Coming today and everyday at 5pm
for the next 30 days…



before returning to Ireland after 23 years away

A month of moments and memories, passion and partings

poetry and photography
WordlessWednesdays and StreetScenesonSaturdays


By Damien B. Donnelly

BOOKENDS, coming soon


Coming in November…


A month of goodbyes

Spending my final full month in Paris looking back in order to move on. Each day will be a new or revised poem and, of course, some photographs of this city that I’ve been connected to since I was 22 and will soon leave at 44.

Starts November 1st,

here on WordPress.

À bientôt


In the shadows

not yet departed

from former students

since departed

confined in compartments 

the Polish left to the Irish,

red vinegar wine

(as vulgar as the vultures 

who drowned in its deluge)

caught itself in corners 

still not drunk 

by the blow-ins

still bleating

about the burnt beef

and sodden soil 

as we made smoke chains

in our simple chambres

to choke a distance 

between the homes we had left

and the hands that hadn’t 

yet let us go. We may have been 

from the same barrel born 

but had desires to be labeled 

in a better bottle.

All words and drawing by Damien B. Donnelly



As you
walked away
I watched you
curve through the current
of confusion that had
consumed us.

Once torn on the tide,
I waded out to let our worries
wash off on the waves
as a breeze buried its breath
against my body
like the kindness
that once caressed us
and all hurt once spoken
faded like the foam now dissolving

All words and photograph by Damien B. Donnelly

Inspired by a Twitter poetry prompt by #SenseWrds



The light was losing itself to shadow.
Only a suggestion remained of what had once been.
The seas and the seasons had taken the rest.

He struggled up the hill.
He stood again, after all the years, on their spot,
on the whips of life tenting up through the dead grasses as the ruins watched him.

She’d been 19 when he asked her to marry him there.
She’d worn her mother’s perfume and a smile.

He’d only been 17 but he’d found all he’d ever needed.

Goodbye, he cried into the shadow of the day as he released her ashes.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photograph of Dunure Castle along the South Ayrshire coastline in Scotland.


And so here’s to one
For the end of the road,
Words have been written,
Sentences steadily found sense,
Poems put together, pushed and pulled
On pages being published, hauled
And heralded, heard in hushed homes
Where hope is heartily housed and harboured,

Here’s to the unbelievers
The cynical thinkers of thought,
Leaning to maths in the absence of magic,
Scared to be seen perusing poetically
In their palaces of prejudicial pride,
In places where poetry is but a preoccupation
For pansies prancing about while decorating doilies
And fawning over follies, fads and followers of fashion,

Here’s to the ones
Who are missing out,
To those who dare to look away,
Ignore all that is spoken, reject all
That is written, miss the minutes of magic
Mixed with meaning and metre, meandering
Like madmen through a myriad of amused
And confessional men and women, all willing
To shed their skin, to drop their masks and reveal
The sometimes silly, sometimes scary, secrets beneath,

Here’s to the end of the road,
A month of calculating thought,
Converting concerns into so-called
Confessions, finding fact amid the fictions
Of life, figuring out the force within so as to find
The way to pen and paper, from thought to word,
From hand to eye to read, to lips, to mouth, words
For the mind to ruminate and meditate on the meaning,

Here’s to the completion
Of the composition, the composer
Can collapse, rest and recuperate,
Dream again, to look back and laugh,
Not dawdle in the depths of substance
But laugh at the lines he has lived through,
Lingered along, find light in the letting go, rhythm
In the rhyme, consume not oneself in the character
And caution and concern but release those creations
To live and love, to be heard and held without him and to be
Unburdened and unpunished if the rhythm didn’t always fit the rhyme.

All photographs and artwork by Damien B. Donnelly



Noting the minutes ticking by,

The light descending into darkness,

Today becoming the memory of tomorrow

And yesterday, so long departed.


Waiting for the phone to ring,

A job to emerge into my job,

My home to change into your home,

And this city to be over, long departed.


Twitching toes and filling hours,

Packing boxes and building up trash,

What to take and what to leave,

All that remains and the rest, long departed.


Nothing happening, for now,

Not here, not today, but tomorrow,

All of this, all this fuss, all this worry,

Tomorrow, all of this, long departed…