BERRY KISSES, COLOUR ON CURT CORNERS

 
Bright red berries
linger on bushes
before sunsets
like lip’s lightness
that lingers after kisses.

Bright red berries
tremble in the afterglow
of careful witness
like mouths that modulate
after tender caress.

Bright red berries
adorn towering twigs
thick and tall
like lips in favour
of that fine flexed flesh.

Bright red berries
slip with the sun
into sleep serenaded
with the day’s delights
like lips that seek slumber
to sweep over skin
as the scent of seduction
sinks between sheets.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

A FISH CAUGHT ON THE CURVE OF THE MOON

 

Love
is a red
Russian rose
on the run,
a bouquet
to brush the blues
from their burdens.

Hope
is his hand
on her head
in the night,
taking flight
as that blue bird darkens.

But
her moon
was in Pisces
and she was said
to be expunged
by her sensitive soul

but
in his hands
he still held her,
his red
Russian rose
and so
he painted a song
to perpetuate her soul.

Her moon
was in Pisces
and his heart
in the bloom of her hand.

All words by Damien B Donnelly. Painting, Le Paysage Bleu, by Marc Chagall

LIFE IN TECHNICOLOR

 

A caress of candy apple red
on a Hong Kong carriageway
of Persian blue busses
and yellowing white stripes,
a notably normal night
without a star in sight
where nothing really happened
except for a sweetening fold,
caught by a camera
and time passing
and that bus in blue going by,
the lives of two commuters
entwining their way through
their lanes of life in technicolor.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

RED INK

 

I love and lose in circles, scratching
at skin tipped in ink, trying to find
the truth beneath the colours
I’ve let others colour in, hiding
the paler flesh I held from view,
we always need to hold on to something.

I am not comfortable over quiet dinners;
too much stilled air coursing
through the courses as I question
the seconds ticking by, in silence;
will you find me failure and flee?
But I’ll always be the first to fly
since that first flight I had no hand in.

I stir the stilled air with performances;
shy boy in the spotlight singing songs
he can’t quite find the notes for
or find the right to call his own.

I love and lie in circles that spiral
back on themselves, that cast further
reflections, not quite clear, on the boy
now faced as man in the mirror,
that flood more ink into that fading flesh.
‘Chromolume No. 9, Georges?’ she asked,
once, in a play, how many more?

Variations grow stale, thought becomes
tension, creation becomes controlled,
breath becomes bearer, bleaker. My chest
beats too quickly to let in fresh air,
fresh flesh, compressed, repressed.

I cannot lie in these circles,
these spirals that seem to linger,
longer, no longer. I am looking
to find a new shape; turning back,
returning, recalling that first mark,
to measure how far from it I ran,
to see what was left behind,
to lay it to rest and find the rest,
the rest of me beneath the red ink
tipped into this fragile flesh.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

18th poem for National Poetry Writing Month

THE GREYING MIST OF MEMORY

 

I’d never heard the call of the green
though my eyes caress it
in a certain light
and so many walls I’ve covered
with that same colour
to curate a comfort from the cold.
I’d never heard it, till now,
till the windows stopped
keeping out that chill.
Blue, I never found blue cold,
on the contrary, I see the sky
coming down to caress the seas I’ve crossed
in a coating of calm encouragement,
even in the snow, in the moonlight,
that blue light connecting its contours
like icy jazz notes on a single saxophone
on a smoky soirée, in a time the greying mist
of memory hasn’t quite drained.
Blue never, but white; chills.
I had red walls once and, at the time,
thought them a tribute
to my, as yet unexposed, pride.
I since recall them
as something more melancholy;
a call in themselves,
but in my child’s mind
I was scarlet conquering
on Sunday afternoons
on the inside of the rain
as oldies played across the tv screen
long before I even heard the song
from the singer in blue.
Blue, songs are like…
songs are like souls catching flight,
in my mind they are shadows;
black and white blurs,
but in the air they take flight
like cormorants of colour
over those green lands
my eyes are seeing
with more interest than ever before
as I come to drink again from that case.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

14th poem for NaPoWriMo

RUBY RED

 

We walk on berry bushes,
capture lies in jam jars,
rich ruby reds
to dapple sweetness
over the bitter truth.

We walk on clear waters
fishing through sieves
for reflections
of who we were
before we drowned the earth dry.

We walk on land
but turn towards the clouds,
trying to draw conclusions
from the cotton candy
we cannot catch hold of.

We walk on the world
with a faith

that can’t always keep us afloat.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

2nd poem for National Poetry Writing Month 2019

RED RIBBON

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You opened me
You held my heart
in your own bare hands
beating
I bared all for you
I lay naked for you
I shed my layers
revealing,
I have become undone
loosened, lessened,
I have been unravelled
like ribbon
unrolling,
red knotted ribbon,
like red rotting blood
on the stone cold floor
of a battered heart
barely beating
revealing the emptiness
of our essence.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

 

COLOUR ME

White light
And blue skies,
Ice cold
And endless goodbyes.
Maybe tomorrows
And meaningful glances,
Everything to risk
So neither advances.
White light
Brightens the skies,
A frozen moment
When eyes are on eyes.
Forbidden fruit
Could taste so sweet,
Getting hard to resist
But never we cheat.

A white light
From a clean heart,
A pure soul
Never falls apart.

Blue,
The colour of skies
At their fairest,
Blues,
The sign of a heart
At its weakest.

I’m white to the world
And freeze myself blue,
But inside I am burning
With a red flame for you.

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