Imagination

WHEN I DREAM OF WHO WE WERE

/ deuxiemepeau / Leave a comment

 

We used to hold hands, a quiver
along the skin
at touch,                     do you remember?

You handled me like I was food,
to be prepared pealed back,
to find the taste within.

I was advised not to- but I had hungered,
had grown ill                      without.

A cold cut cannot survive without the fold

of the fridge.

Or were you the oil and I                     the onion?
Having already been cut,

sliced before being found. Remember?

But we’d been spared                     the tears.
We tasted of a thousand nights
that had never known                     any stars

and then we wanted to taste                     it all.

Do you remember? No,
you don’t.                        I forgot.

We only held hands in my head
in that room I shared

with the one                     I shared the tears with.

Still slicing.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

FANTASTIC FLUTTERINGS

/ deuxiemepeau / 9 Comments

 

On dull days
when the sun
absconds from sky,
when grey grinds
gloom into gutters
and mothers utter
‘stay inside’,
children’s minds
flutter to unfold
like umbrellas opening;
colours cascading
over concrete clutter
like candy to calm
a calamity.

In the midst
of the mundane
and the murky,
inspiration catches
on the canvas of creation
like wings willing
to cut through clouds
and gain the grace
of the sun.

Children’s minds,
so magnificent,
hold matter so magical
that ordinary moments
can become such
extraordinary miracles.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

This is a repot for a week of colourful imagination. 

A SEAT BEFORE CREATION

/ deuxiemepeau / 6 Comments

 

Silent in her own darkness
she takes a place
by the canvas of creation
and before its stillness
she lets the light
pour over all
that has slipped
between the shadows.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Photo of La Fee Electricite by Raoul Dufy from Musee d’Art Moderne, Paris. 

 

CAPTURED ON CANVAS

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Connie was caught by colour in the corner
of the castle where curtains collected
carnations. Connie was captured courting
curious on the canvas of a castle in a kingdom
condemned. Connie was caught by the kiss
of a courter in the courtyard where calla lilies
were cut. Connie missed the caution in the cut
of the calla while her courter crept away
with her coin. Connie’s forever captive on that canvas
in colour in that corner too curt with the kiss
of that courter now a cancer on her complexion
that no carnation covered curtain could ever conceal.

  

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Photo taken at Musee Bourdelle, Paris

COLOURS IN THOUGHT

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Colours flap in the wind, colours catch
the feeling of freedom at daybreak
like thoughts taking flight in dreams
under blankets, mounding over molecules,
making matter meaningful. Dawn’s dew
delights in seeds now stirring under soil
just as stars shine significance on a mind,
on a pillow, at play. There is movement
beyond the trees and the run of the riverbed
if you can catch it. There is movement
in the dreamer beneath the blankets
and the shuttered eyes if you can wake it
to the colour, to the moment of possibility
in flight…

like colour on concrete,
like a bare bench in the waiting park,
like trees attending to shooting buds,
like a river of thought that cannot be abated.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Photo from Ile Saint Germain, Paris.

CAPTURED

/ deuxiemepeau / 7 Comments

 

Light catches glass, catches colour,
creates contrast on walls and water.
Light leans in and leaves illusions
on lines where once there was shadow,
buildings become boats baring sails
to beckon the breeze which billows
at its ease through colour caught
on glass which is captured in light.

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All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Photo of Louis Vuitton Foundation, Bois de Boulogne, Paris.

WILLING TO BE WONKA

/ deuxiemepeau / 4 Comments

 

Up and through, through colour to brighter,
better, perhaps. I’m next, she says, up
and over, following underfoot the man
with the hat who’s had enough. Off with hats,
top hats and hard hats, happy heads float
through colour, dissolve, he says, into columns
of colour, preconceptions passing now,
no longer cornered by constricting contraptions,
sink into that which was once solid, release
the routine with the briefcase, the blindness
and the budget and slip swiftly into a world
of hope on a wall, on a roof, there is no ceiling,
no limit, imagination has no holding in flat,
in all that seems futile, gone are the grey days,
grey ways, grey suits that ground down, freedom
is but a jump up, sideways, over and under,
this is just a waiting room, close your eyes, feel
the weight shift, slip, feel the worry ware away
between suggestions someone else has painted
on that which was once static, which was once
only a support, imagination is a jump up
and through, pink can be your sky if you rise
above those who tell you it’s blue, the sea can be
your heaven if you can get through the clouds.
Up and through, through all that binds you, bonds
are only walls waiting to be splashed with colour.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Street art from Parc Belleville, Paris.

PURPLE CLOUDS

/ deuxiemepeau / 2 Comments

 

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

ORANGE COLOURED SKIRTS

/ deuxiemepeau / 17 Comments

 

‘And there can be days like this,’
and the boy smiled and sausages
swam past him in shorts and shades
and in the sky dogs with Madonna mikes
flew over kittens in orange coloured skirts
and Beyoncé in their boogie.
‘And there can be days like this,’
his mother said as she painted
pictures of cows in caps and snakes
in sarongs shopping in stores
for shoes to put on. ‘Put on what,’
he asked, ‘they have no feet?’
‘But still,’ she carried on,
‘there can be days like this
all wonder and magic.’
‘But how,’ he asked as he sat
on her bed, as the machine
kept beeping, as the white coats
kept creeping, ‘just close your eyes
and see with your heart
what your sight can no longer see.’

There can be days like this.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Poem for Day 10 of National Poetry Writing Month

PURPLE CLOUDS

/ deuxiemepeau / 13 Comments

 

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