To Dance with Time

Hit me as hard as you can, oh fine

Fleeting friend called Time. No more

And no less can I do with You

But run through You-

Tasting as much, laughing as hard

And loving as wildly and willfully as possible

Before your clock tolls

And You sound my final bell.

 

I am not your prisoner and You-

No more my guard than my companion,

My light and shadow all at once-

Giving me enough time to watch

How You take it from me,

Never do we stray from each other

For a single moment. But moments

Are what I shall build on as we tap out

This dance together-your tick-tock, tick-tocking,

Pulsing through my every heartbeat.

 

Oh sleepless, invisible One,

Is there no rest for You as night falls

And I slumber softly, at play in dreams

Of hopeful tomorrows and cherished yesterdays,

Your claim on my expiration fails to set any fear

Alight in me, though I know not the date nor time,

Nor the how or why,

For today I’ve existed, loved and laughed

And, if tomorrows be no more,

Then ring out the sound, evermore,

Of my joy for today.

photo-50

A Face in the Crowd

You,

With your red shirt and blonde hair

Desperate to scrape your way out

As I slipped myself in,

You,

With your tired eyes and fading blond hair-

Slouching towards the end of another day

While sensing the closing was near.

 

You,

With that smile not nearly as bright as the rest

Who basked in their own glittering reflections

As the mirror ball turned like a voyeuristic eye,

You,

With your eyes dimmed and dazed

From too many dreams dreamt and spent

In the arms of lovers that proved losers

And touches that never turned out

As promising as the dream suggested

In those early days when you’re supple skin

And boyish frame

Had been seduced by the warm mouths of men

Before you betrayed yourself

With your own naivety

And unstoppable self-belief.

 

They say,

After a time,

Money changed hands

Amid various embraces-

Did it change you amid the exchanges?

 

You,

With your red shirt and blonde hair

Spiraling southwards and sinking into shadows

While sobbing silently into shaking hands,

You,

Sniffing up lines in toilet stalls

To rise above and turn your tricks-

Just barely paying for one with the other.

 

You,

Who I passed on the stairs of that club

On that rather bland night,

Followed by a rather bland introduction,

You,

Who ran your hand along the velvet of my red jacket

Though I cannot recall the details of your face

Or the shade of your voice and yet, I can recall

All that those colorless eyes had unburdened onto

Me, coming in from the outside, new to it all-

The scene,

The crowd,

The needs,

The sometimes selfish wants of men

And all that lay hidden behind those empty caresses-

All that you once succumbed to

And then grew so quickly to hate.

 

You,

With your tired eyes and blonde hair

Off to a new world to conquer

Or just another world to sleep with,

You,

Off to repeat another round of the tireless tedium-

Comforting addictions we become used to

And a ruthless routine we become a part of.

 

You,

With your red shirt and blonde hair,

It had been a long day

But in that moment,

Amid that crowd

And behind those eyes,

The closing for you

Appeared

So terminally near.

 

You were to me but

A face in the crowd

As the rain poured down

Over a random night,

Nothing unusual,

Nothing specific,

Nothing different,

And yet I’ve noticed

Your absence

Ever since.

photo-49

Let the Wind Carry Me

 

Screen Shot 2015-12-15 at 19.47.24

Let the wind carry me, let me not worry about the where and why
build in me the desire the want and the love for lands new and fresh
let me smell it on the breeze bring me the dream on your current of air
I await the sign the yearning the draw
the moment when I know what for wherefore whatever…
 carry it onto me let it embrace itself around me
let it unfold itself within me
carry me forth to tomorrow a new day a new dawn in a new land

A beginning that brings with it the best of my past my roots my memories and all the faces that made me who I am let them live within me as I walk on fresh soil new and unaware childish innocence awash with white
at play with creation while evolving…
like the water to the wheel turning again and again
round and round always the water
but never the same droplet

Let me wash onto a new shore naked just skin and bones flesh just flesh
no clothes or jewels to adorn me cover me or pretend of me
let me be just me breathing fresh moving and happy

let the wind carry me to whatever whoever wherever

my path in its hands

my eyes closed 

my trust in its force

my senses aroused

let the wind carry me
for I am his to command to direct to learn from
to find my way

let me be but a droplet of air
let me feel what it is to be moved
for then I will know what it is

All words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Ripples…

I drifted away once,

Carried off by a delusional dream

Of how it all could be-

Consumed and captured,

Completely confused

And so far removed

From everything

Palpable

And intrinsically valuable

That I forgot for a while

Who I was,

What I had

And how to return.

I was swept away once, long ago,

By everything I’d ever imagined

That I lost sight of everything

I’d ever had or held.

I’d cast myself somehow

Off into an infinite ocean,

Driven to dive deeper by desires

But only to find that down deep,

In the dark,

Every excessive dream loses luster

And fades forever

Amid the fathomless

Faith of the forgotten

But alas,

I did not wake until the bottom found me

And roared its laughter in my ears

And then,

In those too few precious moments

Of understanding-

When the truth finally surfaced within me,

So deep below,

Every movement made to swim back

To the comfort of your shoreline

Sent such ripples all around me

That I lost sight of where you actually lay.

Will you ever know how the sorrow

Grows within me

As time passes

And we remain

Parted.

I let myself drift away, once,

Only to fail later in finding favor with the shore.

If I were an ocean

I would send ripples

Through the waters

To warn you of my sinking.

But I am mere man,

Trapped inside a body

Of drowning emotions,

Looking always and evermore

For that selfishly forsaken shore.

photo-47

Sunday Morning Rituals/Yesterday Once More

From your bedroom

This morning,

This ordinary Sunday morning

In September

As I holidayed at home

And watched from the window

The saucy shadow of winter

Teasing the sun’s final rays from the garden,

The scent of your hairspray came

Floating through the air

And transported me

Through a lifetime of living

To that other life we shared together

As mother and son

In the place that once meant home

In the very truest sense of the word-

Where family and friendship were both

Born and battered,

In a place called riverside-

Though the banks of that brook

Were rarely as poetic

As the postal address suggested.

I was 12 again,

Watching you from the hallway,

Tossing and twirling the comb around your curls,

The pink chiffon scarf with its gold trim

Caressing your shoulders-

Catching the glittering flakes of uncaught spray

As you froze your style into place

And etched its vision into my memory.

That smell has become, over decades of time

And an ocean of deep distance that parts me from it,

Forever tied to your Sunday morning ritual

After the peas had been left to steep,

The shoes polished

And the soon-to-be eaten roast had been

Dried, dressed

And doused in as much formality

As we ourselves

Were adorned in

Before we took off,

Along the riverside,

Flaunting our finest

In the face, and for the grace, of God,

Though inside we knew the truth-

This pomp and ceremony was not,

As once suggested,

To serve any invisible deity-

The community’s communion procession

Alone was more fashion on-show than

Faithful conversion of body and soul

But amid this parade of pressed pants

And fall’s favorites,

Crying kids

And Mum’s perfume

I dreamt my life away.

I still remember the boy-

Two rows ahead,

Boxy jacket,

Patient leather shoes and

Quaffed fringe of blonde hair.

He was my Sunday dream

In that house of worship,

I wanted to be him,

To know him,

To love him.

It was he who I prayed to

And knelt before,

It was he who I asked

To be saved and held

And protected-

Not the man in the white robes

Sipping the last splurge of wine,

Standing there above us all-

Looking down but rarely seeing,

Removed from the crowd-

Speaking out but failing to hear.

I already knew

What it was like

To carry a cross

Alone,

Unaided.

This man of the cloth-

With his pious parables from the pulpit

Could not save me,

His words were as foreign to me

As if he had been talking in that very oldest of tongues

That pompous priests once used to preserve for themselves

Their palaces of power while

Leaving parishioners ignorant

To point of the performance.

So it was the boy ahead of me,

The one behind me

And the other one

Two rows across from me

Who became my heralded heroes,

My momentary muses-

My glorious gods of worship-

Men in men’s clothing

Walking in men’s footsteps,

Not vicars in vestments,

Angels on high,

Demons below

Or celestial forms.

My dreams of that neighboring boy’s

Compassion for me

Had just as much obtainability

And promise

As that Boy in the Bible

Who was born for my betterment-

If only I could be like the others,

Act like I was told

And defy the devil within me,

Whether I knew those deemed

Demonic deviations

To be of my

External making

Or a part of my

Inner essence.

Just hours later,

Sunday afternoon rituals

Were setting the fire

With real coals-

Damp from outdoor storage,

Foraging around the local DIY store

While Dad watched the match,

Mum playing records on the radiogram

While I hummed along to

‘Its only just begun’

As I sat by the front window,

Nestled on the back on the big green sofa,

Watching the rain fall

And wondering when the boy would call

To take me away

And let it all begin…

All these memories

Came back clearly to me

This morning,

This Sunday morning

And just like in the song says

‘Some can even make me cry’.

It’s yesterday once more

But altered slightly,

Similar but not the same

Familiar but without the frustration.

It’s still Sunday morning,

We’re still mother and son

In another home we’ve made-

Far from a riverbed

But closer to comfort

And finally

At peace in a place

Where there’s room to grow

In honest understanding of each other,

Those around us and everything that combined

To make us who we are

While allowing us to keep in our hearts

The memory of who we’ve been.

photo-46

Haunted

The ghost

I’m haunted by

Is the one I’ve created

Myself, alone,

Singlehandedly,

Without intension

Or foresight,

Without the slightest foundation

To fright.

The ghost

I’m haunted by-

Lurking but a fraction away

From a fingers touch,

Like the mind numbing

Manipulation

Of a menacing muscle

Convulsively contracting,

That lingers

Amid a thousand other

Consciously thought out,

Relatively reasonably

Fears-

Is that one

That chills the most

Being from my own hand

Uniquely and ubiquitously

Carved in slivers

Of tempered steel.

The ghost

That haunts me

From Winter’s Fall

To Summers end

Is not

The nocturnal nuisance

Of nightmares,

Nor the shape shifter

Behind the sheet-

Shivering in shadows,

Nor the mythical entity

Or pulsating phantom

Of plasmic slime.

The ghost

That haunts me

In waking breath

And sleeping dream,

That resides on the edge

Of my happiness

And motivates the core

Of my sadness,

Is none other than I,

Myself

Or rather the self

I must become,

But the fear,

In truth,

Is what happens

If

I fall forgotten

Before begun.

photo-45

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

The Value of a Single Word

I am in the air,

Above mountainous clouds

Of candy floss and cotton balls,

Flying between beds

That are not mine,

Sheets bound to frames

And pillows too puffed

To be personal.

I am the single sleeper-

Positioned

On the right edge of center,

Using just one set

Of towels

Of the two provided,

Opening single slippers

And leaving that other robe

Hanging unused

And yet,

For all it’s

Impersonal touches,

I sleep in these foreign buildings,

In foreign cites,

In foreign lands

I can barely plot on the map,

Akin to sleeping at home

And tonight

I question

The geographical pull

And sentimental value

In the word

We call home

When you live

In this world

All alone.

photo-44

Compatible Blends

We found each other,

For a while

As we searched separately

For a new life

Amid the ashes of a life already lived

With bruised edges,

Fractured hearts

And losses to great to forget.

We stopped for each other,

All but briefly

And, in delighted ignorance,

Planned out a future

As inseparable

As water from land

And sky from sea

But proved to be less

Penetrable

Than we knew.

We shadowed each other,

At the start,

Sailing in separate shifts

On Chevelaret’s Street

In district 13

With Celtic music,

And pints of the black stuff

While a riotous racket of Turkish overtones

And Irish stupidity,

Parading as management,

Carved comedy into

Every inch of our jobs.

You were night and I the day

As we passed each other without

Sensing a connection

And yet I was already aware-

Intrigued by the mysterious air

You’d arrived on.

I had sat in the corner of the bar

And watched you being interviewed.

You polished off a glass of Guinness

On that unaccustomedly sun-lit day

In spring

Like it was the first drink ever

On a Friday evening

With not an ounce of fear or uncertainty

As Niall questioned you

With roaming eyes

That longed for more salacious information

Than you were willing to provide.

Your age was not to be a factor

Nor your flight from home

That had somehow lead you here,

To this place,

That must have rung out-

With first impression-

Like it was the end of the earth

Or the final stop for last chances.

You had shadowed the steps

I had made months earlier.

Were you as shocked as I

When you climbed down the metro’s stairs

And saw that lifeless street stretching out before you

With the Guinness sign in the distance

Like a beacon to call you home?

A dishevelled man-

Washed over in alcohol

And lost out in life

And two dead rats along the side walk

Had been my greeting

To this quarter

Lurking anonymously

Behind the chaos of Chinatown

And it sank into me-

As the train raced away,

That this was the one place were they would say

Yes

And my empty wallet would be

The one thing about me that

Could not say

No.

But somehow we made it home

And as the sun grew stronger

We looked at each other more closely

And made connections-

Blind to what lay beyond the glare

Of those rays that hypnotised us.

So how did it happen

In that summer-

That glorious summer where we had

Promised each other to make it be the one

That shone the brightest in our memories-

That we ended up

Losing each other?

I sat on someone’s porch steps

Covering them in bitter tears

While two blonde boys watched on

And waited for explanations that I could not know,

For I was still unable then to see

How much we had failed each other.

Had we been no more

And no less

Than oil and water

All that time-

Fooled somehow into thinking us a more

Compatible blend?

But I had seen you and fell for you-

For all that you were

And tried to be

And all that you covered up-

Wounds naked only to me

And wounds that you could not cure

And so I lifted you

And carried you

And feared for you,

And wondered how to get in

And worried how to get away-

I knew the danger signs that lit up

In your eyes

And when to speak

And when to say nothing

But- at the same time-

You carried me

And cared for me

And cured me too.

I was the adopted boy who became

Your adopted brother.

Once, I had been given up

Where you had given up.

I was the follow on that you needed to see

And you- the listener

I needed to confide in,

To say I forgive,

I’m ok,

I have survived.

To your face

I said thank you to a mother never seen

And in my eyes

You cried for all that you had lost

And could never have the chance to be.

Maybe the mix was too explosive

And we shared too much from opposite sides

Of an unused coin

In that bond

We made

And loved

And let break-

Brother and Sister

And sometimes

Mother and Son.

We began to heal together-

Broken hearts that we thought we’d left

Back home,

Memories that came flooding back

Like children we’d forgotten

And left behind-

A part of ourselves that we’d ignored-

Hoping the past would let it slide to

Forgetfulness

But we found that not to be true

And in each other we found-

For all but a precious moment-

A way of letting go

And moving on.

How little,

In that middle of it all,

Did we know how soon we’d let go of each other.

For, in truth,

It was never enough

And nothing could cure the washed over lines

That lay buried in the memory.

I could not become the lost child

And you were not the shadowed mother for me.

Maybe that was our downfall-

We hoped for too much from each other

And found not even a whole summer

On that street with its temples,

Viewless windows,

Benoits who cried in our laps,

Cards games you thought me

And Lovers who came our way

To divert us more from what lay

Too deep to remove.

Brother and Sister-

Sipping coffees and cokes

And teaching each other French-

We taught each other a lot

But never managed

To teach each other

To hold on.

Where are you now and do you ever

Wander in your mind

Back down that street

And into that bar

Were we talked

And laughed

And cried the night away

Until the morning found us

And we set off home

Together

And lay together

In one room,

In separate single beds

And spoke till one of us fell asleep.

I see you sometimes,

In my minds eye

With fag in hand, as always,

And eyes lit up as we danced through that bar

Which became our bar

On a Saturday night

As we simply entertained the audience

Perhaps just as simply

As we entertained each other.

In my mind we will always be dancing

Like that

Before closing the bar

And finding comfort in a cigarette,

A drink

And each other-

Brother and sister

For almost a summer,

Dancing in the ignorance

Of what autumn

Would have in store for us.

photo-43

The Wonder that was You

Are we alike-

I ask myself?

Could we ever be linked

Together,

Today, any day,

As Mother and Son?

Can we even claim

Those titles

Within each others eyes

Having spent

All our lives

Apart,

Or rather-

All of mine

Since that cord was cut?

And yet, I wonder

Do ties still bind?

Did it hurt

When we

That were both united

Were parted?

How was it to give life

And then watch it

Being taken away?

Do you still consider me child-

Your child,

Your first child?

Or were there others that followed

Who remained by your side?

Are you mother now

To others-

Do you wrap yourself around them

As you once,

So briefly,

Wrapped yourself

Around me?

Do they know

Of my existence

Or not at all,

As I know not of bother or sister-

Another title I dare not claim.

You should know

That I am happy-

That I’ve known joy,

Can you feel it?

After all, it was you

Who gave me the life

To live it-

The one who grew within you,

Who has developed without you,

Who has walked onwards-

SInce birth,

Though ever increasingly

Away from you,

Who has spoken

Often of you

But never directly to you,

Who grew to know love,

In part,

Because of a single decision

You made.

When I see you now-

Deep in my mind-

It is far from the fantasies I once

Envisioned you in.

You are more balanced

In realism, today

Than the childhood dreams

Of Queen in a tower

Or Star on the stage.

That I live-

It is due to your sacrifice,

Those 9 months-

A lifetime to the child that you were-

A child carrying

A child within,

But still,

You gave me time-

Body and soul,

You gave me the chance

With spirit and pride

As you waded through whispers

And rose above rumors.

I’ve had a mother-

Since we parted,

Since leaving the comforts

Of your swollen belly-

A mother who moulded me,

Minded me,

And moved me

With a thousand remembrances

Of your gift to her.

A woman who knew the sacrifice you had made,

Who’d cried the same tears you shed,

A woman who made me grateful

For the Wonder that was You.

photo-42

The Christmas Kiss that Wasn’t Mine

For two months

I’d waited for you-

Adrift for a time from

The mere sensation of even

A stranger’s touch-

Not knowing it was you,

Of course,

But for that longed for warmth

To envelope me.

How funny

And how easy

You became my Christmas present-

Mon cadeau.

My only gift had been a self-bought

Over-sized,

Under-priced

Tatty jumper

And then you arrived-

Dropped yourself at my table

In your yellow rain-coat

With slightly drunk,

Tear-filled eyes-

Lonely for your lover

Who’d flown home to family.

You’d been abandoned

For three days,

Or so you thought-

Till you were in my arms

Amid a darkening street

In The Marais

And each kiss goodbye,

That started as a cordial bisou,

Seemed never quite enough

And your hands-

Finding their way easily inside my clothing-

Felt only teased

By what they had not yet

Touched.

I wanted to take you home-

My hotel-called-home,

With it’s corner balcony that hid

All but the tip of Notre Dame

And my pillows-

Like feather-filled lozenges

That enticed no sleep,

But my concierge had other ideas-

Even on Christmas night

No guests meant no guests,

However cold it was outside

And however innocent

We attempted to look

While the imprint of your lips

Burnt away on my neck.

And so I found myself

On the red sofa

Of your Les Halles living room

Amid your cat and dog,

With His scent everywhere-

Upon the delightfully pillow-like pillows I slept on

And in the painters nightshirt

You dressed me in,

Later on,

When the kisses stopped

And the dawn’s cold air

Dropped by.

We had nothing in common-

Not even a language-

But we were both alone

Amid a city of fairy lights

And family affairs

And what else mattered.

I awoke each night

As you stroked the hair from my face

With your architectural hands-

Your eyes pouring into me-

Looking, perhaps,

For a deeper meaning

Or some forgivable

Justification

But there was nothing

But our basic needs.

Even as you suggested to stay

In contact-

You knew my eyes

Saw your sophomoric lies

And twisted attempts

At half-truths-

Trying to clutch onto something

New and different

In the midst of the complacency

You’d created around you.

There was nothing more

Than two boys

And three nights,

So much shared in silence-

The inevitable not needing a voice.

I waved you goodbye

That last morning

Inside your age-old building,

On your spiraled staircase,

Half a floor below you

With your scent covering me-

Like a blanket

That’s never quite big enough

To stay wrapped in

Forever,

And your cat stated back at me-

Questioning me through half-closed,

Sleep-filled,

Feline eyes,

Sensing the betrayal of the situation

Which she had slept through most of

And I was walking away from.

Behind your green eyes and blond hair

You wondered

How I could mean

So much

In so short a time.

Was it minutes later until his return-

Did you wash the sheets?

Did you hold him

As if he were me

In that bed,

Beneath the darkness

Where we once found each other

And took pleasure in the taste?

Did the cat snarl out the affair

Before you

Or did I dream it all-

The three nights,

The two boys

One brown,

The other blond

And the swift sweet unwrapping

Of mon Cadeau?

photo-41