CAST OFF

Along the river bed,

long running with water

already washed through our hands,

long is not the hold we have to harbour,

long running with this water

no longer light at its level,

no longer smooth along its sands,

along this bend of river

I cast into the current, like a kiss

no longer catchable,

this weight no longer workable,

now on route to dissolvable.

From breath to bubble,

bobbing

bubbles,

from breath to bubble and then trouble,

then off they blow,

splashing as they sparkle

and splutter on to spent.

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I cast you into this current,

where shamrock slips to sapphire,

to let the past depart,

not sad of heart, not hard,

just a shadow of blue

in a bend of the bank

at the edge of expire.

To slip from soul like a skin

now shredded from recognition,

a cast off of character no longer cast

in this current condition.

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We knit until we are knotted,

we weave patterns;

loops locked under chains,

some stitches saved and others slipped,

connected to a comfort

until they struggle under strains,

a fragile filigree

we cannot always wear,

hands can only hold

what wants to be held,

we are not fortunate

for the future to foresee,

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we can not always follow,

sometimes even sheep

must make their own route

before they are wound as wool

or substance to swallow,

even the river bed must turn, in time,

twist at others, we are no straight line

but a collection of corrections

cast on and cast off,

kick off

pay off

drop off.

We are more than characters

or thinly drawn caricatures,

I am more than this flesh you see,

you see; I can fester or I can be free.

I shed this skin of a former self,

here by the edge of this river running,

running onwards, searching for its shore,

searching for something more,

for its share of the truth,

I shed this skin to let the other

parts of me find their sea.

I cast into the river bed

this weight so the rest

can float and form and be.

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All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

Audio version available on SoundCloud:

https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/cast-off

THE RETURN TO THE WATER

 

At 20 I was reckless,
I waded into waters
with careless concern
for direction.
At 40 I had grown
to understand grounding;
it was not the water
that rushed through me
but the bed my body
rested on. I stand again
over the waters,
rushing always onwards,
but have found my place
in a bed that reassures me
I am no longer a victim
to the whisper of regret.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Inspired by a Twitter poetry prompt form #WrittenRiver

SUMMER RAIN

 

Left burning
in a bed of broken
limbs and lies

winer was wild
but her summer rain
settled beneath his skin
and sunk with a sting.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Poetry prompt of Summer Rain from @ShapePoetry on Twitter

LEFT OVERS

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Soft skin, like silk, draws hands caress
in darkness as we warp and weft
our fragile frames in gyrating games,
crisscrossing lust with lies and trusting thighs,

ties.

We are bruised blankets baying
on beds of yesterday’s toils;
cotton soils and sweaty spoils.

Silk, like soft skin, slips from touch
too swiftly, too much sewn between seams
emblazoned with who we have become
and who we had before; I held his hand
in a taxi while thinking of another,

long departed.

We kiss alone but there is an orchestrated
orgy of others in every embrace, like a hunger
that cannot be abated, like a stain that cannot
be shifted from sheets we once saturated.

In the darkness, beneath the hands caress,
on silk, soft like skin, so supple, we slip
into gullible folds of flesh, not quite fresh,
trying to spell new names on withered frames
from those left over letters of old flames.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on SoundCloud:

https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/left-overs

ON THE SHEETS

 

And you
were gone
and we,
and you
and I
were off
and running
in different
directions,
in search of
subsequent
distractions

and you
were gone,
the day
unfolding
and duties
reasoning
chores into
realities
far from
the comfort
of beds
where bodies
were bare,
where tongues
touched thighs,
trembling,

where fingers
found flesh,
feverish,
where lips
licked
the lies
we tell
each other
that time
will last

and you
were gone
and I was
empty,
had been
emptied,
la petite mort,
unburdened,
lightened
by all that passed
in the passion
and parted
with the dawn
breaking,
with your sweet
sweat still
on my sheets.

All Words and Ink Drawing by Damien B. Donnelly

SLICED

 

A haunting is happening in this house that holds me
A sinister spirit that sighs in the shadows
A feeling of fear is feeding on a frenzy
As it ghoulishly groans and gasps from its gallows

A breath is baying by this bed that now binds me
With its fetid foulness that’s flitting by my face
A mischievous menace that will not let me be
The already dead trudging through time and space

A demon’s devising a death to destroy me
As he cloths me in his cold and callous caress
While neither face nor fingers nor form can I see
But there’s dread in the dark that I cannot suppress

A sour scent is staining the sheets where I slumber
And it’s reeking of rank and rotten revulsions
It exhales a heinous, a horrible, hunger
Its demonic desires and its cursed compulsions

A miserable monster while mumbling madness
Is slapping and sliding something sharp on my skin
Between life and death there’s not much to divide us
The guidance to good and the seduction of sin

A haunting is happening in this house that holds me
A sinister spirit groaning from its gallows
A face is now forming and two eyes can I see
As I’m dragged into darkness, sliced neath the shadows.

 

THE REALITY OF DREAMS

 

I can move mountains
At night,
In the darkness,
Within the costume of sleep

I can part the seas,
Call the currents,
Will the waves
Beneath the waves of a duvet

I can save the world,
Untie the menace
From the mission
With the hero of my dreams

I can find my voice
Bold and brave,
Protect and save
When I am sound asleep

In the light
I take steps,
Singularly significant,
To wake the dream to the day

 

All words and photos 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.

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