seeing time

as something silky

you can slip though,


rearranging reality,


the hours revolving

around minutes

around molecules

neither past nor present;


the future still waiting

to be moulded,



of tempering time;


of breaking it


of bending it;


redrawing curt corners

into kinder curves,

rerouting long roads

into achievable lengths.


I bend time

beyond this bed

of twisted sheets,


these withered webs,


tired and torn,


and mend

in my mind, slumbering,

that which was cracked


before the mirror

catches its reflection

of disruption,

of distraction,

of rejection.


And I wonder

in all this bending,

in all this mending,


how much the mind

will remember


and how capable am I,

in waking,


to let time forget?


All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly



I choose the path;

this winding way

though the midway,

battling though the brambles and briars,

I have stains on my soul,

I have splinters in the tissue of my beating breast,

beating, breaking, panting,

I have moments

when my feet no longer feel their footing,

when falling is all I can handle,

I choose this path;

this way of winding words,

stringing sentences into steps

that carry me to places

I never knew existed,

I have ink stains on my insides,

I have empty areas that have been erased,

their only trace now a vacuum

where vanity once ventured,

I choose this path;

this winding way

of silent shadow

and am grateful

for the break of light.


All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly 



New notes quivering on a quaver, new rhythms
rattling through the repercussions of older rhymes;
echoes of former crescendos that crashed too soon,
convoluted cords that quickly constricted comprehension,
reasons now realised to be unreasonable, yet old fears
still trickle-down worn keys, no longer black and white,
no longer wrong or right, (is there a right note?) is it wrong
to not want to be deceivable. Will he stay, this time,
(maybe this time) should I leave, like I didn’t last time,
the first time, the second, the third, the fifth, though here,
with this new chorus, playing now in double time
along the lower keys, fingers fiddle with flesh, fresher
than before or am I just older than ever, older than the rest,
and what of the rest of me, what is left to be played?
Has the lady sung her final encore, not yet, no! More,
I feel there is more. But is it enough to share, will he care?
Will he be willing, be sturdy? Can we carry on the tune
long since started? Can this time be more worthy
or am I just more worried or wordier?
Is this the warm-up
or the wrap?

All words by Damien B. Donnelly



In a patch of the park
bench and bark are bound
like hands that once held hearts
on seats in summer
when days were only dawning

in times now twisted
into memory like roots
now turning in the turf
beneath bench and bark
in a patch of the park.

In a patch of this earth
shadows slip over soil
and all that once was
whispers on the breeze…

Break the benches
where we once rested,
cut down the trees
where we once sheltered

but roots,

roots are like hearts held

their impressions last longer
than benches and barks
in patches on parks.

All words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

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