Spring has left us shy.
We flirt like sheep- cute but clumsy,
forgetting what it was like to fold a summer
into forever. Words come but feel cumbersome-
you can only swallow so much of those ocean eyes
before drowning. Sheep don’t swim
and wool doesn’t do well in so much hot water.
Be careful with the laundry- no white flag yet in sight.
Spring has left us shy.
We never unfolded another summer to flock to the flirt.
You do or don’t- the tide isn’t ours to play with.
Sink, swim, shrink or drown. And I was never good
at lengths- length of time, length of hold,
length of hope.
Sheep need to be shepherded
or they lose their way. 


All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly




The Depth under the Moon

on liquid lakes

like suds on dishes
like snow on windows

like thicker skin over age-old scars.

on rippling reflections

like the tingle after kisses
like the scent after sex

like the pain after parting.

flirts on the water

to divine
whether the depth

is worth the dive.


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.


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.


Screen Shot 2017-03-12 at 11.47.54

I’ve looked for you
in corners of the past
no longer concerned
with connections
to considerations
I once cradled
(we never cradled)
but since carefully
filed and folded
(like pictures pressed
into pages of albums
never opened)
into a folder
of foolishness
on foreign fields,
though never fertile,
though never suitable
for the fondness
we felt but never held,
a fleeting flirtation
we never saw
to fruition,
no admission,
no submission
to mounting
(sing not of satisfaction!)

I’ve seen you
still surviving
in the shadow
of sleep’s delusions;
delirious distractions,
of colour and light
of ‘could have beens’
that blanket me
in mistruths,
piling passion
into pillows
never pressed
with your lips
or my caress
to your comfort,
sojourns of sleep
that soothe not
the waking visions
violated by your
polar position,
leaving me
in the restless
dark naked night,
far too far
from your face,
your flesh,
your form.

barely filled,
rarely opened,
never disregarded.

All Words and Sketches by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on SoundCloud: