POTTERS ON THE ROAD

 

I am free in the morning,
in this morning town,
waking,

slipping from slumber
like skin from sheets,
like wings above clouds

conquering concerns
that come a calling
and I am falling
upwards,

falling in love with light

can feel it sparkling,
even at day break,
even when days break,

falling for all that caresses carefree,

I am not constant,
no longer, not caught,
I am on course like the stars

I course through clouds, up from down,

I am clear of connection, of weight,
of all that heaves over heart,
I am more made of mind,

romance redirected in songs scripted
from memories and moments measured

in the heights that held us
and not the fights that harmed us.

I am cutting from my own carcass my own canyon

in the soil of the soul,
more whole than helpless,

brave the bird that breaks
from the nest to find fortune in freedom.

Freedom is a solo flight;

to touch the stars
you have to know how to hold the night.

I am man now,
brave begotten from boy,
gotten braver, better, broader,

brought back to basic; the characteristic core of all creation.

Shadows are quaint covers now
that come in from the cold
when comfort is called.

Shadow is not all sinister, sun is not always safe.

We are starlight
making our way
through the darkness
before we fall to dust,

trying to decipher the difference
between delight and distraction
along the paths we are potters on.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly. From a series inspired by Joni Mitchell albums.

This is a repost for a week of Stars and Moons

CAST OFF

Along the river bed,

long running with water

already washed through our hands,

long is not the hold we have to harbour,

long running with this water

no longer light at its level,

no longer smooth along its sands,

along this bend of river

I cast into the current, like a kiss

no longer catchable,

this weight no longer workable,

now on route to dissolvable.

From breath to bubble,

bobbing

bubbles,

from breath to bubble and then trouble,

then off they blow,

splashing as they sparkle

and splutter on to spent.

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I cast you into this current,

where shamrock slips to sapphire,

to let the past depart,

not sad of heart, not hard,

just a shadow of blue

in a bend of the bank

at the edge of expire.

To slip from soul like a skin

now shredded from recognition,

a cast off of character no longer cast

in this current condition.

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We knit until we are knotted,

we weave patterns;

loops locked under chains,

some stitches saved and others slipped,

connected to a comfort

until they struggle under strains,

a fragile filigree

we cannot always wear,

hands can only hold

what wants to be held,

we are not fortunate

for the future to foresee,

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we can not always follow,

sometimes even sheep

must make their own route

before they are wound as wool

or substance to swallow,

even the river bed must turn, in time,

twist at others, we are no straight line

but a collection of corrections

cast on and cast off,

kick off

pay off

drop off.

We are more than characters

or thinly drawn caricatures,

I am more than this flesh you see,

you see; I can fester or I can be free.

I shed this skin of a former self,

here by the edge of this river running,

running onwards, searching for its shore,

searching for something more,

for its share of the truth,

I shed this skin to let the other

parts of me find their sea.

I cast into the river bed

this weight so the rest

can float and form and be.

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All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

Audio version available on SoundCloud:

https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/cast-off

BOUND 

 

We are to the road bound,
paved in method,
measure and movement,
we dig trenches,
turn earth and choke
with cement (no joke).
We are to the light drawn,
toward the harbour,
the heat and the hope,
bound to shore,
to security, to bath
and body (to stroke).
We are seekers of shelter
along this helter-skelter,
cutting comfort
into concrete forms,
wombs become rooms
become homes
filled with customs
we become cocooned in,
a bed to lay our burdens on
and rest our bodies (still stroking) in.
Each morning another blanket
folds over yesterday’s shadows
(light, bright till night finds flight),
each morning another curtain
opens on the dream waiting
at the end of another road
to which we will be,
once again, bound to.
We are bound to follow
the paths we are painstakingly paving.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

FIELDS OF HINDSIGHT

 

There are fields beyond the trees,
fertile fields never turned or sewn,
ploughed or pillaged, lands his course
never crossed. If he had hindsight
would he still till the same lands,
plant the same roots, seek substance
in the same sunlight, find a farmer’s
favour with the familiar falling rain?
If he had hindsight would he seek
solace in the same fire that favoured him
in winter, in those fantastical flames
that nourished him, revived him,
that thawed his sorrow, caressed him
to comfort? There is music
in other rooms, alive on other keys
and strings he never played,
he never knew, he never cared for
or considered. If he had hindsight
would he still sing the same song,
words that were whispered to him,
music that made him, moulded him,
find reason in the same rhythm,
character in the same chorus?
If he had hindsight what use
could it be, what peace could it bring,
what would it make of him,
how would it change who he was,
who he loved and all he has still to be?
There are fields beyond the trees,
fertile fields never turned or taken,
their grass has other offerings,
their leaves all sway to other sounds,
their fortunes spark other interests,
there is music in other rooms,
alive on keys and strings, tunes
of other tenors, sounds from other
singers, they are not his sounds,
just as they are not his fields,
they have not made him,
will not tempt him, they can never
change him; hindsight is to hopeless
as happiness is to hopeful.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photograph taken just outside of Lisbon, Portugal.

TUMBLE WEED

tumble weed

I lost my way
amid the rushes,
between the bushes,
torn from thorns,
as I turned and tumbled,
was twisted and thrown

and that day the sun burnt
like a blazing beacon upon my body.

I lost the path,
parted from perception,
a play of nature’s deception,
the nature of nature,
as I faltered and fumbled,
was fooled and fowled

and that night the stars stared
like sentinels upon my shadow

but,
along the midway of the midday,
the world wound round
and its spirals knocked me down
while the towering trees
threatened me with their trunks,
turning and twisting
out of shape,
out of sight,
out for rape,
for revenge.

I lost my way
along the track
trying to find my way back,
gaining nothing on the gate,
as my grounding gave way
to a growling gravity,
to a sudden surge of velocity
and I,
twisting like a tumble weed,
caught up like nature’s seed,
wondered if I’d ever be freed.

Twisting through the tracks,
through the bushes
as movement rushes,
tumbling through the well threaded track,
all footprints being pushed back,
twisting and turning
and tumbling like tumble weed,
like nature discarding a troubling seed.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photographs taken by the underground caves in Maastricht , The Netherlands

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

LIFE TIMES

In a time of love
My heart will beat
To your name,

In a time of hate
My heart will pound
With pain,

In a time of creation
I will water the seed
And the flower shall rise,

In a time of destruction
I will protect my love
And comfort his cries,

In a time of destiny
My path will become clear,

In time for the end
I shall have relinquished my fear.

THE ANGEL OF INITIATION

Barefoot she walks
Her feet thread glass,
Accepting of her suffering
No mercy does she ask.

Humble but glorious,
Silent but not afraid,
Her path is toward heaven
Where petals are laid.

‘Walk with me
Those who refuse to suffer,
I bring a quest to fulfil
And humility do I offer.

Cast off your jewels
If you search for perfection,
For it’s beneath the skin
Where we perform our inspection.

Awaken to your faults,
For blindness draws you deeper,
Embrace each tear of pain
For endurance makes you stronger.

To fly with the angels
You must walk in my path,
Till in the harmony of the creators
When we dance as angelic dreamers.’

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Let the Wind Carry Me

 

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Let the wind carry me, let me not worry about the where and why
build in me the desire the want and the love for lands new and fresh
let me smell it on the breeze bring me the dream on your current of air
I await the sign the yearning the draw
the moment when I know what for wherefore whatever…
 carry it onto me let it embrace itself around me
let it unfold itself within me
carry me forth to tomorrow a new day a new dawn in a new land

A beginning that brings with it the best of my past my roots my memories and all the faces that made me who I am let them live within me as I walk on fresh soil new and unaware childish innocence awash with white
at play with creation while evolving…
like the water to the wheel turning again and again
round and round always the water
but never the same droplet

Let me wash onto a new shore naked just skin and bones flesh just flesh
no clothes or jewels to adorn me cover me or pretend of me
let me be just me breathing fresh moving and happy

let the wind carry me to whatever whoever wherever

my path in its hands

my eyes closed 

my trust in its force

my senses aroused

let the wind carry me
for I am his to command to direct to learn from
to find my way

let me be but a droplet of air
let me feel what it is to be moved
for then I will know what it is

All words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly