PLAYING FOR POSITION

 

I played waiter on weekends to women and their well-worn wishes
and worries, after or in between or in avoidance of the shopping
and washing and cleaning and stewing, mothers sitting with mother,
packed onto the flattened pile of the green velvet sofa, scorched
with leftover tunes from parted parties and expired expectations,
milk and one sugar, black and boiling with a biscuit, coffee for her
up the road with hair in a chignon as if she wasn’t from round here
and later, maybe, a glass of wine squeezed from a box with a tap;
thinking we were posh when they changed our name from Coolock
to Clonshaugh. I was a willing waiter to these women on weekends
when they dropped in through the backdoor, over the mopped floor
to avoid the hassle of husbands and kids and all the copious concerns
that came a calling, later, looking for coins and cuddles and timings
for dinners and hoping for a spare biscuit while pulling up a chair
in the corner below the parrot; puffed up and padded on his perch.
I was a waiter, waiting, back then, on the far side of understanding,
wondering where I fitted in between the orders and observations,
teas and coffees, the women congregating and the men left waiting,
adding the cream and dunking biscuits and pondering the placement
of that perfectly positioned parrot; puffed and padded upon perch.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly.

Inspired by a Poetry Prompt on Twitter.

THROUGH THE SANDS, Day 7 of A Month With Yeats

 

Day 7 of Jane Dougherty’s A Month with Yeats poetry challenge and today’s inspirational quote from WB is: ‘…stars, grown old in dancing silver-sandalled on the sea, sing in their high and lonely melody…’

To join in the creativity or just to discover Jane’s gentle genius, her blog link is: https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/category/poetry-2/

My poem today is called THROUGH THE SANDS

 

And when they danced

she would hold him, her

perfume by his face, his

hands as her strength

as they waltzed through

their current as the tides

swept the shore, through

love and labor, to the first born,

still born, through the twins

who stopped the tears

and the girls who tied

the bows as the sands slipped

through time and the pace

became a quick step, through

the hands that held and those

hips that swayed through

the melody they were making

as they danced through

waves of washing houses

into homes, children into

strangers; rarely calling

and barely remembering

but on they danced as red

locks swept into silver strands,

as full head turned to bald head

on an older head as they turned

to the music now made

in the memory, till she left him,

finally, one morning in may,

as he rose to the sunlight but

she had lost to the moonlight

and so he built her an alter

of sea shells and sentiments

and now he turns, alone, across

the sands still slipping,

as the stars plot a path for him

to reach her in eternity.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

COLOUR ON CURT CORNERS, PART 1, FANTASTIC FLUTTERINGS

 

On dull days
when the sun
absconds from sky,
when grey grinds
gloom into gutters
and mothers utter
‘stay inside’,
children’s minds
flutter to unfold
like umbrellas opening;
colours cascading
over concrete clutter
like candy to calm
a calamity.

In the midst
of the mundane
and the murky,
inspiration catches
on the canvas of creation
like wings willing
to cut through clouds
and gain the grace
of the sun.

Children’s minds,
so magnificent,
hold matter so magical
that ordinary moments
can become such
extraordinary miracles.

All words and photograph by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud: 

A BLONDE BIRD IN FLIGHT

 

And off she ran
a blonde bird in flight,
a bright baby bird
into the night,
focused and flapping
as if chasing the morning,
as if orchestrating the trees,
as if transported by the breeze
flying over fields of youth,
twists and turns and truth,
folds of frivolous folly,
courting clouds in curiosity,
looking for a reason
to rhyme upon,
a reason to ride on

and she will fly
in spiralling circles
that surround you
before circling you
in widening widths,
further stretches,
further afield,
a blonde bird
but blue to you
and the agony of letting her go
and the ecstasy of having her back
but she is bound
with those big eyes,
those beautiful eyes,
to brighter breezes,
to warmer beaches,
bound for bigger things
like the grass growing
over fading footsteps,
like the trees
towering over ticking time,
like the clouds
wild to the will of the wind,

to far flung lands she will fly
as you sigh,
to other fields,
to foreign fields
to set down findings,
feelings, foundations,
familiarities foreign to you,
foolish to you
but faithful and fruitful to her,
a home in other hills,
a happiness to harbour
in other homes

and then one day
when the breeze beckons
you catch her scent on your shoulder
where it wasn’t there before
and you will find her
once again
in a field familiar to you both.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly