NaPoWriMo

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

/ deuxiemepeau / 3 Comments

We were meant to be nothing more
than the compliment to you,
calm and considerate,
not the conqueror;
covetous and carnal.

We were meant to be nothing more
than the guardian of you,
grateful and gracious,
not just gluttony
grounded in greed.

We were meant to be nothing more
than the homemaker in you,
humble and harmonious,
not all harmful,
hungry and hoggish.

We were meant to see the beauty
and not become the beast.

All Words and Photographs and Watercolour by Damien B. Donnelly

Photograph taken in Balmoral, Scotland.

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TRUST

/ deuxiemepeau / 2 Comments

 

Trust me
as I thrust into you,
as we sweetly
split the space
within the identity
that we identify
and the disguise
that we discard in corners
where clothes are cast aside
for more carnal concerns,
born in beds soon to be
bruised and battered
as we bare bodies,
as we bend bodies bare,
tongues tingling to taste
the tender flesh
fresh for plucking.
We tumble and turn
in throbbing thrusts,
in tantalising teases, swaying
to the sweaty surrendering’s
between soon to be scented sheets
and shaking shadows, shy and silent
until I cannot tell
your limbs from my legs,
your hands from my hips,
your taste from my tongue
and in between
we slave and sleep,
and in between
we worry and work,
but before it all
we lay and linger
and before it all
we kiss and cuddle
and I curl beside you
above you, below you, inside you
and even in parting
I still feel your hold around me,
feel your breath upon me,
your scent within me…

Trust me
as I thrust
as I trust in you too.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

DELICATE THINGS

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There are violets
in lullabies
caressing windows
where once
only sleeping notes lay

There are songs
in springtime
seducing summer
in gardens
where all colour was grey

There are violets
awaking
on walls now a witness
to the orchestra
of nature at play.

There are violets
on strings,
on sweet subtle strings,
simplicity reassured
in the delicate things.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

THE FIRST TIME, UNDER THE PINK

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Tears on the sleeve of a boy
he’s gonna find release today,
‘Tears on the sleeve’ is what she sang
I fear he is a man today

Tears on the side of his face
this was what he’d waited for
thrown by the time and the place
he thought it would be so much more

things to touch
things to kiss
things to feel
and things to miss 

Tears on a bed not his own
his tongue is gonna roam today
as Tori plays the piano all forlorn
he finally woke the dream today

Lips on the chest of a man
desire came throbbing into life
fingers trace the length of his spine
to many years under stress and strife

where to look
what to see
how to hold
and who to be 

Tears on the sleeve of a man
he stripped the boy from man today
tears in the throb of each thrust
there’s no more need to kneel and pray

Lost in desire and despair
as bodies bend beyond the bed
not what he thought it would be
confusion raging in his head

where to run
where to hide
how to breathe 
but still he cried 

Under the pink with his pants
while the wrong band came to play
‘Can’t stop it coming! she sings
and suddenly he’s on his way

Getting off 
getting off
while they’re all 
downstairs

Wanna go
wanna go 
but they’re all 
downstairs 

He read in the stars of a match
the horoscopes were wrong again 
somewhere in the hold there was a catch 
he won’t be cumming here again 

Tears on the chest of a man 
he left behind a boy today 
between the thighs of a golden haired man
he left behind the boy today

Someone’s knocking
on the bedroom door 
you can go now
he can go now 

he’s a man now
it’s all done now.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

SCUTTLE AND SCURRY

/ deuxiemepeau / 6 Comments

Screen Shot 2016-04-18 at 23.04.09

We scuttle and scurry
through stepping storms
and stormy skies,
through coughs and cries
and hellos and goodbyes.

We scuttle and scurry,
seasoned citizens
battling the seasons,
the blistering breezes,
the rains and the sneezes,
the smothering sweats
and the winters that freeze us.

We scuttle and scurry
from blankets to brollies
beneath covetous clouds
through clustering crowds,
over pools and puddles
splashing mud on our muddles.

We scuttle and scurry
through this life
in such a hurry

that it’s often gone
before we’ve got it.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photography taken under a stormy sky by The Palacio Real de Madrid, Spain.

BLUE BRIDGES

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A bridge in blue
between me and you
no car can carry me
no boat can bare me
no bike can bring me

closer.

A bridge in blue
between me and you
too deep to dare
too cold to consider
too close for comfort

all connection crushed by the current.

 

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Amsterdam at Sunset

LIPS AND KISSES IN WAVES

/ deuxiemepeau / 2 Comments

 

On foreign soil
I laid my feet
in foreign arms
I kissed on foreign streets.

In other beds
I gave my body
on other beds
locked in naked bodies.

In fleeting holds
I found my needs
while fleeting was
the hold that let me feed.

In other hands
I saw you take
wondering what
hold in mine you’d make.

On tender lips
I left my taste
on other lips
I lingered long on waste.

On sleepless nights
I laid awake
twisting nights
the darkness could not break.

On salty sands
I walk on waves
and salty tears
I cast for time and tide to fade

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

STILL MOVING ON METROS

/ deuxiemepeau / 3 Comments

still moving on the metros

Moments on the metro
still moving
still cruising
still choosing
still cosy with commuters
who don’t communicate,
why does commuter
look like communication
when no commuter
communicates?
Moments on the metro
still moving, still stopping
still breaking, still taking chances
still stealing glances
penning poems
nodding into naps
bags loaded into laps.
Moments on the metro still
madams with makeup
making faces
like painting Picasso’s
checking mirrors
to see if the eyes line up,
lines, lines of metros, moving
moving down the carriage
of non communicative commuters
cool, classy, kookie, crazy,
the man behind who smells
of starvation and stale streets,
buskers belting out bad notes
and getting bad looks
instead of crisp notes,
the red hat with the short skirt,
the tall ones, the tired, the tourists
plotting their positions on plans
too small to make sense of
too much to capture,
Moments still moving on metros
trailing tracks through tunnels
on the underground
under the ground
under the cars and the bikes
and the feet walking and taxis swerving
and cursing at bikes and pedestrians crossing
the wrong way, the wrong side
as rain falls and puddles
splashing into gutters
as water trickles down
from daylight into darkness
onto tunnels where it finds us
moving still,                     on metros.

 

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

A BLONDE BIRD IN FLIGHT

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And off she ran
a blonde bird in flight,
a bright baby bird
into the night,
focused and flapping
as if chasing the morning,
as if orchestrating the trees,
as if transported by the breeze
flying over fields of youth,
twists and turns and truth,
folds of frivolous folly,
courting clouds in curiosity,
looking for a reason
to rhyme upon,
a reason to ride on

and she will fly
in spiralling circles
that surround you
before circling you
in widening widths,
further stretches,
further afield,
a blonde bird
but blue to you
and the agony of letting her go
and the ecstasy of having her back
but she is bound
with those big eyes,
those beautiful eyes,
to brighter breezes,
to warmer beaches,
bound for bigger things
like the grass growing
over fading footsteps,
like the trees
towering over ticking time,
like the clouds
wild to the will of the wind,

to far flung lands she will fly
as you sigh,
to other fields,
to foreign fields
to set down findings,
feelings, foundations,
familiarities foreign to you,
foolish to you
but faithful and fruitful to her,
a home in other hills,
a happiness to harbour
in other homes

and then one day
when the breeze beckons
you catch her scent on your shoulder
where it wasn’t there before
and you will find her
once again
in a field familiar to you both.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

LOVE SONG

/ deuxiemepeau / 7 Comments

 

 

He moved in shadows

in ghostly strides that gained on nothing 
but grains that slipped through the hands of time,

She lingered in loss

under caged cobwebs where the widow in black
had weaved her the witch from a pantomime.

She lived two floors up

an attic assembly of ageing antiques
fading to dust and distinctly untouchable,

He was basement left

a sunless space where nothing grew
disregarded, depressed and growing dysfunctional. 
 
She existed in memories 
where arms that once held her faded in frames

He shivered in silence 
too afraid to attempt, too old to make claims.
 
She cried on Saturdays 
and still shopped for two in her one roomed space, 

He ate from boxes
of pre prepared food and longed for taste.
 
She died on a Tuesday before morning mass 
he died that night from a cold he thought would pass .

They laid them together, side by side,
in the depths of the morgue, in a silence that sighed.

Two people who’d never exchanged a word, 
two people lost in the shadows of the world. 

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly