MEDITATION UNDER THE YELLOW SUN

 

I wanted to draw
the sound of the moon
on a sun-drenched beach
stripped down to white sand,
white wave, white skin
starved for affection.
I wanted to draw
the silent sound of that moon
as the chaos of the current
crashed down on the crowds
clawing at each other
for a moment
below the spot of sunlight
that burnt them quicker
than they could contemplate
a commitment to content
while I sketched
the white light circling the night,
even in daylight,
even in the terror and the fright
that twist through the lyrics
these lives lived on the edge
of the sinking shore
will forever be linked to.
I wanted to put onto paper
that palpable possibility
of holding stillness while all else moved,
of leaning into the moonlight melody
while the daylight drowned out thought,
of holding silence in a song
while the sand surrendered
to the will of the shore.

I wanted to draw
the sound of the moon…

that sensation of being surrounded
in a single sway of stillness,
a solo seduction of strings
pulling me towards the white light
at the centre of the night’s clarity
as the yellow sun strips the sea
from the sand.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

3rd poem for National Poetry Writing Month 2019

LANES OF LIFE

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Time tears
through flesh and bone
as it moves towards us
through us             past us
while we try to
linger longer
onto that fragile hold
we have on love

but we are just
cars and connections
caught up in the cacophony
trying to stand in the right lane
with the right person
at the right time
as the clock ticks on
like a heartbeat
like a time bomb

I captured you
on film             in a photo
as they kissed and craved and smiled
while you moved toward them
while you cut through them
then swept past them

before they even saw you.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photograph taken in Hong Kong on a rainy night when two lovers held each other tight and life rushed past them.

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/lanes-of-life

WICKED WILLS

The wolves are out,
Baying in the shadows,
Fetid breath fowling air,
Drool dribbling in the darkness.
The wolves are out,
Growling gratuitously,
Muzzle sniffing movement,
Fangs feverish for flesh.
The wolves are out,
Their scent; steaming,
Their eyes; searching
For substance to satisfy.
The wolves are out,
Their panting petrifying,
Prowling on poised paws
Picturing us as prey
The wolves are out,
Our streets; their forest now,
Our buildings; their shelter,
Our fear; their force.
The wolves are out,
Drawing disguises
From our likenesses,
Slivering among us
Sniffing out old scars
And worn wounds
To leap at lavishly,
Devour on desperately.
The wolves are out,
Tail twisted in and under,
Standing tall on hind legs,
Shaved bodies to assimilate,
Poured over in perfume
But their stench lingers
To stale the street.
The wolves are out,
There’s horror in their howling
And chaos in their cackling,
Predators posing as persons,
But no pretence parts them
From their purpose
And I worry what their wicked will wants.

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