LENGTHS

 

Spring has left us shy.
We flirt like sheep- cute but clumsy,
forgetting what it was like to fold a summer
into forever. Words come but feel cumbersome-
you can only swallow so much of those ocean eyes
before drowning. Sheep don’t swim
and wool doesn’t do well in so much hot water.
Be careful with the laundry- no white flag yet in sight.
Spring has left us shy.
We never unfolded another summer to flock to the flirt.
You do or don’t- the tide isn’t ours to play with.
Sink, swim, shrink or drown. And I was never good
at lengths- length of time, length of hold,
length of hope.
Sheep need to be shepherded
or they lose their way. 

 

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

EARLY AUTUMN

 

The sky is burning,

the last light eclipsed by the night
and we stop and stare like fools at its blaze,
not seeing within this gaze possibility falling
though our hands like snowflakes in a season
that has kept captive the summer.

The sky is burning

while we travel in taxis, all of us
back-seat partakers being driven down roads
we know not where they lead as our minds run
tattered threads along all the tracks we wanted to press
with our own print but we cannot choose a direction
like a snowflake cannot control its pattern.

The sky is burning
with a fine filigree of fire and ice,
with thoughts we try to catch hold of but flames
are ever changing as no snowflake is ever the same
and we take hold of other dreams others dreamt of
in other beds, under other skies blazing
through futile snowstorms and we melt,

like a snowflake
in the dry heat of an early autumn.

 

All words and drawings by Damien B. Donnelly

THE SWEPT AND THE SWEEPERS

 

Fragility falling

through fine flecks of fair filigree,
perfect patterns of individuality speckled
on imperfect individuals.

Snowflakes melt

on steaming skin thin on time,
too thick to break through, you cannot always sink
below the surface of an iceberg,

we cannot break through

all that lays beneath, all the lies below the surface,
it gets hotter the closer you come to the cold truth,
only in space can a spec appear spotless.

Fragility falling

through the folds of a snowstorm,
we are the swept and the sweepers, we must be swift,
icicles can injure, perfection can pierce.

I can be broken,

I can be better, I can be broken, but it takes time
to rebuild. I can be a snow-swept filigree
falling through the perfection of time

and time,

with all its perfection, with its constant movement
and minutes, is as fragile as that snowflake.

 

All words and drawings by Damien B Donnelly

 

BOOKENDS; A STILL LIFE OF SENTIMENTAL ON A WALL

 

Memory is a shot of stillness sealed behind a lens
that looks for what cannot be seen until it’s been frozen

by the frame.

Some see this as a season of rust and ruin and running
while I see a freedom in this fall and in every breeze
another breath to breathe brave into this body.

I will hang you on other walls, in other seasons
and you will hear me sing other songs to other suitors.

It doesn’t mean we never had our summer,
only that our spring was too short to be anything other

than sentimental.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly.

This month is about looking back so as to move on. A goodbye to Paris.

OCHRE DANCING

 

Porcelain
plant pot
plots
the delicious decay
of decadence
once eyed as ochre
dancing
next to dandelions
in the dawn’s dew.
Pretty
painted picture
of plants
in a porcelain pot
plays with the presence
of past
and present
under the preservation
of pressed paint.
Gold garnered
by the grace
of the sun,
amber’s earthiness
on route
to autumn’s rust,
careful creation
caught
on canvas,
a fragile folly
frozen
before
the fall.

   

Words and oil painting by Damien B, Donnelly

23rd poem for National Poetry Writing Month

BLACK IS ONLY SHADOW

 

Winter has grey wings,
feathers of sodden soot
that come from concrete clouds
too dense to discern any light beyond.
Winter spawns grey wings
but spring is an architect of possibility
by a canal of colour that sweeps in
after the fright of the frost
and baths us in a blithe breath
that blows across a chest once in chains.

Round the red bricked bridge we ride,
each pedal pushing past the storms
that rained rivers through our winters.
Follow the river, she sings,
seasons are short but the earth is a sphere
turning towards the light,
dark doors open often into hopeful,
the river recalls its route
regardless of the water,
blue can be a bright beacon to bathe in,
black is only shadow
before it finds a reason to ignite in light,
bark is dry but the branch bares blossom.

We can be the water or the bridge,
the natural path or the paved plot,
the route is bright beyond the chains,
the greyest night is but a sleep behind
the colours waiting beyond the bend.

    

All words and water colours by Damien B. Donnelly

22nd poem for National Poetry Writing Month

Exploring Colour, Featured Guest, Poetry, Time in Two Hemispheres

Ladies and gentlemen,

I give you the link to Exploring Colour, a beautiful blog from Liz, in New Zealand, as she shares her colour experiences, thoughts and, today, her poetry. A greeting for the dimming lights of the northern hemisphere from the buds and blossoms finding the light in the south…

Clink on the link below and explore the other side of the world…

https://exploringcolour.wordpress.com/2018/09/01/poem-time-in-two-hemispheres/

Poem: Time in Two Hemispheres

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Northern hemisphere folks in my experience are apt to forget their current time and season are totally opposite to our current time and season in the southern hemisphere…even those of us aware of this dichotomy can find it pretty weird!

Time in Two Hemispheres

——

Up There, in the Northern Hemisphere

Time trickles through the Hourglass

You’re falling into Fall

Days are shorter

Longer nights

Less Light

Less time

Less

is

More

More time

More Light

Shorter nights

Days are longer

Roots are reaching

Buds are breaking
Blossoms making
Scents awaking

Spring has sprung

Down Here, in the Southern Hemisphere

 

You can find the background of the poem and the rest of Liz’s inspirational blog at this link below. Please take a moment to visit the other side of the world…

https://exploringcolour.wordpress.com/

A SHIFT TO THE SEASON

 

 

Another oldie as we drift to the end of another season…

It happens, now and then,

That slight shift in the season,

A new light, a different dusk,

A gentle breeze that brushes you

Into remembering a moment in the memory,

A time, once far removed,

Now returned, repeated, relived

And there you are, once more,

Back in those arms, looking in those eyes

Or maybe just reading that book,

Wearing that Sweater,

Crossing that bridge.

Time moves and overlaps, all at once,

I am here today, living and yet

A part still of yesterday, re-feeling it now.

I move, change, evolve

Like the weather, as the seasons.

I am summer because Spring bloomed before.

Today it is fine because yesterday I loved.

And then suddenly it shifts again,

A newer light, a darker dusk,

A twist to the breeze and another memory

Melts into the moment and on I go,

As the seasons, changing constantly,

While rarely forgetting that tomorrow,

What we did today, happened yesterday.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

A WHITER SNOW

As the sun still blazes through the shades pulled low, I found this older poem recalling the sentiment of another season…


I saw you,
One morning,
Blanketed in white-
A speckled canvas of virgin purity,
All color lost out
To a simpler shade of simplicity.
No more that magnificent mass
Of contrast and contradiction,
Just quiet and gentle
Unencumbered distinction.
Distant laughter
Sailed on a breeze
That swirled around trees
Caught motionless in time,
With branches bare but for snow
Reaching down to Mother Earth,
So proud to be born from Her roots.
I saw you like this,
One ordinary morning,
Alone,
As tears formed icicles on my face,
While snowflakes fell from your skies
Hiding your valleys and hills
And I watched my feet disappear
‘Neath the snow white earth.
I saw you,
Like this,
That morning,
And that longed-for smile
Returned.
For all has its season that crawls to an end
But the most hopeful in heart can rise again.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

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