Author: deuxiemepeau

SOMETIMES ITS DANGEROUS TO CONSIDER HOW TO BREATHE

/ deuxiemepeau / 5 Comments

 

There are clear patches in the sacred soil
at the far end of the side garden where life
is expected to return. We planted it last week.

There are clear patches in the soft sky
behind clever clouds that carry the condensation
I covet for those bald patches in the tilled soil
where there will be grass. We planted it last week.

There are sometimes clear patches in these caged ribs
that house the lungs that shoot me with shock waves
at irregular intervals when I fall too concerned
with how to breathe. I panicked last week.

Or when I’m too forgetful to distract myself
with painting the panic into poetry at the far end
of the side garden with its selected soil all curious
for the cunning clouds to carry forth its condensation
across that sweet sky. I planned this last week.

There’s a peace when I potter beyond the panic.
I know this. I planted it last week in my head
when I sowed the seeds that will soon be grass.
I planted them both, deep inside.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

WHEN NATURE HEARD ME AND I FOUND HIM

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Husky voice cribs my troubling thought.

I turn with fear hard on heel at the far end
of an ancient lane.

I borrowed these footsteps, I reply
to the open side of a ploughed field where wires allow
random thoughts to teleport across the sky.

This is not your path. This was the thought in my head
this voice had entered and uncovered and stolen.

Stolen? It asked.

You’re right, I continued, I forgot your presence
in too many cites of crushing television cables. This is not my path-
it is ours to share.

I remember now, can see how truth befalls in the darkness
these recent weeks of stillness seem to be resetting
an imbalance.

Husky voice returns to a tweet, but this time
it is a tweet that is sung in the trees.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

THERE IS EGO IN EVERY STEP

/ deuxiemepeau / 3 Comments

 

The trail is not simply
sewn with a needle of the sun
threaded through the eye of the moon
even if I sometimes feel the pinch of that warm stitch
as I reach out to that small step claimed for man.
Thought is not always free from guilt-
we cannot get close to the sun without waring the scars,
the Id js designed to devour, the ego to condemn
before the conscious can even come close
to consider its part in this creation.
This skin does not melt under the burning sun
but it froze once, under a certain stare, as a child,
in the doorway between that blinkered ray of innocence
and the ice-cold stare of understanding.
We are all patchwork paths-
joined at seams and torn from others,
some scattered careless, despite all the patterns
etched into our pinched skins that freeze but do not melt
though I felt the heat
once, on the other side of the world
where the moon seemed so much closer to the sun,
but our egos never found a compatible way to align our sides
and feed the Id that itched so.
The trail is not simply
sewn with a needle of the sun
threaded through the eye of the moon.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

SWAN NECK

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Swans have long necks
though not as long as giraffes
but I wonder still if they can see further upstream
than the rest of us whose necks barely stem
a few inches above the clavicle.

The current is a nonstop exciting confusion,
waves of wisdom and what ifs-
what if I fall, what if these wings won’t fly,
what if he sticks around, what if he won’t let go,
what if I am more, alone, than I ever was
while trying to be understood
and what is wisdom, really,
if I cannot be prepared, in advance, to use it.

Swans have long necks and feet that never seem
to need a break from being held down.

I have a short neck
and am always on the lookout for that break.

  

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

WRECKAGE, AFTER THE REVERIE

/ deuxiemepeau / 3 Comments

 

Restless morning after night’s twist.
From day we’d split like shadows
Into the swallow of darkness
But dreams are billowy breaths
That toss ships under sheets
Of stormy seas and we- single sleepers
Under the blindness, washing up
And through time and buried thought.

Restless morning after night’s twist.
Lip trembles at dream’s touch
As I reach out to pinpoint position
Upon this shore of subconscious
Where desire is an abhorrent beast
And we, single dreamers, fooled
Into thinking that one night’s hold
Can stir day into a sweet surrendering

Of the isolation drowning on the shore.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

BIRD SONG

/ deuxiemepeau / 3 Comments

 

I stroll in soft sundown across the cushioned grass,
the earth a pillow I never stopped to consider,
I consider going in, inside to where the light looks neat
and named but a bird calls from a branch I cannot see,
sight comes in second after his song- soft, slow
and cycling back on itself like time, tide and your touch,
at times. Time was never our lover until it left us,
until we saw how quickly we aged in its agonising absence.

The night holds less time, with less light to cast shadow over,
with less sight to see the hands surge around the circle.
I move in circles around this garden of cushioned grass
while the moon comes out to feed, we eat what we can,
sleep when we must, the birds sing songs and only when lost
do we permit ourselves to stop and ask of the meaning.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

FRESH PERSPECTIVES AT THE MIDWAY MARK

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I pulled a seat
up along the far side
of the first hill
of this midway through life’s climb
and sat myself towards country,
having been stripped
for so long
like bare bark by too many cities.

Green blood poured
upwards from your soil
onto my skin
until there was nothing left
to separate either of us
again

but for those ditches
that we would climb over
and perhaps leave the parts of ourselves
too ridged
for these winding lanes,
and those gentler hills
that we’d allow time to consider
while we considered nothing more
than what we had-

air, earth and this seat
on the far side of life’s hill
growing over time
with honesty.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

LENGTHS

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Spring has left us shy.
We flirt like sheep- cute but clumsy,
forgetting what it was like to fold a summer
into forever. Words come but feel cumbersome-
you can only swallow so much of those ocean eyes
before drowning. Sheep don’t swim
and wool doesn’t do well in so much hot water.
Be careful with the laundry- no white flag yet in sight.
Spring has left us shy.
We never unfolded another summer to flock to the flirt.
You do or don’t- the tide isn’t ours to play with.
Sink, swim, shrink or drown. And I was never good
at lengths- length of time, length of hold,
length of hope.
Sheep need to be shepherded
or they lose their way. 

 

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

FINDING THE RIGHT COLOUR TO PAINT HOPE

/ deuxiemepeau / 4 Comments

 

Silly things
sabotaged for the case of creativity-
barren bark
becomes blank canvas
becomes blue
becomes oceanic
becomes bewitching monster of humour
and not hurt.

This is the crisis
of clearing out,
not shelving all that will come to know stale,
but for shedding.
Sheds are no longer for the simplicity of storage
but the new distributers
of distraction.

This is no hoax,
no harm, no hostage
but a painting of honour, perhaps
for all that’s been felled-
for all that we’ve cut down
and for all the rest-
that’s been taken from us

in these days
where we’ve slipped from being held
to a slim holding of hope,
to painting bare bark in the back garden
in order to smile. 

  

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly