TWO NORTHERN MAGNETS

 

We scold,

even at frightening distances,
you burn, there, at the centre of
the sun
and I roar back across the stars at you,
from this comet that cannot commit,
at how you could run
so cold.
Our landings

were nothing less than lumpy-
you wanted to shine so I caught you that sun
and I wanted to amplify time
so you considered for me
the moon
but were already consumed
by your own blaze
and I caught this cursed comet in its place.
I think of you

as I finally defy time
on the tail end of this burning star.
We lacked the gravity needed
to bring a balance to
any orde
but we each held magnets
that repelled the other to the far ends
of space.
In the distance

I see something great
that might be your light
and smile back

before I spit

across the sky
and wonder if it’s enough
to put you out.
We scold still,

even at these great distances. 

   

All words and photographs by Damien. B. Donnelly

WHAT LIES IN THE VALLEY

 

Truth, lies, tall tales spread across the canyon
of our sighs. My hope, your hurt, my side,
your silence, nothing is distinguishable in this void,
I cannot even identity any let up from the winter
of this valley where the wind winds its way around
the silent subtleties of how you express your hurt
and how I hold my hope- foolishly, foolish, fool
or fooled. We are both breakable and some parts
dissolvable while riding horseback across this canyon
whose cracks are cavernous, two cowboys believing
more in disguise, in the delusions and so we sweep
into such deluge. Somewhere, in between this valley,
somewhere, down below this wind, still tangible,
there is a bridge that crosses the truth of our lies,
bashful and broken. But we don’t want to find it

anymore.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

PERMISSIBLE TO ASK?

 

I take the boat out on the water,
rowing out to come into the stillness
in this place where space is still displaced.
Chez moi, c’est quoi, c’est où ?
Il est permis de demander ?

Merci, I say, still, when I should just
stay still, like this water where I row out,
stretching limb, exhausted, after the search
that brought me back, to pacify.
Pacifier- je peux le toucher, presque…

but these movements, however measured,
deprive peace from pacify, remove the stillness
from all this space I am, still,
struggling to reach. Mais.

Priver, je ne veux pas, non, non plus.
Je ne regarderai pas mon nombril, pas comme avant.

Moi- I shed who I was, am, along with time
but not breath- I lost breath, once- tu te souviens,
tu étais là, non ? Oui ! Tu ne te souviens pas.

Regarde ce bateau-
hope is a delicate placement of desire upon wish,
of wood upon water.

Je suis le bois, ou non ? C’était toi avant,
Mais tu as été viré. Viré. Fired. Sacked. Sack.

Meanings can give way to so many misunderstandings,
like translations- so much gets lost in the turning,
in the movement, going out and coming in,
with each row

further out. On the water.

Sometimes thought is not what is needed but stillness
within a world that cannot stop.
Arrête. Stop

but that word is too final.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

DAFFODIL DREAMS

 

I climb clouds
between the night’s blanketed sleep,
a billowing blossom of smoke
that never chokes the mountain moon,
where the world is a warm walk
through a blue breeze
and the only plight
is to find your path
within a forest of daffodils
on a prairie of peace.

On a prairie of peace
within a forest of daffodils,
beyond the billowing blossom of smoke
that never chokes the mountain moon,
I climb clouds
as a blue breeze uncloaks
the confusion of consciousness
and the sky glistens
with a golden glimpse of tomorrow
tipped in a topaz tempered truth.

I climb clouds
to sleep in a dream of daffodils.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

This is a re post of one of my older poems

THIS HISSING IN THE SUMMER

 

Summer
as the city
slips into slumber,
after last night’s thunder,
as skin slides from winter’s
shawls and shackles and pitches
itself proudly in parks where not even
dogs bark, where shadows have sunk
into sweaty
soil as feverish
fingers smooth skin
with soothing oil. Summer
in the city and temperatures
are oozing over bodies, all tease
and no breeze to appease. Summer
in the city and the music mellows as fellows
fold frowns
into bottom drawers
with winter wishes and curate
concerns toward sunset kisses. Summer
in the city and she unfurls her curls like foliage
finding form over greedy grass, and he goes green
with envy and furrows his frenzy as the fountain flows
with full force, unabashedly, and he grows as greedy as the grass
while her
curves caress
his consciousness
and he wilts in watchful
wantonness while I wait for kisses
caught on Spanish lips that creep along
the current of sweeping storms and sensual
shifts, we are ships crossing under starlight, snakes
slivering over sheets, I am not his, he is not mine, he is not
hers and still not mine, we cast concern into the ripples that sink in ocean
beds
too deep
to remember and
too cold for concern,
ripples that are arousing now
beneath these fountains now flowing,
in the park, in the sunlight, in the summer,
in the city. Summer in the city and babies are sleeping
in buggies buried under bushes while nannies’ doze and daddies
delight in their sweet blooming rose. Summer shines on the city and
streets slip
from worries
and rushes to brushes
with light and lazy, humming
hazy harmonies like he once strummed
upon my strings a serenade sweet enough
to sweep us to older days, other days, days of revolution
and voices that shone as bright as this burning sun, and on
to simpler days of lemonade and laughter. Remember laughter,
back before the pitter patter of drought and disaster? We are just people
passing
through parks,
looking for stars
in between the sunlight,
looking for fleeting kisses,
treats that are never free, saints
and snakes all hissing across lawns
in summer. Summer in the city but somewhere
out there, beyond the sleeping stars and the deep blue sky,
someone is probably crying and another, senselessly, about to die.

   

All words and paintings by Damien B. Donnelly

This is a re post from a series of mine inspired by the artistry of Joni Mitchell

 

MOMENT AFTERWARDS 

 

In absence

lips lean out

in longing,

clouds gathering,

a chill in the air,

the warmth slipping.

 

Memory is a playful thing,

you tease and turn

over and back to before.

 

We kissed,

I feel it intensely,

I see it clearly

in the mirror

still marked

from a night now over.

 

Cold showers

call out

from the falling rain,

seasons come and go.

 

Moments linger longer.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

A HOME FOR HOPE

 

There is a gentle light shining
in this place not yet home,
pouring hope into a hold
beginning to pull on my grip.

There is a light, a subtle light
adding a lightness to all
that is weighing; the furniture,
the fittings, the fitting into a city
that has not changed
during my absence while I
have not stopped,
a city often angry
as I search for a place
of solitude amid all that leans
towards arrogance, of comfort
to come in from the chaos
and the clutter and the claws
clutching at scraps in the cold
corners the commenters
are unconcerned with.

Tonight, there is a gentle light
to lay under and dream
of what will go where
in this house soon to be a home.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

 

 

A SOUL IN THE SHADOW

 

She was not made
for sunlight
and silly,
she was not designed
for display
and distraction.
She loves moonlight
where her tears
find comfort in the stars
and her shadow
is more shelter
than cell.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Based in a Twitter poetry prompt from #WrittenRiver

Candy Floss

I am falling
All around you,
Not sure
Who is more senior
Or sensible.
I thought you needed
To be cradled
In arms
But found it to be
I who was held-
Your fingers running through my hair,
Your breath against my neck,
Your body wrapped around me
And somehow
I am comforted
In this touch-
Too unsure of what it is,
Too young to hold on to.

Yet how could it ever be different;
You are only now learning
What I have known so long,
You are only just tasting
What I have already named.
You are the bountiful
Blossoming
Of youth in all its
Glorious ignorance-
You are all that I once
Put to rest
And yet,
It surprises me, aches me,
At how frequently
I try to shout you more aware,
But I listened not then
Just as you should not now!

I am falling
Foolishly
All around you,
Texting tirelessly
While thoughtlessly
Disregarding the time that divides us
And ignoring how difficult it will be
In time
To separate us.
Perhaps you are
My delightful distraction
In this time of transformation;
My folly
Of frivolous foolishness
Amid
All that is so seemingly
Balanced and structured.
The chaos to calm
My compulsion
To control it all.

You are the whimsical
Carefree laughter,
The kiss of sunshine in the morning-
Deliciously silly and sweet,
The candy floss at the fairground-
Spun purely of sugar and air,
Too tempting not to taste,
Too insubstantial to last for long.

candyfloss