We are not the sky.
We are not the earth.
We are just a reflection
resting on the water
and can be blown away
at the will of the wind.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Poetry
TO LINGER LONGER, MAYBE…
Like a whisper
tissue is painted with purpose,
silk spun from crisp cuts,
white scented with sapphire
parading into Prussian
(fragile of frame and filigree),
like a thought
an image opens, a petal unfolding,
shades seep into substance
as the edges fade
(how quickly we fall to forgetful)
light, liquid, linger, a little longer.
Thoughts tied in twists of emerald
shimmering,
simplicity on a simple stand,
in a liquid light
and the memory leans in.
We are more fragile
than we know.
We could be more lasting
but only time will tell.
Not everything will linger
on after our whispers
fall to a fade…
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly.
Photograph taken at the Dior exhibition Couturier Du Rêve, Musee des Arts Décoratifs, Paris
NEW RHYMES
New notes quivering on a quaver, new rhythms
rattling through the repercussions of older rhymes;
echoes of former crescendos that crashed too soon,
convoluted cords that quickly constricted comprehension,
reasons now realised to be unreasonable, yet old fears
still trickle-down worn keys, no longer black and white,
no longer wrong or right, (is there a right note?) is it wrong
to not want to be deceivable. Will he stay, this time,
(maybe this time) should I leave, like I didn’t last time,
the first time, the second, the third, the fifth, though here,
with this new chorus, playing now in double time
along the lower keys, fingers fiddle with flesh, fresher
than before or am I just older than ever, older than the rest,
and what of the rest of me, what is left to be played?
Has the lady sung her final encore, not yet, no! More,
I feel there is more. But is it enough to share, will he care?
Will he be willing, be sturdy? Can we carry on the tune
long since started? Can this time be more worthy
or am I just more worried or wordier?
Is this the warm-up
or the wrap?
All words by Damien B. Donnelly
ADDICT
Slip me in like a pill,
ride these waves,
this thrill.
We are supplements
to sensations, swimming
upstream; salmon fighters,
fresh for flesh,
eager igniters.
Lick these lips,
take me; this pill,
me green and you blue,
there is no choice,
addiction is not a selection
but a devouring infection.
You are base now
to my blood now,
steaming now.
See us:
hooked before we’ve even
swallowed each other whole.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
THE ART OF KISSING
Kissing is an art
like the art of leaving
you wanting more,
like the temptation
just to tease;
lip, tongue, light, longing…
the art of kissing,
just like leaving.
All words and photography by Damien B. Donnelly
BYRON’S BRIDGE
Chains cross limestone,
sentences silence freedom,
a city sinking as the clinking
stops, pauses, bends
on Byron’s bridge of sighs
to say goodbye.
All words by Damien B. Donnelly
Based on a twitter poetry prompt from #DimpleVerse
PERFUMED POISON
Coffee and smoke;
A perfumed poison,
Linger,
Devour and drink
This thing,
This delicious desire;
You naked,
I need a cup,
A kiss,
A breath of you,
One morning to make an eternity.
All words by Damien B. Donnelly
Inspired by the poetry magnet oracle.
WEAVE
We,
we weave,
we warp and weft
through these fragile threads,
sometimes a part of the pattern,
sometimes snipped off at the seams.
Nothing is really as it seems.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
CIRCLING
We come together
again and again
to create, to comfort,
to concede, to compromise,
to be co-habitors hiding old habits
but bound like a boomerang
to fall back on ourselves
in this constant search
within the circle, praying
for the little mercies
to bring us back to a better
completion of the circumference
already closing in.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly.
Inspired by a twitter Prompt from #DimpleVerse
BOUND
We are to the road bound,
paved in method,
measure and movement,
we dig trenches,
turn earth and choke
with cement (no joke).
We are to the light drawn,
toward the harbour,
the heat and the hope,
bound to shore,
to security, to bath
and body (to stroke).
We are seekers of shelter
along this helter-skelter,
cutting comfort
into concrete forms,
wombs become rooms
become homes
filled with customs
we become cocooned in,
a bed to lay our burdens on
and rest our bodies (still stroking) in.
Each morning another blanket
folds over yesterday’s shadows
(light, bright till night finds flight),
each morning another curtain
opens on the dream waiting
at the end of another road
to which we will be,
once again, bound to.
We are bound to follow
the paths we are painstakingly paving.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Damien B. Donnelly 