colour

WHITE LIES

/ deuxiemepeau / 17 Comments

 

What if I admitted to you,
here and now,
before I even begin,
before I even let you in,
that all I am about to tell you is a lie,
perhaps white, perhaps a depth darker.

What if I lay it all on the line,
here and now, naked,
the truth of all the lies,
would you believe me,
would you still listen,
would you still want to hear
and make up your own mind

if what I’m telling you is a lie
or if I’m just laying lines upon the truth?

We live a life
on both sides of the line
and exist somewhere
in between what we believe
and what we know to be false.

I have told the truth many times,
its many lines spilt
over many skins, in many beds

and still I lie alone.

This is what I have left;
this is the truth of my lie.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

12th poem for National Poetry Writing M0nth 2019

ORANGE COLOURED SKIRTS

/ deuxiemepeau / 17 Comments

 

‘And there can be days like this,’
and the boy smiled and sausages
swam past him in shorts and shades
and in the sky dogs with Madonna mikes
flew over kittens in orange coloured skirts
and Beyoncé in their boogie.
‘And there can be days like this,’
his mother said as she painted
pictures of cows in caps and snakes
in sarongs shopping in stores
for shoes to put on. ‘Put on what,’
he asked, ‘they have no feet?’
‘But still,’ she carried on,
‘there can be days like this
all wonder and magic.’
‘But how,’ he asked as he sat
on her bed, as the machine
kept beeping, as the white coats
kept creeping, ‘just close your eyes
and see with your heart
what your sight can no longer see.’

There can be days like this.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Poem for Day 10 of National Poetry Writing Month

CRIMSON CONSIDERATIONS ON CARRIAGES KISSING

/ deuxiemepeau / 2 Comments

 

A curious crimson
caressed his cheek
as we crossed
the carriage,

no winding words,

no exchange of the
extraordinary,

only that crimson kiss of curiosity

that blushed upon cheek
and burnt into my hunger

long hostage to painfully pale
and drained out drought,

before pressing passengers
pushed me forward
and him

too far behind…

and soon to fall
out of mind.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

9th poem for National Poetry Month

GRAZING GREENS

/ deuxiemepeau / 1 Comment

 

I set down
upon your shores,
those grazing greens
of my childhood memory
displaced as tears rained
over the darkness
of your sleeping fields,

once seeping with humble hope,

once filled with a fine blood
even famine could not blight,

now flooded with a feeling of regret or relief,

too dark to tell,
too changed to recognise,

not knowing if you were crying
because I had found my way home
or that I’d once found a home in other fields.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Poem for Day 8 of National Poetry Writing Month

THE BLACK OF NIGHT

/ deuxiemepeau / 1 Comment

 

See, he says
to the child by his side,
see how the water rises.

Wait, he says
to the child by his side,
to see how life surprises.

Dark, he says,
is the black of night,
the stars too far to enlighten.

But day, he says
to the child in his wake,
brings a light for the willing to find sight in.

I see, says the child
by the side of the man,
feeling his ancestors were blind.

All words and photographs by Damien D. Donnelly

7th poem for National Poetry Writing Month

PURPLE CLOUDS

/ deuxiemepeau / 13 Comments

 

In that garden
of the many meadows of my mind

plants grow down
from purple clouds

carved of cotton catchable candy

and seek substance
from the surface
and not the ceiling.

In that garden
of the many meadows of my mind

fences are painted
with faces familiar

and mouths to catch kisses if you’re quick enough

and embraces
sprout like brush
to cradle comfort.

In that garden
of the many meadows of my mind

music spreads like ivy
a chorus to cut the chaos

and a crescendo of colour like a flower unfolding.

—

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

6th poem for National Poetry Writing Month

MEDITATION UNDER THE YELLOW SUN

/ deuxiemepeau / 11 Comments

 

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

RUBY RED

/ deuxiemepeau / 9 Comments

 

We walk on berry bushes,
capture lies in jam jars,
rich ruby reds
to dapple sweetness
over the bitter truth.

We walk on clear waters
fishing through sieves
for reflections
of who we were
before we drowned the earth dry.

We walk on land
but turn towards the clouds,
trying to draw conclusions
from the cotton candy
we cannot catch hold of.

We walk on the world
with a faith

that can’t always keep us afloat.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

2nd poem for National Poetry Writing Month 2019

IN THE PEACE BY THE PURPLE PETAL

/ deuxiemepeau / 2 Comments

 

Lather us in lazy,
let us lick the honey
from the purple petal,
let us lay down dreams
upon the velvet veneer
of the plump peach,
slip us into a dream of sleep
where all language is lulled
into a lake that lingers
in stilled thought
that tickles tongue upon first taste
with the truth of who we are,
where we shed the red thorns
that have twisted flesh
and bequeath our blues
to the bed at the bottom
to form a base as we rise
in a garden of purple pride
as honey pours
from our once starved lips.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

1st poem for National Poetry Writing Month 2019