There is a shadow,
like a dream too delirious to light with language,
whispering more of what swam away
than what smears this still water
I trudge through below a bitter moon
that has made his garden in this breast of man.
All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly
This is a repost for a week of moon and stars
And she sang of hope and harmony
in a borrowed frock on Tuesday nights
in a smoky bar below the Bowery
where the Irish downed their whiskey
while the Italians were always frisky
and they touched her, always, after;
her faithful followers fingering flesh
as if to caress the affection she injected
into lyrics light and loving, in that bar
beyond the Bowery where she came to entertain
the Irish and Italians who always joined in the refrain.
Though they left her, always, after,
on Tuesday nights neath the smoky light
with hope and harmony already fading
in that bar below the Bowery where the laughter
never managed to linger for that long after
and in the silence below the Bowery
as the stars went out one by one
she felt betrayed by what they’d taken; by the hope
they had mistaken to be theirs for the taking,
and felt betrayed by herself; by her need to amuse,
to be the muse in the limelight but then alone
in the shadows, always and ever after,
by that bar below the Bowery where the light
was far too low to notice that her soul
had left her long ago.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
This is a repost of a week of moon and stars
Stardust…
the fallout
from the flames,
a nebulous of what
was once known by names,
now falling, through time and space,
trailing dust, a trail of gentle dust
in place of touch, in lieu of place,
in lieu of hold and how we hold;
tighter and stronger, longer, after,
trying to hold a star, a fading star,
burning out before us
when all that’s left
is dust,
our brightest moments
now molecules of light,
blazing through the silence
of the night, but oh what a night.
Look up,
those who linger longer,
who fall and fret
before the great out-yonder,
look to the light
and not the loneliness,
the night is falling
but the light
is still unfolding.
Look up
star dust is falling
from on high,
writing names
across the sky
just for us
star dust…
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
This is a repost for a week of Stars and Moons
In Space
is the silence so sacred
that stillness is a solace
to the spinning?
Are star lights
like dainty daisies that illuminate the night?
Is the earth
but a beacon of beauty
when viewed from afar,
so far that you cannot hear
Man and his kind
screaming?
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
This is a repost for a week of Stars and Moon
I am free in the morning,
in this morning town,
waking,
slipping from slumber
like skin from sheets,
like wings above clouds
conquering concerns
that come a calling
and I am falling
upwards,
falling in love with light
can feel it sparkling,
even at day break,
even when days break,
falling for all that caresses carefree,
I am not constant,
no longer, not caught,
I am on course like the stars
I course through clouds, up from down,
I am clear of connection, of weight,
of all that heaves over heart,
I am more made of mind,
romance redirected in songs scripted
from memories and moments measured
in the heights that held us
and not the fights that harmed us.
I am cutting from my own carcass my own canyon
in the soil of the soul,
more whole than helpless,
brave the bird that breaks
from the nest to find fortune in freedom.
Freedom is a solo flight;
to touch the stars
you have to know how to hold the night.
I am man now,
brave begotten from boy,
gotten braver, better, broader,
brought back to basic; the characteristic core of all creation.
Shadows are quaint covers now
that come in from the cold
when comfort is called.
Shadow is not all sinister, sun is not always safe.
We are starlight
making our way
through the darkness
before we fall to dust,
trying to decipher the difference
between delight and distraction
along the paths we are potters on.
All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly. From a series inspired by Joni Mitchell albums.
This is a repost for a week of Stars and Moons
Moonlight
melts
languidly
on liquid lakes
like suds on dishes
like snow on windows
like thicker skin over age-old scars.
Moonlight
floats
momentarily
on rippling reflections
like the tingle after kisses
like the scent after sex
like the pain after parting.
Moonlight
flirts on the water
to divine
whether the depth
is worth the dive.
All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly
Repost for a week of Moons and Stars
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
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.
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.
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.
Poems, Poetry, Poets
Some lays of the Fianna, translated from the Irish by Annraoi de Paor with illustrations by Tim Halpin
A small press
The Things That Are In My Head.
Stay Bloody Poetic
Author of 'Sent, 'Fall', 'Unmuted' and 'Saudade'
home of the elusive trope
Fantasy Author
Words about pictures by Michael Scandling
Writing, Poetry & Creativity | Angela T Carr, Dublin, Ireland
Kay McKenzie Cooke Website & Blog
My journey through photography
landscape and change
My poetry is my religion.
Colouring Outside The Lines
Expressing moments of Inspiration within a cozy setting
"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." Ps 147:3
Art • Nature • Exploration
Peter Hillman's Photographic Exploration of South Staffordshire and Beyond (2026)
Poetry inspired by ethereal feelings, life events and personal philosophy.
A Journal of Brief Literature
Film, Music, and Television Critic
Writer
Art and Lifestyle by Brandon Knoll
New Zealand
French magazine - art & visual culture
A palette of general thoughts & travel stories from all around the world
Jack Bennett
If you want to be a hero well just follow me
a writing space curated by José Angel Araguz
Thoughts and Perspectives From the Mind of a Common Girl
Cooking with imagination
Damien B. Donnelly 