BOOKENDS; WHEN CONSIDERING WHAT TO WEAR

 

I was always looking to find the lighter side,
the brighter side of your cold concrete
cold corpses once carved into your concerns.

You were papered over in such pomp and circumstance,
such rigidity and reformation from centuries since removed

but I found, once we pealed back each other’s layers
that breath lingered behind all that had built up around us.

Naked can be the hardest choice to make but can also
be the most comforting when carefully considered.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

This month is about pealing back the Parisian layers and saying a goodbye to all the beauty that lays behind the dust that time has gathered over the gold.

CALIFORNIAN SPARK

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Here in parks in Paris, France, I potter
through a past so old and cold
that it cannot be parted, we cannot
easily outrun our own ruins while Cali
beckons me with her rock and roll band;
those make-me-feel-good brothers
and sisters since seduced back
to their former States and somewhere,
in between, the loneliness lingers;
the hazy clouds of craziness I have crossed
and the curt corners I have yet to console
on this journey through time; today,
in the blinding light of a frozen park
in Paris, France and tomorrow beyond
the clouds where Cali is a calling.
In shades of blue, ice cold, I see the breath
collapsing into weighty snowflakes
that makes all movement morose
in this Sunday morning of sunshine
that somehow still shivers skin
on both sides of the ocean, on both sides
of these clouds where I’ve looked at love.

Today, I potter through parts of Paris,
France, that are pressuring, impenetrable
and oh, so pleasurable like cases
of bitter sweetness but tomorrow
I will come to court the hissing
of those Cali lawns that are calling
in a Spring called Palm, waiting
to ignite a spark from a snowflake.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

I am off to Palm Springs tomorrow so see you all in a week

SEASONS TURNING 

 

Trees tremble

in winter’s clutch,

hardening soil

hardens hearts,

frost will follow

till spring’s breath

beckons icicles

to gently weep.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Inspired by a twitter poetry prompt from #WrittenRiver

FLAP AND SNAP

 

Daddy
didn’t know how to say it,
didn’t know how to do it,
Daddy didn’t know how to ask it,
but Daddy knew how to break it,
like it broke before, like they
broke him before, like they beat him
to the floor
and the butterfly flaps his wings
in confusion in the garden
they covered in concrete
when they couldn’t afford
the flowers to decorate it.
Daddy
didn’t know how to do it,
how to show it, how to feel it,
and then they thought
he didn’t need it,
cause she didn’t need it,
not then, not later, not after,
not from him who frowned at laughter
and the butterfly snaps her wings
in the back yard that’s soon to be
a cracked yard and she blames him
for all that went wrong as if
she’d never asked him
for anything, ever.

And they’re both
high on lies
in the back yard,
flapping and snapping
and wondering how this all happened.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

COLOUR ME

White light
And blue skies,
Ice cold
And endless goodbyes.
Maybe tomorrows
And meaningful glances,
Everything to risk
So neither advances.
White light
Brightens the skies,
A frozen moment
When eyes are on eyes.
Forbidden fruit
Could taste so sweet,
Getting hard to resist
But never we cheat.

A white light
From a clean heart,
A pure soul
Never falls apart.

Blue,
The colour of skies
At their fairest,
Blues,
The sign of a heart
At its weakest.

I’m white to the world
And freeze myself blue,
But inside I am burning
With a red flame for you.

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To the East of Ignorance

I had wanted to show you it all;

For you to revel

As much as I

In the magnificence I had seen

And felt.

Perhaps it was my fault-

In the extreme-

Maybe my blinkered view,

Like the race horse-

Seeing only the green of the track

And the glory of the win ahead

While missing the money hungry betters to the sides

And the jockey with whip behind.

But still,

The entire time your view

Saw only the concrete beneath your feet

As if you feared to place a step

Wrongly

And so lose your American footing.

You proved as cold

And impenetrable

As the surface upon which you walked,

Moved only by a metal banister

That you pleaded with me to photograph

Least your creativity

Failed to capture it.

Yet it was you who’d become captured;

Trapped in a foreign land

That you had longed to see

And yet failed-

So perfectly-

To look upon.

To create means more than just

Standing on the spot of inspiration.

You lolled about

Almost as inanimately

As the statues that surrounded us.

However,

Their shadows appeared to sway

In the sunshine

With so much more gusto than yours-

At least, until you fell needy

And your dull American twang

Rang out monotonously

To disrupt the ambience

And civility

That enchanted me

And washed over you

Like you were oil-based,

Cardboard cut-out,

Dull reflection

Of someone else-

Hardly remembered.

Alcohol loosened you

Along with athletic fumblings

In a beamed ceiling room

In Saint Paul,

But we were neither drunk

Nor naked

All the time,

Although it felt like I had stripped

Bare for you,

To show you my secret

Parisian life

That, malheurusement,

Over half the world shared.

In that tree-lined park

Below the radiant sunshine

I feigned sleep and watched you

Behind darkened shades

And wondered

Where you were.

You noted it strange how the boys played

Football

Instead of baseball

And I realized

That you had not even boarded the plane

Or removed yourself

From your ignorant States.

I chilled in the warmth,

Amid that sun-filled square,

On that Sunday afternoon

In July

As I watched you

Fall intrigued

By little boys at play

And your comic books

Became all the more

Disturbingly understandable.

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