PURPLE CLOUDS

 

In that garden
of the many meadows of my mind

plants grow down
from purple clouds

carved of cotton catchable candy

and seek substance
from the surface
and not the ceiling.

In that garden
of the many meadows of my mind

fences are painted
with faces familiar

and mouths to catch kisses if you’re quick enough

and embraces
sprout like brush
to cradle comfort.

In that garden
of the many meadows of my mind

music spreads like ivy
a chorus to cut the chaos

and a crescendo of colour like a flower unfolding.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

This is a repost for a week at looking at clouds

PURPLE CLOUDS

 

In that garden
of the many meadows of my mind

plants grow down
from purple clouds

carved of cotton catchable candy

and seek substance
from the surface
and not the ceiling.

In that garden
of the many meadows of my mind

fences are painted
with faces familiar

and mouths to catch kisses if you’re quick enough

and embraces
sprout like brush
to cradle comfort.

In that garden
of the many meadows of my mind

music spreads like ivy
a chorus to cut the chaos

and a crescendo of colour like a flower unfolding.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

6th poem for National Poetry Writing Month

THE GARDEN

The oracle speaks:

Go Goddess,

chant my wants on your wind;

elaborate fluff & lazy diamond dreams,

whisper me with delirious honey,

drive me to drunk, to drool,

I will lick language languid

from the beauty of your breast.

Sordid is screaming

but I hear a sweet symphony

has grow upon

those smooth skins

of your garden.

All words by Damien B. Donnelly with the aid of the oracle, obviously

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

beIow a bitter moon

that’s made his garden

in this breast of man.

All words and drawings by Damien B. Donnelly with the aid of the magnetic poetry oracle

FLAP AND SNAP

 

Daddy
didn’t know how to say it,
didn’t know how to do it,
Daddy didn’t know how to ask it,
but Daddy knew how to break it,
like it broke before, like they
broke him before, like they beat him
to the floor
and the butterfly flaps his wings
in confusion in the garden
they covered in concrete
when they couldn’t afford
the flowers to decorate it.
Daddy
didn’t know how to do it,
how to show it, how to feel it,
and then they thought
he didn’t need it,
cause she didn’t need it,
not then, not later, not after,
not from him who frowned at laughter
and the butterfly snaps her wings
in the back yard that’s soon to be
a cracked yard and she blames him
for all that went wrong as if
she’d never asked him
for anything, ever.

And they’re both
high on lies
in the back yard,
flapping and snapping
and wondering how this all happened.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

IN THE SHADE

 

There was a heart
like a plant
in a garden
watered
tended
in a garden
like a plant
growing
a heart
beating
under sunlight
and sometimes shade
a gentle shade.

A heart
nurtured
in a garden
a quiet garden
with a fence
a pretty picket fence
around a house
around a home
and that garden
tending to the heart
planted
like a flower
beating
under sun
and sometimes shade
the gentle shade.
A heart
blooming
in the garden
like a flower
till someone picked it

pulled down the fence
and picked it

still growing
still beating

and then dropped it
on the sidewalk
in the shadows
when they saw
across the street
something different
something else
something new.

There was once a heart
growing in a garden
but cut
like a flower
and now
no water
no waiting
no nurturing
no tending
can bring it back to life.

A heart once
growing in a garden

now only a hole
that never seems to fill

untended in the shade…

 

All Words and Paintings by Damien B. Donnelly

 

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/in-the-shade

UNDER LEAF IN THE GARDEN

 

Here in this garden
beneath the trunks of trees, towering;
like funnels stretched to sun, suckling,
under a lid of leaves,
little leaves, light leaves,
the leaves of grass,
precious petals procure colour,
caresses of colour bursting bright
as if tempered by a tenuous touch,
like tears on the angel’s cheek at night
no longer seen, no longer heard,
colour, crawling through the chaos,
fragile flickers of faith
falling under footsteps.

I hear the heavens wail as you walk,
walls falling under flattening feet
as what was light and life
returns to soil,
fowled and foiled from strife.

We are all petals in the garden,
in this garden of greed and glory,
looking for a leaf to live under,
as we unfold the shrouds of our story,
ravenous to raise our arms to the sunlight,
striving to be seen in bolts of colour, bright,
breathtaking colour,
brilliant colour,
before we fall under foot
and return, once again,
to the waste and the worms
already twisting and turning,
already sensing our scent,
so confident they are
to conquer our carcasses
when our dreams are done
and our names carved into cement.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

FRAGILE BEAUTY

Fragile beauty

Caught in the garden,

Flickerings of ruby red

Tenderly unraveling

From garlands of green

Amid a day

Named ordinary.

It is the fairest pleasure,

The simplest suggestion of perfection,

Nature unearthing itself

Onto the world

And yet

It is the easiest

To crush-

A cry of crimson

Carelessly caught

In the chaos

Of our calloused hands.

We are the blossom

Of our dull days

And are no more

Imperishable,

Unbreakable,

Immortal

Than a rose

Risen one day

To be clipped the next,

Never knowing

How a season can be

But a minute,

A year

But an hour,

A lifetime

But a day.

We hold the beauty

In our fragile fingers,

Careful we must be

How tightly

We clutch our lives,

For only in our hands

Can we shape it,

Share it

And ensure

It survives.

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