MY THREE FATES

 

I- The original

 

Water                            floods flesh

From carnal comes forth     creation

Washed in sin

and they watch. In judgement

Water releases               hold

Sign away the rights                to his name

 

II- The Second Coming

 

Tears flood                   drained desert

She will be  an ocean             once more

Blood             is not the only bond

Longing leans in                  with twice the light

while they watch. In judgement.

Her tears           taunt their dried lips.

 

III- The Journey

 

You are ocean endless   and I worry

about growing                tired.

Sides streets         hold songs.

Every cobble     a connection for collection

Born from one and raised                by another

Now the road    is the mother

Feet turn    on judgement.            I found the refuge

The final fate          is on the road.

 

All words by Damien B Donnelly

BETWEEN THE SEAMS

 

We came for the cows-
sleek shiny skins to sew into seams and cents
but were caught in a contradistinctive cacophony-
silk sarees, careering through merging traffic
in colours more complex than considerations of the constellation,
on the backs of mopeds, motorbikes, motorcars, broken cars,
cars piled on top of cars, twisting and turning like my thoughts,
like shiny spun threads speeding through calescent carriageways
sweltering under the hustle of the crowd’s bustle,
horns and humans honking along the raw edges of overrun roadsides.
Curious eyes casting assumptions on the stiches I’d unpicked-
trying to see how they held it all together. Eyes smiling, seeing,
wondering on why I’d come and what I’d take away.

We’d come for the cows-
but slipped like silk over skin into the smooth symphony
of those streets where wild cows were prized idols
wandering freely through the masses, noting nothing
of our search for their hides that had slipped from being seductive
into being sacred, again. In the height of this mercurial madness,
a man, blind to all light, weaved his way through the carnival
like the weft goes through the warp, three sheep by his side
as if they’d always been with him- the silken worms to his weave
and I wondered, then, who was leading who;
the man, the sheep, this car or me.

Into every baste stitch, hand-made,
in Meluhha’s lining, was hidden a fine canvas
where letters spelling out the concept of freedom had been placed,
sealed beneath from the politics and the poverty, they’d sewn smiles
into each seam and it was I, in branded costume, who looked the fool-
traveling through, taking it in, thinking I was better off amid my laws
and rules and beds and baths and running water and walled in farms
that kept cows in containers too condensed to come close
to any considering of the constellation.

We came for the cows-
but discovered that this was no place
to search for that something sleekly-
for this was a city too silky for the stains of my synthetic skins.

 

 Words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

TURNING CARDS

 

In tarot
I turned over cards
like time turns darker days
into enlightening nights,
fortune found me first
in the Fool’s hold;
a kiss of ignorance
upon freedom’s feet,
a deep dive into depths
I processed no questions for.
In the World
I saw the circle close in to caress,
a formation of balance
at my finger tips,
the elements clear
in corners to comfort,
a sphere of strength;
a celebration of the fine fragility
of my frame, naked
as it found its form
before the scales of Justice,
judgement residing
in my own hands
so long abandoned
by the satisfaction of self serving
while Doubt; the dark knight
in a brighter battle,
cast his concern to the cracked cup
and not the chalice overflowing.
Later, the Lovers
watched the light in its rising,
no longer grounded
by the mountains I had to climb,
no longer fearful
to let the light shine
while a family
stood beyond the bluebirds,
below the rainbow of 10 chalices,
waving me onwards
or calling me back to a home
I had never known;
accept the unexplored
or set a quest to uncloak the confusion.
I turned careful cards
like age turns knowledge
into something more tangible,
more truthful, and I saw myself in the end;
man-child on the back of the bravest of beast,
casting off the shroud of scarlet,
sighing under the glow of the internal Sun
as flowers bloomed over a library
of words waiting to be written.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Tarot reading by Alice.

BREAK OF LIGHT

 

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 

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

THE ROAD

 

I,
In the face of all
That came before me,
I,
In the hope of all
To be put before me,
I,
Accepting of the many times
I’ve fallen,
I,
Rejoicing in the many times
I’ve risen
See,
The future as an empty canvas
Stretched before me,
See,
Now the wisdom in all the words
Once bestowed me,
See,
The rhyme and reason to the roads
That lead me here,
See,
The distant faces from my past
I still hold dear.

I,
The inquisitor along the winding road
I’ve taken,
I,
A single soul so often foolish
And mistaken,
I,
The poet penning prose
Beneath the silence,
I,
While wearing masks to be let in,
To shun the violence
Remember,
Each and every laughter
Life has brought me,
Remember,
To raise my head to whatever power
Reins above me,
Remember,
The lengths of love
Which others shared,
Remember,
To see the hope,
To keep the faith
And not be scared.

 

THE END OF THE ROAD, DAY 30, POEM 30

And so here’s to one
For the end of the road,
Words have been written,
Sentences steadily found sense,
Poems put together, pushed and pulled
On pages being published, hauled
And heralded, heard in hushed homes
Where hope is heartily housed and harboured,

Here’s to the unbelievers
The cynical thinkers of thought,
Leaning to maths in the absence of magic,
Scared to be seen perusing poetically
In their palaces of prejudicial pride,
In places where poetry is but a preoccupation
For pansies prancing about while decorating doilies
And fawning over follies, fads and followers of fashion,

Here’s to the ones
Who are missing out,
To those who dare to look away,
Ignore all that is spoken, reject all
That is written, miss the minutes of magic
Mixed with meaning and metre, meandering
Like madmen through a myriad of amused
And confessional men and women, all willing
To shed their skin, to drop their masks and reveal
The sometimes silly, sometimes scary, secrets beneath,

Here’s to the end of the road,
A month of calculating thought,
Converting concerns into so-called
Confessions, finding fact amid the fictions
Of life, figuring out the force within so as to find
The way to pen and paper, from thought to word,
From hand to eye to read, to lips, to mouth, words
For the mind to ruminate and meditate on the meaning,

Here’s to the completion
Of the composition, the composer
Can collapse, rest and recuperate,
Dream again, to look back and laugh,
Not dawdle in the depths of substance
But laugh at the lines he has lived through,
Lingered along, find light in the letting go, rhythm
In the rhyme, consume not oneself in the character
And caution and concern but release those creations
To live and love, to be heard and held without him and to be
Unburdened and unpunished if the rhythm didn’t always fit the rhyme.

All photographs and artwork by Damien B. Donnelly

THE STRUGGLE

To be a poet of
The heart and mind
Is to step away
From all that is close
And to look back
From afar.
To struggle
With the truth
Of what we are told
And to search for
What we believe.
To fall on the road
And document the struggle
To stand again.
To be torn from
The heart of your dearest
By the changing hand
Of that very heart
And find a place again,
In your own, alone.

To breath again
And remind yourself
To do this daily,
To look into the dark
And, in blindness,
Search for the light.

To dream at night
While accepting
The reality
Of the coming dawn.

To open your eyes
To an unknown world
When you were safe
In the one you’d accepted.
To wander
The lonely road
That you must take,
Alone.
To cry,
To shed your pain,
To cleanse your body,
To clear out
So as to move on.
To sob
In the face of beauty
And smile
In the midst of horror
So as to live.

To travel
The mind’s horizons
And discover the bounties
Hidden in its depths
So as to release the poet
Inside lays within us all.

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