–
Spring sun sweet on skin
that still recalls the rain,
(it is not just raindrops that fall)
drunk is the forest beneath
those blood red moons
(blind are we to the fires we started).
Will you swim through the shadow
to beat away these bitter blues?
Beauty is a ship of summer symphony,
we are whispers to be worshiped
before our season stops to sing.
All words by Damien B. Donnelly with the help of the magnetic poetry oracle.
–
We drink eternity,
soft, slow, salty,
like coffee cups
of unexplored ocean blues,
breathing in dark stars,
bleeding in the wake
of the wild breeze
that has no home
in these fatherless trees,
eyes moist by this window of time,
a prisoner of this smoky glass.
We are porcelain colored in concrete,
a brilliant blush of delirious desire
before decay.
All words by Damien B. Donnelly and gifted from today’s magnetic poetry oracle.
–
Control.
How to cut deep.
Tipping toes in the tepid
tides of therapy.
We are cunning creatures
in unconscious,
under cover,
cool to discover
the character
beneath the cadaver.
Control.
How to discover,
how to distance the self
from its disguise,
from the depths
we dive to deceive the day,
the way we weave
tepid tales through the tides
of our twisting truths,
ever evolving, ever revolving
in directions we cannot dictate,
covering over shades
we cannot eradicate,
those waves that ruminate,
that sweep through veins
already raging red
before the oxygen
burns the blue. Control.
How to find the true blood
in a body beaten into believing
the truth of what the consciousness
considers to be correct.
–
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Perfumed kiss and velvet poison,
caramel can be a concrete candy,
I blush, almost broken,
a prisoner to this ocean
of long grass and liquid sky,
this smoky glass, darkly dazzling.
A wild flower is not a sister of peace,
fire is not a dance easy to put out.
All words by Damien B. Donnelly, with the aid of Magnetic Poetry
empty.
break out
break away
break down
drown.
Resume
resolve
revolve
rotate
we are circles encircling
ripples in a small pond
revolving
evolving
dissolving into the careless current
we come up on the curve;
the comeback,
still seeking
a connection
subtraction
more and more of less and less
to be less
so as to become more
to come to understand
to take more of a stand
in this sinking sand
to stand under
to be left alone
to miss
to misunderstand
to be misunderstood
to be missed.
This entity, this endless identity
this ripple on the water
I cannot catch.
We put so much trust
in every thrust
not to be thrown
not to be let down
We adapt
to be apt
to hide
to assimilate
to cover up
makeup mask masquerade.
You cannot hurt what you cannot see.
You cannot hurt me if you cannot see me.
I
me
this identity
this entity washing away on this current.
We are stones
cast careless into the current
we ripple
and fall.
Can you catch a wave
before it’s washed away.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Audio version available on Soundcloud:
Time washes onwards
but I recall each wave
I welcomed
over body
like a cover of comfort
like a blanket of trust,
a surrender to the water
warm, deep breath and dive
without drowning,
I recall each wave
but forget
how far it swept
from the shore,
how it left
each time
with a wanting
for more
as I drifted further
though I cannot swim
I am only fool
not fish
and how you fished…
how your hook cut
so deep.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Audio version available on SoundCloud…
Settled in,
window seat,
wet feet flooding past,
fleeting reflections
in the steaming glass,
looking for the light
in this city
now grown grey
like those hairs
to hard to hide
above those lines
the mirrors reveal
below the eyes
grown weary of watching,
how did the road
spread itself out so far,
behind is a distance
too complicated
to comprehend,
too muddled
to measure,
even the mirror,
this glass, this reflection
cannot hold
all that has been lost
from sight.
All has settled in
so deep
it is difficult to see
in the reflection
all we once were
as we make movements
meant to be meaningful,
amid all that has of late
grown grey. Grey is the new
black but we have no time
to mourn,
the track never stops for us,
the herd hobbles
forever onwards,
there is no going back,
no slowing down
regardless of the weight,
we moan like mooing cows
but follow like sleep
ignorant of the slaughterhouse
outside on those wet streets
with those feet flooding past
all those fleeting reflections
falling unnoticed
into this river
of graying blood.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Audio version available on SoundCloud…
What to report?
To what port must you swim,
in how little can one drown
(shallow is often
the sister to shady)
air is not anything
until it is nothing
and nowhere,
(sometimes existence
is only revealed
through disappearance)
–
are you someone
until you are seen
in the eyes of another?
What to report?
to which port do we reinvent,
circumvent,
is it possible for one to prevent,
(can prevention deter
a discernable direction)
fear is not anything
until it is everything
and everywhere,
(this skin does not tingle
until it’s been touched
or torn)
is there still a light
in the darkness
of the ransacked room
of this ravaged organ?
What to report?
How do you report
the trust that was taken (for granted)?
I tied to report it
but trust,
once taken,
cannot be listed
as things stolen
on a police report.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Silence surrounds
this sweet stillness,
icicles are falling;
tears streaming
new paths
down old windows
once home
to fading reflections
and the robin
and his red chested breast;
forever stained, forever beating,
flaps through the open field
in search of a hushed hope
in buds that will soon bloom,
in life that will soon turn
below the hardened earth
and muddied soil.
We have spilt blood,
been drunk on its bitterness
and still we parch for more.
Sweet is this silence;
these mornings breaking,
crisp and cold,
cutting through the layers
we are desperate to shed,
we too are seasonal;
we rise with a spring
and tumble through each fall,
we are hot headed
and cold hearted
when comfort constricts,
melting pain down windows
too frosty to show any solutions
until we are emptied
and in the silence,
in that slowly
sweetening stillness
we are renewed;
ready to cut new reflections
into the smooth surface
of that shatterable glass,
our faith fluttering
on wings of hope.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Audio version available on Soundcloud
Dreaming,
seeing time
as something silky
you can slip though,
rearranging reality,
the hours revolving
around minutes
around molecules
neither past nor present;
the future still waiting
to be moulded,
dreaming
of tempering time;
of breaking it
of bending it;
redrawing curt corners
into kinder curves,
rerouting long roads
into achievable lengths.
I bend time
beyond this bed
of twisted sheets,
these withered webs,
tired and torn,
and mend
in my mind, slumbering,
that which was cracked
before the mirror
catches its reflection
of disruption,
of distraction,
of rejection.
And I wonder
in all this bending,
in all this mending,
how much the mind
will remember
and how capable am I,
in waking,
to let time forget?
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Poems, Poetry, Poets
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A small press
The Things That Are In My Head.
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