MYTHS OF MAN

 

Far we have come from the gardens of wild roses.
Here, by this river running home to waiting wave
we stop and take turns tipping toes into the tide.

What if all we touched was troubled?
What if all the gold no longer bought

the glory?

Far we have come from the kingdom of wild roses.
Here, by these tides running out to open ocean
we stop and call the current to cast away the curse.

 

All words and photographs and bread by Damien B. Donnelly 

Inspired by the #PoetryPrompt ‘Midas’ on Twitter from the #PoetInResidence Catherine Anne Cullen at @PoetryIreland

CURSED 

 

Blackened hands hardened
over the heart exposed, expunged,
red roses rubbed into ruins,
‘We are no more
than the dust we leave
after death,’
a curse forgotten,
a force too rooted to be released.
Black heart burnt to broken,
banished to the ashes
of her aftermath and he cannot
cry, but he can crack,
like a mirror, now marked,
shaped into shards now,
splinters to spilt the skin,
grown thin, torn.
Blackened hands hardened
over the heavy heart,
bloodless, no longer
bound to the beat,
no longer whole.

‘Kiss her and curse her,’

and so the curse was cast
but they were young
and too busy kissing to take time
to listen to the whispers
of the witches of the wood.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly