Tides roll in, roll out,
waves recall not where they’ve been
but to where they’re bound.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Past
GOING EAST
I have crossed oceans
without feeling the weight
washed beneath their waves…
I have cut through clouds
without knowing the worries
they whisper to the stars…
I have flown
from darkening dreams
towards tomorrow’s daylight
and yet
the light is already fading
on front of me
before my past
has even slept
before my future
somewhere far behind me
has even been conceived…
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
This is a repost for a week looking at clouds
JOURNEYS, PART 9; ONCE, UPON A SUMMER
It was summer stock
and season of blondes;
darker tones bleached
to an inch of white,
at first so fair and fragile,
translucent tracks
tethered to nothing more than
temporary teases, interval acts
pitching and playing and parting
before the important performers
took their permanent positions.
I was high on a hiccup
of happiness that had long eluded me,
basking beneath the blinding spotlight,
a swing without a line on stale streets
whose stories I envied
as you slipped in between
the numbing neon distractors
and saw the blinkers that floundered me.
I was bound and breathless
before we’d even bent our bodies
into a bed that never quite fitted
the pair of us and yet still I stayed,
as you crept along the curb of the couch
not quite sure if you wanted to catch a star
or just court a curiosity.
We were players of unequal parts,
me too light on lines
and you too too busy
following those fragile white lines
that took you away from me
while I lay there next to you, waiting
to see if you might come back.
We lost each other
on another side street
after sunset, when the light
no longer blinded me
to those darker tones you tried to dye.
It had been my season of blondes;
buffed bodies that blurred lines
but your costume caught on reality
before the curtain made its final call.
We were separate journeys
caught up in the changing of the tracks,
too temporary to be truthful,
too tempting to not to taste.
Memory has not moulded us
into anything more meaningful
than a moment that was never really meant.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
STEALING SCENTS
I steal scents from strangers,
skins skirting a sense of someone else
like flowers sent to the wrong address
and thoughts lean towards intense,
fragrances on the less familiar
that feel more personal
than these perfumed impostors
pilfering my past, more a fancy to my form
than a complete composition of theirs,
I can tell a dahlia from a daisy.
I slip through these scents
on these skins of strangers
through moments on metros moving
and slide suddenly
into arms once wrapped in
and sheets once strangled by,
the prick of every rose
that can one day rot,
(one must remember to change
the water in the vase!)
all memories of muscle and muddles
that have since slipped from this lined skin,
like veins vying on leaves that have caught
themselves onto the branches of other trees.
Stale tales on the scents of new strangers.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
NEW RHYMES
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
A KISS, INCOMPREHENSIBLE
Day 25; National Poetry Writing Month #NaPoWriMo
If I could reset the world
I would start it with a kiss
on a silent night
In the corner of winter,
summer has claimed the light,
dark corners need our attention
more than the sound of the sea
and the smell of the sunscreen.
If I could reset the world
I would start it with a kiss
on lips I’ve never tasted
in a place I’ve never been,
I am done with parted passion,
others have since traced these lines
and found the tremble too intense
and the trench too tough to traverse.
If I could reset the world,
I would start it with a kiss
and seal it with a bond
That time can’t comprehend.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Photograph taken in Ayrshire, Scotland.
SING NOT OF SATISFACTION
I’ve looked for you
in corners of the past
no longer concerned
with connections
to considerations
I once cradled
(we never cradled)
but since carefully
filed and folded
(like pictures pressed
into pages of albums
never opened)
into a folder
of foolishness
fantasised
on foreign fields,
though never fertile,
though never suitable
for the fondness
we felt but never held,
a fleeting flirtation
we never saw
to fruition,
no admission,
no submission
to mounting
attraction,
seduction
(sing not of satisfaction!)
I’ve seen you
still surviving
in the shadow
of sleep’s delusions;
delirious distractions,
abstractions
of colour and light
of ‘could have beens’
that blanket me
in mistruths,
piling passion
into pillows
never pressed
with your lips
or my caress
to your comfort,
sojourns of sleep
that soothe not
the waking visions
violated by your
polar position,
leaving me
breathless
in the restless
dark naked night,
far too far
from your face,
your flesh,
your form.
Album
barely filled,
rarely opened,
never disregarded.
All Words and Sketches by Damien B. Donnelly
Audio version available on SoundCloud:
https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/sing-not-of-satisfaction
BOTTLED PAST
It’s outstanding
what odours
can own,
how biographies
in bottles
can board,
how illusions can lie lay
in liquids,
how subtle scents
can be savoured.
I sprayed you
today
on my hands
-so cold to caress-
from a bottle,
a simple bottle,
in a shop,
a simple shop,
in a city
that never saw us,
in a land
that never heard us,
or knew
what we felt
or how we smelt,
that never caught
our connection
shattering into pieces,
leaving nothing
but a sweet scent
on the sheets
of other beds
in other streets.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
GOING EAST
I have crossed oceans
without feeling the weight
washed beneath their waves…
I have cut through clouds
without knowing the worries
they whisper to the stars…
I have flown
from darkening dreams
towards tomorrow’s daylight
and yet
the light’s already fading
on front of me
before my past
has even slept
before my future
somewhere far behind me
has even been conceived…
All words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
DAYS IN THE DAM
It’s funny
how you slip in
along the side lines
on days that don’t deliver
that don’t distract.
It’s strange
how you pull me
from the pit falls
on days when I feel undone
when I feel attacked.
It’s alarming
how you linger
in the background.
It’s odd
how you hold me
despite the distance
even though
I thought us done.
It’s funny
how you trickle by
when bikes blow past
and windmills bellow.
Its funny how a land
can be as addictive
as a hand to hold
a tie to bind
and a heart to heal.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
All Photography taken in Amsterdam, The Netherlands
