Time is fleeting.
See it slipping through hands
eager to clasp all that cannot be caught.
Time is fleeting
but this is not always tragic
for we are traffic motoring along
the carriage way in search
of contentment in accompanying cars,
meandering towards the midway
and making out with the magic
that caresses the quiet corners
of our day while all the time
time flitters forward.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Inspired by a Twitter poetry prompt from #WrittenRiver
Lost in a current
capricious,
a cast of confusion,
but the river
remembers its route.
The water wades
into the ocean
& the drifting ends.
All words and photograph by Damien B. Donnelly
Inspired by a Twitter prompt from #WrittenRiver
I am a being blown
from baby to boundaries
to bondage and breathless
on contrary winds
that offer no warning
and cast no conscience
towards direction, I am
a wave caught on a current
in a reversed ocean,
swimming up
to dive deeper,
going out
to come undone,
exposed
in my raw
unreadiness,
a photo
that hasn’t been shopped,
an unfinished portrait
of a person
I haven’t quite become.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Based in a Twitter Poetry Prompt for #DimpleVerse
Imagine beauty
bundled in a box,
locked from light
and bound to blindness,
imagine your eyes
banished to its bounty
while it smothers in silence,
deep in the darkness.
Imagine freedom
in that very box,
bound, blind
and banished.
Imagine strength
deprived of that force,
see it tampered, tainted
and tarnished.
The refugee
on the road
holds hope
in a box bound,
breathless for the day
it can be opened.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Inspiration came from the poetry prompt ‘Box’ from @Microprompt on Twitter.
Audio version available on Soundcloud:
I have crossed many oceans and have known
few limits, I have travelled many roads
and have folded my favourites into pockets
of time, stored in a hundred boxes, marked
with a thousand names who have touched me,
sealed with a hundred souls who have moved me,
taped with a dozen men who may have loved me.
I have travelled many roads and I have packed
many boxes, I have folded so much of time,
and lost too many friends, but memories
cannot be stored in boxes and time cannot
be held in pockets, roads are only the beginning
and friends are never truly lost. Home is not
housed in bricks and mortar, home is like the ocean;
it knows no limits if the water is willing.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
In the uncertainty
between the darkness
and the dawn
there is the gentle dream
of what might
one day
unfold,
in the wings
of the new born bird,
with feathers still unfurling,
there is the fear
of that first flight
still to be flown,
in the page
that rests before me
there is a story
begging to be told
between the weaving
of words
I’ve yet to find,
in the first kiss
I place on your lips
you may taste
the real truth
of why
one day
I’ll have to
let you go,
in every house
not yet a home
there are walls
newly mounted
waiting for memories
to fill in
the cracks
already forming,
in the taxi
we took together
to somewhere
since forgotten
I held your hand
and thought
of someone else
long departed,
in the woman,
not yet a mother,
breathes the ties
already tethered
to the child
she’s yet to bare,
in the waters
broken with new birth,
in the air
that echoes our secrets,
in the fire
that drives our desires,
on this earth
that we tear through in taxis
there are songs
we’ve never heard
we’ve never known
we’ve not yet rejected
still waiting to be sung.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Photograph taken in Tarragona Zoo, over looking Sydney Harbour, Sydney, NSW.
Audio version available on SoundCloud:
https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/elements
The 30th poem on the 30th day of April for National Poetry Writing Month
And on runs the road,
rushing in rings around us,
faster than feet can find footing,
brisker than bodies can breath,
holds lost in the hustle and hurry,
securities slipping by the sidelines,
hearts hurtling off into hills
parted and passed
before properly appreciated,
faces fading into flashbacks;
were his green eyes
really brown or blue?
I catch his aftershave
in an afterthought
but it’s mixed now
with other musks,
other bodies, other owners,
other moulds the meanders made of me
on the sweaty scented streets
that scurry by in seconds.
And on runs the road,
tracks turning with time
too tight to keep track of,
to uncertain to ascertain
as changing lanes change lives
and loads, luggage left for others
to look through and lovers
left for others to latch onto;
swapping suitors at service stations
like they were something to eat,
something to drink,
a seduction along the sojourn,
a kiss to capture and captivate us,
to carry us carnally on to the next carriage,
the next imminent interchange.
And so another road opens
and on it endlessly runs
and I’m always rushing at the rear,
duly dreading and delighting
in the connections to come
beyond the bracing bends…
All Words and Photography by Damien B. Donnelly
Photograph taken in De Hoge Veluwe, Netherlands
Listen to the audio version on Soundcloud:
https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/the-scented-road
There is a part of me still there
with you
below the bridge
by the river
smiling
as the water rushed past us
and time flowed through us.
There is a part of me there still
in you
below the water
by the bridge
drowning
as time washed over us
and the river trickled onwards.
There is a part of you still here
in me
standing still on the bridge
and moving, like the water
through time
while the river never considered us.
There is part of you
in me, still
no matter what bridge I stand on
no matter what waters I drown in
no matter the time I am lost in.
There is a part of you,
there is a part of me
still
watching me from the waters I gaze into
to find reflections of where we lost our course.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Photograph taken in Hammersmith, London, England.
I climbed you today
in downpours
and falling snows,
no snow flake ever the same,
no foot step ever similar,
I climbed you today
in sunlight and stealing shadows,
in strokes of paint splattered in your memory
by artists as foreign as they are familiar,
I paused upon your steps,
your streets of steps,
the steep steps
others have taken,
others have trodden upon,
to take possession,
to take pictures,
to take part, to be a part
of all that once was
and has fallen to dust
through depression
and recession,
no sails blow no longer
to the winds wills,
the winds upon your hills
no longer home to the mills,
no more the spirits linger
green to the fairy’s touch,
spirits are in bottles now,
corked and capped
and cost too much
and the artists now
are but a shadow
of what once was,
shadows for sale
on the site of what once held cause,
on this martyred mountain
in Montmartre.
I climbed you today
in wind and rain,
the past and future present,
in a reverie of what can no longer be.
I climbed you and stood above you
and marked out the steps
I had taken along you,
along your lines and lanes
that lead me here, to this day,
to this moment, to this place
as this snowflake fell,
this unique particle
never to be repeated,
falling through time and space.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
It was this morning and yesterday again,
a smell, a scent, on the metro, in my nostrils,
a decent into the memory, a revery playing, replaying
while the crows counted Round Here, they sang,
this year and that other year, all at once,
we sang our own song, once, once, once
but time, like the metro, took us off and on
into different directions, obligated to other distractions,
men and marriage, movements and meanders,
an Irish song we sang, you sang, I listened
and then I left while you stayed on,
stayed on track in that other year
but I came back and you were still there
still here, Round Here, as the crows sang,
are still singing, those counting crows
their words still ringing
in my ears, today, on the metro,
with that scent, that odorous accent
that opened a gap in time between yesterday,
when we were young, and today,
grown worldly and wider,
this morning as my mind rushed
and passengers crushed onto carriages
commuting, lines crossing, junctions joining
as I went to work remembering who we were,
I wore waistcoats even then and you a brown coat
that caressed your curves and concerns,
I went to work while traveling onwards,
along the same rails,
in the same direction
as before but different too
some things old
and some things new,
still me on the metro,
still me and there’s you.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Poems, Poetry, Poets
Some lays of the Fianna, translated from the Irish by Annraoi de Paor with illustrations by Tim Halpin
A small press
The Things That Are In My Head.
Stay Bloody Poetic
Author of 'Sent, 'Fall', 'Unmuted' and 'Saudade'
home of the elusive trope
Fantasy Author
Words about pictures by Michael Scandling
Writing, Poetry & Creativity | Angela T Carr, Dublin, Ireland
Kay McKenzie Cooke Website & Blog
My journey through photography
landscape and change
My poetry is my religion.
Colouring Outside The Lines
Expressing moments of Inspiration within a cozy setting
"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." Ps 147:3
Art • Nature • Exploration
Peter Hillman's Photographic Exploration of South Staffordshire and Beyond
Poetry inspired by ethereal feelings, life events and personal philosophy.
A Journal of Brief Literature
Film, Music, and Television Critic
Writer
Art and Lifestyle by Brandon Knoll
New Zealand
French magazine - art & visual culture
A palette of general thoughts & travel stories from all around the world
Jack Bennett
If you want to be a hero well just follow me
a writing space curated by José Angel Araguz
Thoughts and Perspectives From the Mind of a Common Girl
Cooking with imagination
Damien B. Donnelly 