TIME IS FLEETING

 

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

A COLD KISS

 

I hung you
from the rafters
in the corner by the door,
the flower
all fine and false
that you thought I would adore,
but your hand
was all I wanted
and your kiss to keep the most,

but I was dead
and you were living
and you said you wouldn’t

kiss a ghost.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Inspired by a Twitter prompt “Ghost” from #Micropoetry

CARRIED AWAY ON THE WATER

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From the nightmare
we wake to the dream
before we open our eyes to reality

I fear I fret I freeze I forge I face I forget

I love you, he said
from the pages of the book
in her hand as she sat alone reading by the window

I am alone I am alive I am only I am everything I am enough

We yearn so much
be to adults as children
then perish ever after in the absence of youth

I want I wish I will I wasted I was I withered

We mourn so much
for what we’ve lost in death
because we ignored the chance to celebrate life

Too soon Too early Too busy Too far Too late

He kissed her lips
beneath the darkness
and remembered the light of another, long forgotten

I like I lust I love I lost I like I lust I love I linger in the longing

I walk out into the water             and the reflection
            that rises from the surface
is the face of a shadow                             now drowned
      a reflection               of what once was
a skin             long since shed
            a kiss                             long since settled
       a curiosity                 quieted
                        a loss                     let go of
    a fear                 long since faced
and folded                         and floated away
                   to wherever the water              runs to
           after it washes              towards me
                   through me                    and past me
          past

the past of me

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All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photographs taken in Stockholm on a foggy morning walk around the islands.

ANTITHESIS

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We kiss and cry
concurrently,
miserably happy, 
oh happy misery 
how sweet
your bitter pout
on my mouth  

We love and lie
simultaneously,
lying fucking
fucking lying, 
how seductive
your sweaty lies
between my thighs 

We live and die
inexplicably, 
dying to be happy, 
oh happy death
how we crave
to know how it ends
before we even begin.

All words by Damien B. Donnelly

SALUTATIONS FROM THE SHADOWS OF SLEEP

 

In the shadows of the night
He threads his way, carefully,
Like a needle running silk,
Through distant dreams
He yearned for in younger days,
Carefree then, the dainty drifter,
The doe-eyed dandy with a want
To witness the world, to flitter
And flap like a starling in first flight,
To seek sustenance in substance,
To search himself far from the familiar,
Far from familial ovations
Too treasured to be trusted and trophied,

I have no idea how long I’ll stay,
He told a perfect stranger
In a yellow raincoat and ruined
Leather shoes, in a bar,
On a Tuesday, in November
As the rain ran down the window.

In the shadows of the night
He mildly meanders his way
Through the myriad of memories
Of what once was, recollections
Recounted, fleeting follies, temporary
Footholds in rugged rocks
And misconstrued meanings
He fortuned to be forever
In the hands that held him,
In the hearts that hungered him,
Hampered him, hung him,
Tempted and twisted him,
Like gum turned by teeth,
Conformed him into complacency,
Seduced him with a security
That never existed, packaged him,
Boxed him in, labeled him
Incorrectly, return to sender,
Destination unknown,

He opened his eyes on their third night
Together to find him watching him sleep,
How do you know when love begins,
The man beside him asked,
But he had no answer
So he moved in and held him,
Knowing this wasn’t love,
But there was comfort, nonetheless.

In the shadows of the night
He recalls the role plays,
The stages and scenarios,
The sensational sets
That serenaded him
With a roaring crowd,
The ostentatious ovation,
Bowing, with applause,
Into the gaping abyss
Of the void that lies within,
That truth tentatively twinkling
In the fading spotlight
Before each fall,
Before every failure,

You’re a wonderful person, they said,
But it wasn’t what he remembered
He recalled the line ‘but we can’t keep you,’
Realising that bullshit covered
Head to toe in a tailored suit of sugar
Still smells like shit in the end.

In the shadows of the night
He leans in, towards the light,
To the places made precious,
The moments moulded into memory,
To the faces that favoured him,
Fed him, found him, for a while,
Along the line of life, he bows
Down to all the embraces
That bedded him, bettered him,
Made him and mattered to him,
The naked truth of naked bodies
Kneading and knowing, counting
Not the cost, not the length,
But the height of unhindered
Happiness, held and heralded,

In a basement restaurant,
6 of them ate together,
At an old round wooden table,
Told jokes, swapped stories, made plans
And only later, days later, did he discover
That they had all been strangers, all been drifters,
All just seeking shelter from the storm.

In the shadows of the night,
As he slumbers, he slips along
The paths once taken,
The routes that enriched him,
Beneath the palaces
Of huts that became shelters,
Stop gaps, the humble home
He dedicated to the spirits
Of all the souls
Who lead him there,
Hail the voyage,
Of all the voices
That joined him there,
Repeat the chorus,
Of the kind creatures
Who cared for him there,
Savour the sacred,
And the trusted travellers
Who rested for a while
From their journey
And left him there,
Smiling and satisfied,
Sleeping in the presence
Of so many souls
Who still salute him
From the shadows.

 

All words and sketches by Damien B. Donnelly

THE RISE AND FALL OF HE

 

He is forward flying,
A novice to noise
And nuances
Of staggering streets
Unknown and numerous,
Honed to the humming
From the surge and speed
Of manoeuvres he can
Meddle through
Mingle through
Move through

He is a nubile note,
A minor chord
In a major movement,
Braced for a rebirth
By foreign fingers
Forging him finally
Into a signature
Of sonic structure,
A rhythm and rhyme,
A tune to tingle
And temper him
And a chorus to call
And encourage him

He is a leaning leaf
Balanced on the brow
Of a branch, braced
For worthy winds
Of foreign fields
To find him, float him,
Carry him to clouds
And dive down deep
Forever after
Into the chaos
And cacophony
Of life and it’s longing
And the lust among the living

He is made of math,
The sum of every smile,
The addition and attrition
Of a world of worries,
The multiplication
Of a multitude of thoughts
Mixed and mumbled
And the subtraction
Of scars and fears,
He is the solution in full
The joy and the tears

He is the beating body
Of festering flesh,
Tasting and tasted,
Touched and taken,
He is the brittle bone
Stretched over skin
And the shroud of skin
Bound to the bone,
He is whole,
Wholesome,
And hungry,
Growing, groaning, gaining,
Rotting, renewing reigning

He is the devil
In the darkness,
He is luminous
In the light,
He is the form
Finding features
In the forces
In between
The growing greys
And the shifting shades,
He is the something still unshaped,
He is the someone still unseen

He is forged of fire,
Flames flickering
In front of him
Fierce and unfailing
As the particled past
Blazes behind him
The life already lived
Echoing all that will finally fall
A hundred years from now
A forgetful fading
Of all he wanted to become
And all he managed to be,
Everything remembered
At once as the light descends
On the rise and fall of he.

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All words and pictures by Damien B. Donnelly

BOX OF DREAMS

 

I am a box
Filled to capacity,
A million personalities
Drawn and decorated,
Cut out creations,
Caricatures casting me
In a more tangible light
Throughout the years.

I am a box
Sealed with sentiment,
Souvenirs of scenes,
Themes and thoughts
Cradled and cared for,
Partied and played out,
Sometimes reused,
More times reinvented.

I am a box
Cluttered and cramped,
Jokes joining heartache,
Love letters lost
Amid numbers of homes
Now forgotten and faces
In photos slowly fading
Through time.

I am a box,
Four sturdy walls,
A floor and a roof,
Ordinary to all who see me
But inside there’s this life
Now busting at the seams
But with plenty of places
To fill with more dreams.

 

LIVING

I am angry,
Tired, sleepless, restless,
Bitter, torn
And twisted.

I am tearful,
Frightened, silenced, muted,
Mixed up, maddened
And pestered.

I am bloody
Boiling, brooding, blushing,
Bending over
Backwards.

But I’m alive
Surviving, breathing, breaking,
Living, learning,
Evolving.

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THE STRUGGLE

To be a poet of
The heart and mind
Is to step away
From all that is close
And to look back
From afar.
To struggle
With the truth
Of what we are told
And to search for
What we believe.
To fall on the road
And document the struggle
To stand again.
To be torn from
The heart of your dearest
By the changing hand
Of that very heart
And find a place again,
In your own, alone.

To breath again
And remind yourself
To do this daily,
To look into the dark
And, in blindness,
Search for the light.

To dream at night
While accepting
The reality
Of the coming dawn.

To open your eyes
To an unknown world
When you were safe
In the one you’d accepted.
To wander
The lonely road
That you must take,
Alone.
To cry,
To shed your pain,
To cleanse your body,
To clear out
So as to move on.
To sob
In the face of beauty
And smile
In the midst of horror
So as to live.

To travel
The mind’s horizons
And discover the bounties
Hidden in its depths
So as to release the poet
Inside lays within us all.

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