Lilium lancifolium lies back
in a bed we repositioned
last spring under the scorch
of today’s mid-afternoon melt.
In a slow movement that set her
into structure, before the dawn woke
the rest of us, she assumes a position
to demonstrate the perfect pliancy
of her freckled petals and pushes
everything out to be eaten.
Next to her majesty, in the sluggish
shade of a white pot on the worm-
twisting soil, succulents seal in
all they will ever need to survive.
Somewhere in between I, myself,
am planted with all that I hold vital
willingly caged within these ribs
not even I can open while my fears
sway like stamen from this skin
as I pray for the wind to soon
introduce them all to flight.
All words and photos by Damien B Donnelly
The Depth under the Moon
on liquid lakes
like suds on dishes
like snow on windows
like thicker skin over age-old scars.
on rippling reflections
like the tingle after kisses
like the scent after sex
like the pain after parting.
flirts on the water
whether the depth
is worth the dive.
The Garden of the Moon
There is a shadow,
like a dream too delirious
to light with language,
whispering more of what swam away
than smears this still water
I trudge through
below a bitter moon
that’s made his garden
in this breast of man.
Beauty is raw
beneath this blood red sky
where we lie delirious,
licking at lazy, drunken ships
trudging through bitter beds,
frantic to find our way to smoother seas.
‘Man is but a whisper,’ the Shadows
sing to the Sun but I
want to milk the storm
before my summer sinks
beneath the shade.
The moon cannot be the only light
to cast its reflection upon these waters.
Surely we too can be as bright
as the night.
Beauty is raw
but bold can be breath-taking.
All poems by Damien B Donnelly
Painting entitled Clair de Lune, Pornic by Alexei Bogoliubov, photographed at La Lune Exhibition, Grand Palais, Paris, 2019
All poems are older poems I am re posting.