Winds whisper
of what once was
while weather wisps
what was
into what will be.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Change
COME HAS THE SHADOW
And the black crow comes calling…
and summer is falling,
has burnt in blushing breaths before us,
before worshiped walls and rushing rivers,
as if it’s taken to tombs or swept below waters
raging in the ruins, sunken into shade,
shadows slip winter’s wings over sunshine,
colour hiding, as if hibernating,
climbing tall towers till showers pass.
Light is waning as if washed away
from where we bathed yesterday,
like dreams that dissolve at daybreak,
as if the world isn’t capable,
as if hope isn’t sustainable;
sweep in, stir up, swoop out, leaving us wishing, waiting, wanting.
And the black crow spreads its wings
as autumn stirs and winter sings
in shallow pools on sidewalks,
in river beds where torrents stalk.
And the black crow crashes down on the storm,
all light now shadow, all colour now fading,
all freckles now a flicker of what once was,
all changed in the flutter of a wing.
Come has the crow and we cower from its cawing.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Audio version available on Soundcloud:
STILL MOVING…
Moving, still moving on metros, more metros, more sturdy, more stable, more directive, less suggestive, people, more people, less strangers, more familiar on metros still moving through motions of settling, the notions of belonging to lives above these lines, above these metros still moving like my life that’s still changing, new lands, new lines, same lines, different names, sometimes sturdy and stable, more times suggested than directed, catching connections in the passing, holding hands, holding tight, losing grip, letting go of these lines of our life that we mark into memory like the tracks under ground where we scuttle and scurry on metros, still moving…
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Audio available on Soundcloud:
https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/still-moving
METAMORPHOSES
Changing currents,
currently, body and soul
converging concurrently,
control lost to illusion;
divinity divining, dividing delusion
directing hands of fate
or falling me from faith,
body leaning in
bending to all beckoning.
Was it I who let go
of love’s hand or had fate decided so?
Was there a choice,
considered, consecrated, a confession
would I, could I be called up for blame?
In letting go,
I fell to freedom,
funny how freedom drops you,
seemingly untangled,
from the knot undone and I come undone,
at a loss, undefinable or redefined?
Partially salvageable, this time.
Selfishness slipping into single state
celibate, (sold a lot)
with no one to consider,
to hold, to cherish, to love.
What is love when you lay alone?
Where does love lay when you are alone?
Alone, love is where there are no more lies.
.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
BLUES AT THE BOTTOM
Even in paradise,
on paved paths long pillaged,
the palms are no longer placid
and shady skies swell with storms
as rivers rumble with ripples
from ructions bellowing between
the blues at the bottom
and the clouds congregating,
without comfort, by the high heavens
and, blowing on boisterous breezes
nearby, are names I once knew,
faces forming of fidelities forgotten
in the foaming waters
where once there was weight
now withered with ruin
like colours that run
in the wash, in the tempest
that turns through time,
too lost to latch on to,
too fragile to fight
the currents currently pervading
this paradise now paved and perishing
like parts of me long lost
in a sea now swelling beneath me…
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Photograph taken in Turks and Caicos.
Audio version available on SoundCloud:
https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/blues-at-the-bottom
NUMBNESS
There is a silence
all around
a stillness in the storm
a second before the shot
I am struck by the numbness
the momentary nothingness
that invades this moment of motionless
that slips itself like a spectre
into the cold night air
between the sleep and the sheets
between the suffering and the acceptance
and I am upright
alert, awake
attuned to the sound of nothing
it is a subtle shift
as if a warning is awakening
as if something’s been stolen
a thread, a thought,
a part of my person
now forgotten
I am struck by the numbness
a shot in the dark of all this nothingness
All words by Damien B. Donnelly
MINUTES MOVING
There are but minutes now,
minutes in motion on metros,
minutes moving in on me,
on my identity
on my mark, on my leaning,
on my meaning,
meaning I am moveable
like a feast, as he said,
A Moveable Feast,
meaning I am manageable
malleable,
maybe unremarkable, mistakable.
There are but minutes now,
minutes moving in
on my metamorphosis,
on my undoing,
on my unbecoming,
is it unbecoming?
on my being misunderstood,
misinterpreted, misrepresented,
missing.
I am famished,
the feast has moved, on
mindless to the matters
that manipulate me
mould me
remodel me.
Minutes, there are but minutes
multiplying on metros moving,
on me, in motion
minutes making minutes minus minutes.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Photograph taken in the Arts et Métiers Metro Station, Paris, France.
OH COUNTRY, MY COUNTRY
Oh country, my country,
once born in your troubled times
and raised by the banks where your Liffey lies,
I followed the paths of generations moved on
to see what they’d built, to see where they’d gone,
but returned to a home now seriously lacking
a nation of consumers complaining and attacking.
Where are your parishioners, the pride of your isle,
your Emerald’s glory once renowned for its smile?
Oh country, dear country,
now bigger than ever in girth if not majesty,
in greed if not glory, in makeup if not unity.
What has become of those simple smiles,
captured in bar songs of other times?
Is summer gone, have the flowers died
did Danny not return to his father’s side?
A nation once raised on songs and stories,
of people poor but proud of their glories.
Are you better beings in designer labels,
Gucci in hand and louboutin’s under tables?
Maleficent muttons playing innocent lambs
slaughtering histories with blood stained palms.
Oh country, once my country,
there’s no truth to your hunger or depth to your drunkenness,
no moral in your manners or reason for your forgetfulness.
Who’ll be your heroes in the years still to come,
who’ll hear your cries and who’ll beat your drum?
Collins was martyred and there’s no more de Valera
the last of your greats were the end of an era,
now it’s fools fickle to the latest fashion fads
tarted-up teenagers and under aged dads.
Oh country, fallen country,
once a force of marching freedom
while looking to other lands for asylum,
now turned and twisted into narrow opinions
while others seek help and die in their millions.
How has racism risen so loud
in a place once paraded as peaceful and proud,
where its people filled ships that sailed on the seas
in the hope that other lands would hear their pleas,
can you rise again from your Holy Ground
adding names to the list of your heroes renowned?
Oh country, lost country,
where Mary’s cries still ring out to the sea
for Michael who told her nothing matter’s when you’re free,
have you washed down too much of your own importance
and forgotten the fight for your own independence?
Can it be that the tiger, in departing, took your best;
your heart and your soul and just spat out the rest.
Oh country, what country,
how can I find my way back to before
when all I once loved has slipped from your shore?
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Photograph taken at across the fields at sunset in Lusk, Co. Dublin , Ireland
Translucent Changes
I am surrounded by change,
greens going brown,
burning into translucency,
visible into invisible
as leaves leave branches
to flitter and float in the air
turning, twisting,
changing, change,
change they say,
change they whisper,
transform, turn too, in turn, turn out,
I was stuck once, in a position,
positioned between the seams,
sewn into lines, too structured, too static,
derailed by demands, dictating designers,
but I have turned too, already,
I have transformed, turned into transparency.
I live now in lines, between the pages,
I appear and disappear at will, at want,
I am me at times,
characters at others,
careful, cautious, curious, questioning.
I am skin and bone,
I am ageing, like the leaves,
older, greyer, lighter,
wilting with the weather,
but I am sturdy too,
stronger in other places,
wizened but wiser.
I am caught in the same current
as the autumn air that lingers,
lightens and lifts
and carries life onto the next adventure…
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Damien B. Donnelly 
