On a Monday, a muse filled‬ Monday,
a sky-blue clarity carries me ‬
like the water would never the river
from the sea back to the source. ‬

My footsteps are still steady,
still stepping up on the spiral,
but memory can be mischievous
and, on the turn, I twist
past that door, long since shut,
by the temple with its turret staircase
where saint Therese tittered on the timbers

and I wonder if the sunflowers
I once painted onto its lifeless walls,
before I uncovered Vincent’s darker visions,
are still visible beneath all the time
that has grown over it since I put them there

at 22?
This, I think of, here today,

at 44

while growing and ageing and twisting
and turning from the call of those crows
that try so hard to claw at creativity. ‬


All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly.

This month is about looking back in order to move on. An Irish girl named Therese (who introduced me to the music and magic of Joni Mitchell via her Casio keyboard) and I first lived in a little apartment at 98 rue Vieille du Temple, in Paris, in 1998 where I painted sunflowers on walls that never saw any sunlight. It was my first home in Paris and we had no idea at the time that crows were anything more than something to contrast the cotton candy clouds.



Gone is the garden, we are paved now

in parts no longer potential to growth,
to goodness. And the crow caws
in the corner, flesh festering into feather.

Gone is the garden, we have paved paths

over all that was precious while thinking
thoughtless, if only we’d thought less
about what we wanted and more
about what was needed. And the crow
cowers in the corner, questioning
what has become of its celebrity.

Gone is the garden and we can never
go back; the lock now lost in lyrics
too light, in the songs surrendered
from all that was soul to just sold out.

Gone is the garden, gone to graze

over another galaxy not yet grown
greedy, we are now alien to all
the earth has asked for, strangers
to the simple sand that sweeps the shore,
and stranger still to the starlight
that shines through its last breath burning.

We are the crows, cawing over concrete,
in corners, claws cracking in our chaos

and confused as to where went the worth.


All words and drawings my Damien B Donnelly

This is a repost (from my Joni Mitchell series) for a week of considering creation 




There is a bloom bursting in the bleak of winter
There are shadows that lurk in the sun’s embrace
There is a crow overhead looking mean and sinister
There’s an order disordered in time and space


There is a light that shines on shadows in autumn
There is pain in the thorn of the blooming brier
There is a crow that flies though nobody sees him
There is deception in things we think we desire


There are people are laughing without rhyme or reason
There are others counting up all they have lost
There is beauty in bloom no matter the season
While that crow overhead is counting up the cost.


There is a shadow overhead watching us wither
There is a bird in flight just biding his time
There is destruction flapping on feathers that flutter
There is a crow who now covets our reason to rhyme.

All Words and Pictures by Damien B. Donnelly