Month: September 2019

DIAMONDS IN THE SKY

/ deuxiemepeau / 10 Comments

 

We are all stars,
we twist and turn and twinkle,
we are the bright, burning light,
we blaze like the stars;
twinkle, twinkle,
we burn, we are burning
like the stars; burnt out
tick tock, 
hurtling across the sky,
hurting beneath the sky
where we cry.
We are all stars,
fast paced, fast moving,
we are scuttling, scooting, shooting stars,
shooting each other,
bullets and diamonds,
the diamonds in the sky,
the diamond of my eye,
the reflection, the defection,
the glare, the stare,
the star,
twinkle, tick, twinkle, tock.
We are all stars,
we are here now;
tick, but long gone
tomorrow; tock,
light years lost
in seconds.
We are blazing, brilliant,
bright on borrowed time.
We are nothing, nanoseconds.
We are empty.
We have burnt it all, already.
We are burning out now
before we’ve begun
but our souls
they shine eternal.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

A Repost for a week of Moon and Stars

Photographs taken this weekend during the Journee du Patrimoine (European Days of Heritage) at the Richelieu Library, more photographs coming on Wordless Wednesday

 

GEORGES

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Colour, he saw colour, in a park, a simple park,
on a Sunday, in the summer.
Colour, he painted colour, in that park, clear,
considered, untainted, untampered colour,
specs of colour, rays of light, in a park,
on a Sunday, in the summer, in a season of details,
in a salon of specifics, under demands to consolidate,
co-operate.
Colour, he saw colour, a canvas of light and colour,
a carnival of colour.
Colour, he saw colour, in a park, on people,
simple people, working people, fishing people,
fidgeting people, not polished people,
not posh people.
They buried him, in a park, another park, a quieter park,
but still with light and colour.
They buried him and then they buried his son and then another.
Life and death. Father and sons. Children and art. Children or art.
But only art survived.

Colour, he saw colour, on a Sunday, in a park, on an island,
in Paris, to the left of its centre and there he made a difference.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Georges Seurat painted Un dimanche après-midi a l’Île de la Grande Jatte in Paris and was later buried in Cimetière du Père Lachaise at the age of 32.

FANTASTIC FLUTTERINGS

/ deuxiemepeau / 9 Comments

 

On dull days
when the sun
absconds from sky,
when grey grinds
gloom into gutters
and mothers utter
‘stay inside’,
children’s minds
flutter to unfold
like umbrellas opening;
colours cascading
over concrete clutter
like candy to calm
a calamity.

In the midst
of the mundane
and the murky,
inspiration catches
on the canvas of creation
like wings willing
to cut through clouds
and gain the grace
of the sun.

Children’s minds,
so magnificent,
hold matter so magical
that ordinary moments
can become such
extraordinary miracles.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

This is a repot for a week of colourful imagination. 

A SEAT BEFORE CREATION

/ deuxiemepeau / 6 Comments

 

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

This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Photo of La Fee Electricite by Raoul Dufy from Musee d’Art Moderne, Paris. 

 

CAPTURED ON CANVAS

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Connie was caught by colour in the corner
of the castle where curtains collected
carnations. Connie was captured courting
curious on the canvas of a castle in a kingdom
condemned. Connie was caught by the kiss
of a courter in the courtyard where calla lilies
were cut. Connie missed the caution in the cut
of the calla while her courter crept away
with her coin. Connie’s forever captive on that canvas
in colour in that corner too curt with the kiss
of that courter now a cancer on her complexion
that no carnation covered curtain could ever conceal.

  

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Photo taken at Musee Bourdelle, Paris

COLOURS IN THOUGHT

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Colours flap in the wind, colours catch
the feeling of freedom at daybreak
like thoughts taking flight in dreams
under blankets, mounding over molecules,
making matter meaningful. Dawn’s dew
delights in seeds now stirring under soil
just as stars shine significance on a mind,
on a pillow, at play. There is movement
beyond the trees and the run of the riverbed
if you can catch it. There is movement
in the dreamer beneath the blankets
and the shuttered eyes if you can wake it
to the colour, to the moment of possibility
in flight…

like colour on concrete,
like a bare bench in the waiting park,
like trees attending to shooting buds,
like a river of thought that cannot be abated.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Photo from Ile Saint Germain, Paris.

CAPTURED

/ deuxiemepeau / 7 Comments

 

Light catches glass, catches colour,
creates contrast on walls and water.
Light leans in and leaves illusions
on lines where once there was shadow,
buildings become boats baring sails
to beckon the breeze which billows
at its ease through colour caught
on glass which is captured in light.

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All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Photo of Louis Vuitton Foundation, Bois de Boulogne, Paris.

WILLING TO BE WONKA

/ deuxiemepeau / 4 Comments

 

Up and through, through colour to brighter,
better, perhaps. I’m next, she says, up
and over, following underfoot the man
with the hat who’s had enough. Off with hats,
top hats and hard hats, happy heads float
through colour, dissolve, he says, into columns
of colour, preconceptions passing now,
no longer cornered by constricting contraptions,
sink into that which was once solid, release
the routine with the briefcase, the blindness
and the budget and slip swiftly into a world
of hope on a wall, on a roof, there is no ceiling,
no limit, imagination has no holding in flat,
in all that seems futile, gone are the grey days,
grey ways, grey suits that ground down, freedom
is but a jump up, sideways, over and under,
this is just a waiting room, close your eyes, feel
the weight shift, slip, feel the worry ware away
between suggestions someone else has painted
on that which was once static, which was once
only a support, imagination is a jump up
and through, pink can be your sky if you rise
above those who tell you it’s blue, the sea can be
your heaven if you can get through the clouds.
Up and through, through all that binds you, bonds
are only walls waiting to be splashed with colour.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Street art from Parc Belleville, Paris.

FALLING THROUGH SPACE

/ deuxiemepeau / 7 Comments

 

Ghost clouds gather over ice cold oceans
of marble we can’t break through. Maybe
there was something deeper below the depths
we dared not dive. Breath is naked. Movement
muffed. Air rigid. There is nothing left to cover up.

I blush under your absence or do I blush
before the cold truth; this is it, we are alone,
one day we will end. All we have failed to learn
will fall through space like stars, burnt out before begun.

We are flames, in oceans, dying to be seen.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

This is a remixed repost for a week of gazing at clouds.