Moonlight
melts
languidly
on liquid lakes
like suds on dishes
like snow on windows
like thicker skin over age-old scars.
Moonlight
floats
momentarily
on rippling reflections
like the tingle after kisses
like the scent after sex
like the pain after parting.
Moonlight
flirts on the water
to divine
whether the depth
is worth the dive.
All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly
Repost for a week of Moons and Stars
Light leaks like water
dripping from the faucet.
You called me baby
before you really knew me
and stopped calling at all,
afterwards
drip…
drip…
nothing.
Light lingers in quite corners
like memories that refuse to flicker,
not acknowledging that the night
has fallen.
We pour over each other
like liquid on a perched desert,
sucking sustenance from substance,
leaching life from any length,
dryer…
dryer…
death.
I dived deep down to the bottom
and found only a drought
drowning on the ocean floor.
Were you the desert or the drought?
Was I the ocean or merely drowning?
Bubble…
bubble…
nothing.
Light lifts the illusions
we sleep upon beneath the darkness,
when everything is possible
and no one ever parts.
I am not one part us,
I am not one part you,
I am not one or the other,
I am the I that was your baby.
Remember?
I was light, you said in the midst
of so much weight but you remained
light on love, regardless.
Light leaks like dripping water
from a faucet
drip…
drip…
onto the broken plates and half eaten hopes
that cannot be either washed or erased.
Light is too light to lift the stains
from the remains of what began
with the words
I want to drown in your eyes.
Light frequently floods
the flaccid lies we feed ourselves
just so we can get from day to night.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
This is a re-post
1
The Depth under the Moon
Moonlight
melts
languidly
on liquid lakes
like suds on dishes
like snow on windows
like thicker skin over age-old scars.
Moonlight
floats
momentarily
on rippling reflections
like the tingle after kisses
like the scent after sex
like the pain after parting.
Moonlight
flirts on the water
to divine
whether the depth
is worth the dive.
2
The Garden of the Moon
There is a shadow,
like a dream too delirious
to light with language,
whispering more of what swam away
than smears this still water
I trudge through
below a bitter moon
that’s made his garden
in this breast of man.
3
Being Bold
Beauty is raw
beneath this blood red sky
where we lie delirious,
licking at lazy, drunken ships
trudging through bitter beds,
frantic to find our way to smoother seas.
‘Man is but a whisper,’ the Shadows
sing to the Sun but I
want to milk the storm
before my summer sinks
beneath the shade.
The moon cannot be the only light
to cast its reflection upon these waters.
Surely we too can be as bright
as the night.
Beauty is raw
but bold can be breath-taking.
All poems by Damien B Donnelly
Painting entitled Clair de Lune, Pornic by Alexei Bogoliubov, photographed at La Lune Exhibition, Grand Palais, Paris, 2019
All poems are older poems I am re posting.
Beat down, beat deep
below the root, there is work
to be done, there is dirt
to be drawn from this soil,
this stench, this space made
for more than just a trench.
Beat down, beat deep
under skin grown pale,
grown greedy under ale,
there is movement still
to be made, meaning to be
molded from all this matter
lately grown lazy, grown fatter.
There is more to be made
of the soil, of this soul
than simply burying
bodies within it.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Moonlight
melts
languidly
on liquid lakes
like suds on dishes
like snow on windows
like thicker skin over age old scars.
Moonlight
floats
momentarily
on rippling reflections
like the tingle after kisses
like the scent after sex
like the pain after parting.
Moonlight
flirts on the water
to divine
whether the depth
is worth the dive.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
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