders to the silence,
a confirmation of the transition felt within me,
sensed around me and promising
to take hold of me as sure as he will
spread his well-worn wings,
find his flight and take to the shadows
before morning finds it’s light

while all through time
a metamorphosis is made of me.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

JOURNEYS, PART 6; DAFFODIL DREAMS

I climb clouds
between the night’s blanketed sleep,
a billowing blossom of smoke
that never chokes the mountain moon,
where the world is a warm walk
through a blue breeze
and the only plight
is to find your path
within a forest of daffodils
on a prairie of peace.

On a prairie of peace
within a forest of daffodils,
beyond the billowing blossom of smoke
that never chokes the mountain moon,
I climb clouds
as a blue breeze uncloaks
the confusion of consciousness
and the sky glistens
with a golden glimpse of tomorrow
tipped in a topaz tempered truth.

I climb clouds
to sleep in a dream of daffodils

too distant for daylight to deliver.

Photograph taken in Holland Park, London, in an earlier lifetime

ESCAPE TO THE SOUTH, FRAMING FRANCE

 

A weekend in Marseille, Frioul, Cassis and the hills and beaches of Calanque…

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Frioul Archipelago

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Marseille seen from the Frioul and the island of If, from The Count of Monte Cristo

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Vieux Port, Marseille 

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Calanque

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View from the restaurant in Calanque 

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Calanque de Sugiton

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Backstreet of charm in Cassis

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Pastis before brunch

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All photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

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