Poetry

GRACE IN THE GARDEN

/ deuxiemepeau / 15 Comments

My mother hangs memories
on the wall of her garden
in the land where her grandparents toiled,
on a wall in the garden
are my mother’s memories
that not autumn, winter or summer can spoil.

There are tea pots and trinkets
and there are trophies and tack
and mirrors watching time brushing past,
and a blue bird, once my bird,
upon the side of my crib
proving somethings from childhood can last.

My mother has memories
now rooted in her garden
next to bushes and berries in bloom,
there are things that can tickle
and there are things that can touch
and things that were broken or just had no room.

My mother’s hanging hope
on the walls in her garden
to cradle the heart in when it’s cold,
in the heart there’s a garden
where we cradle the grace
that my mother plants just like it were gold.

 

Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly, the Grace and Garden by Mona Donnelly

Audio version available at Soundcloud:

https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/grace-in-the-garden

NO ROOM IN THE ARC

/ deuxiemepeau / 1 Comment

Falling…

through time
that never truly changes
while never really stopping,

through thoughts
that cannot be accounted for,
that cannot be considered
accountable

and still we are counting

but not the cost.

Falling…

through floorboards
of homes that are no more

(did we invent the word war?)

no more the heart at home,
no more the heart of the home;

home now an ocean bed
and no boat big enough
to hold us all

even the arc
only took two of everything

while the heavens ran with rain

yet the heart still beats
like time,

still falling…

through cracks that cannot be closed
and every splinter
splits the skin
of illusion

and we are all a delusion;
a fading reflection
of subjection,
rejection,

speculation and conjecture;
the spectre of conjecture. 

Falling…

through hands
that no longer hold
hearts now hardened

(and they say icebergs are melting)

hearts have grown cold
and have no place in homes.

Drowning…

in shallow shoals
shoals of souls
too shallow to swim in,

too sullied to see survival

as we rewrite the bible.

Drowning…

in the falling rain
too polluted to have faith in,

faith; and so fell faith
fate; and so befell Our Fate

in slow moving tears
on piers were boats are bound
to no harbour,
to no hope,
to no humanity

(christianity was a cross to heavy to bare)

Falling…

while standing up

and yet no one seems to notice.
“I came in bright as a neon light and I burnt out right there before him.’ This line is taken from Joni Mitchell’s song Lesson in Survival

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available at SoundCloud:

https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/no-room-in-the-arc

 

STARDUST

/ deuxiemepeau / 4 Comments

 

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 beyonder,
look to the light
and not the loneliness,
the night is falling
but the light
is just 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

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

COLLECTIVE SOUNDWAVES

/ deuxiemepeau / 4 Comments

screen-shot-2016-11-15-at-23-40-53

I am delighted to hear that the Nov/Dec edition of Collective Soundwaves features some of my poems along with highlighting many other outstanding voices. 

Who are Collective Soundwaves: (in their own words)

Collective Soundwaves features music from Soundcloud artists among different genres. The genres are divided into contemporary classical, cinematic/soundtrack, metal, electronic, ambient, rhythm and prose,  lyrical expressions/songwriter, and spoken word. 
  
Music has different meanings for both those who create it and those who hear it. The intent of the artist need not influence how we interpret their sound or what their music means to us. Nevertheless, for certain releases, we expand on the artist’s concept for their music via interviews and/or album discussions.

Collective Soundwaves was founded May 2016 by Sae Ely, an orchestral composer and microbiologist. Singer/songwriter Lanie Cruz assists with editing.

Please check out their site at:

http://www.collectivesoundwaves.com/home

(You can find me under the Spoken Word section)

Damien B. Donnelly 

GOING EAST

/ deuxiemepeau / 9 Comments

 

I have crossed oceans
without feeling the weight
washed beneath their waves…

I have cut through clouds
without knowing the worries
they whisper to the stars…

I have flown

from darkening dreams
towards tomorrow’s daylight

and yet
the light’s already fading
on front of me

before my past
has even slept

before my future

somewhere far behind me

has even been conceived…

 

All words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

FINDING FAVOUR

/ deuxiemepeau / 2 Comments

 

Dig deep             fisherman,             brave man,
                                                      for there is worth below the waters,

between the silence
                and the stillness,
                                 between the fish to find
                                                and the tangles to entwine,
                                                                between the breathing in
                                                                                and the letting go, let it go,
                                                                                                 between the desire to dive
                                                                                                                 and the danger of drowning.

Dig deep                 fisherman,                 simple man,
                                                           for there is madness in the making

beyond the bank and bed
                and bark and bait,
                                beyond the trees that tower
                                                and the skies that shelter,
                                                                beyond the seductive stillness
                                                                                and the call of the silence,
                                                                                                beyond the fortune to be found
                                                                                                                 at the end of your line.

Dig deep                 fisherman,                 honest man,
                                                           salvation lies in your simple swing

far from the sinners
                swimming upstream,
                                far the faithful
                                               drowning in the shallows,
                                                               far from lies
                                                                              cast to raging waters, enraging waters,
                                                                                               far from the substance
                                                                                                                since sucked from the sacred.

Dig deep                 fisherman,                 still standing man,
                                                            make not the crowd your coffin

sure is the rod
                that sweeps the silence,
                                brave is the bait
                                                 that slips though the stillness,
                                                                 clever are the cautious
                                                                                 who consider the current,
                                                                                                  fortunate is the fisherman
                                                                                                                  who finds favour far from fools.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

DOWN THE DRAIN

/ deuxiemepeau / 10 Comments

 

My body

my body has a memory
my body has a memory of you
my body has a memory of your skin.

My body

my body remembers
my body remembers how it bent
my body remembers how it bent to your beckoning.

And yet

my mind
my mind has washed itself
my mind has washed itself of your name

like it were no more than scum
to be scrubbed.

All Words by Damien B. Donnelly

FERTILE FIELDS

/ deuxiemepeau / 10 Comments

 

Around me, like a blanket,
nature wraps its scent
of bush and bark,
of fertile soil,

as if I am the tree
and comfort comes
from fragile foliage

folding into colours
that glisten like gold
over crisp blades
of cut grass

that feel like velvet
beneath my feet
and I thread softly
and I move carefully

like the compassionate clouds overhead.

Before me with roots
deeper than time
a tree stands tall
entangled with memories

with madness,
with a sadness
that cannot be buried,
that cannot be wrapped
in a blanket.

We plant our past in fertile fields
and water them with our tears

in the hope for a brighter future.

 

This field, in Parc de Sceaux, in a southern suburb of Paris, is the site of the Mémorial de la Shoah, a memorial to the deportation of the Jewish during World War II.

All words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on SoundCloud:

SNAP

/ deuxiemepeau / 5 Comments

 

Pictures capture the setting in silence
as if the silence has settled

Reflections capture the stillness in the water
as if to sink beneath

could somehow be more soothing
than the reality rocking
just a fraction beyond the frame.

Hope is as fragile as a pond of still water,

a breath held

as if to hold back the ripples
that can render illusion

a drowned delusion.

Snap.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly