Series

TIME ON THE TIDE, PART 6; CURRENT

/ deuxiemepeau / 1 Comment

We stood in arms, two boys at play
as the sea swept the shore below,
as the wind wound its way around us,
trying to cut through us as a bird
battled above for the right to go left
though the current had other thoughts,
saw other connections in this flight
of feathers fighting the force of rising
and falling, of coming and going,
of getting to and moving on.
We took the boat that took our breath
as it waged through waves, past homes
housed on hills born from the water
that held no shelter (can it still caress?)
that offered no comfort from the cold
(where to find the heat?) as you slipped
your hand into mine in this foreign land,
you and your foreign hand already feeling
so familiar, coming in, coming closer,
going out and coming back stronger
like this boat that sweeps the shore
from city (of sexy trams traversing
and curved girls smiling) to the walled
edge of nowhere, where the guns
sound the silence in the shadows
of a ghostly grandeur where soldiers
once stood to secure their settlement
and I told you I would fight dragons
for you if we make it through the waves
that come and go, these motions that make
or break the connections we are now
curious to keep current, these arms
we want to keep so close.

On the train I left you and climbed
the steps to the east of elsewhere
as you continued along the tracks south
and then so far south that the sun
still shone, both with other connections
to catch but aware of the current
of comfort we had begun to create
and I wondered if the bird found its way
home before the guns roared again
through the sky. And later, I wondered
if it were that bird, that same bird,
that echoed through each of us,
as we made our way, separately,
through the night.

We take tracks on lines ever crossing
but are bound to circles ever spinning
like echoes calling back on themselves.

We are tides torn between the depth
of the ocean bed and the safely
of the sandy shore.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

TIME ON THE TIDE, PART 4, OTHER ROOMS

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And so
another door
finds its hinges turning to a close
(you choose, you enter, you stay, you leave),
tides twist
and then return
as another summer
finds winter whistling on the arms
of outstretched autumn
(rains fall, flowers grow, sun shines, rain returns)
and I wonder
what is left
within the rooms
I’m leaving, in the corners once
caressed and now cast off, and in the veins
that entwine themselves around the body that houses me,
that pulsed through this home
that once held me
and I wonder
what is left
of the summer heat
now burnt onto skin since soothed
by solutions and sweaters and the summer nights
that promised no end but, like life, like this house, like all this
which was once home,
has now been paid for
and packed away
and prepped
for someone else
to put their mark on
while I ponder the patterns
now a part of this person, frequently familiar
and sometimes a stranger, that is me.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

TIME ON THE TIDE, PART 3; IN WAVES

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And we kissed
and I took you in, in waves;
your breath, your body,
the smoothness of your skin,
the ease with which
my hands slipped
from thigh to burning heat,
lower, deeper,
aching for exploration
and my hunger rose
and I took a breath
and all that you are flooded me
with nothing but a longing
for more and more
of more.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

TIME ON THE TIDE, PART 2; DRAWN TO THE DEEP

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In sweeping sprays
the ceaseless sea
is savage to the shore;

bound and breathless,
always and evermore.

Living life on lucent lines
that linger on longing
but are lulled by the lullaby;

that constant cord caressing
the circle ever spinning by.

Ardent amoureux are we all,
ever eager to be eaten
and drawn to devotion,

never quite knowing
if we are the sea;

devouring

or the shore;

devoured by the desires
of our own creation.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

TIME ON THE TIDE, PART 1; AND SO WE BEGIN

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And so we begin; the light freshly falling
on newfound flesh, clouds breaking over
a sea breeze gliding in over giddy grass,
a giggle in its thrill, bright bodies bending
lending limbs to longing, every touch
a tiny tickle as naked truths twist and turn;
turn on, turn hot while hands draw hope
as we grope the layers, as we undress
a barrage of barriers now newly broken
on the floor by the bed with less room
but more comfort to caress, cum and cuddle,
each to the other a curious new creature,
new waves washing along the other; under,
over, into as we dare each other to dive
deeper, each breath a new scent to sink
below, a salty seduction, a sweeter sweatiness
like salt that settles in the afterglow
on the shore of this new light, bright
is the beginning, I want to say more,
but no, linger only in this fair light,
rare light, rare is the time for this light
that time will not spare, take time to taste
the temperature, between thighs we tumble,
between each pause we laugh lightly,
pulses pressing into parts pulsing, we learn
how far we can push, how deep we can dive
down, I rise up to speak again, but no,
not yet, be still, let us feel, let us feel
how much we can open up below
the light, this new light, just beginning.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on SoundCloud:

 

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 19; CONFESSION

/ deuxiemepeau / 3 Comments

 

I have been courted
by counts and clowns,
too costly to count,
to considered to be questioned,
too comical to consider courtly
while in cities crowded with crossing carriages
and calm corners curated in comfort.
I have been coloured in, cared for,
cooped up, critiqued, cried out
and carried on, careless at times,
cautious at others,
I am creature creative
within this creation
in constant recreation,
a commuter
on this continuing carriageway
as cryptic as these clouds
of cotton-like complexity I cannot catch,
this carnival carousel of colours
not always complimentary
but of constant curiosity
that keeps on careering
and I am caught, concentric,
in consensual contentment
on its current that cannot be caged.
I came to the city,
this city, a city, other cities,
on a calling caught,
to cast all caution into the chaos
so as to compress the cost,
to consider the curve of common cliche
and covet the calling of the unconventional,
to cast a cry into the canyon
I have cut from my own carcass
so as to be counted as contestant.
I came in from the cold corners of complacency
where the crows were cawing callous
with the canines of carnality
to carve my confession
upon the confines of concrete
so as to comprehend the kisses I’ve captured
and the cords I’ve become a connoisseur of
within these courts that have contemplated me
and these circuses that have certified me
as compliant competitor.
I can only compliment the countless confusions
that called me careless
and I considered too crude to be counted,
but they count as the catalysts
that corrected my compass to
its calling within this circle
I am committed to seeing through
to its conclusion.

Shine on, shadowed sky,
with your stars like songs
singing along their sojourn.
I see sinister no more in shadow
and sight not always in sun.
We are seagulls and snakes
and saints and sinners
in the same situation,
searching for stimulants,
singing in unison
of our struggles and our strengths,
striving to see salvation in the spotlight,
searching out that spark to court
in sex and sense
that will send our souls soaring
into the stratosphere.
We are songs being sung
in a simultaneous serenade.
We are stars.

We are not nothing and never will be.

See how we Shine.

All words and photo collage by Damien B. Donnelly

This is the final poem in the series which has been inspired by the artistry of Joni Mitchell and each poem has followed her albums in chronological order.

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

 

 

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 18; TRAVELOGUE

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I

In the park
bodies are bare and bending
in sweaty forms,
see the skin still salivating
as if fresh from the frolics,
when we were fondled and found,
some born to be bound
and then others;
fickle fools thinking thrusts
were as true as trust.

But truth is told only in time;
touch turns from tenderly
tempestuous to temperamental
and all too temporary.

I had a king
in a castle in London
who showed me Soho
and Shakespeare
and Sondheim and song,
I had a home
in the confines of concrete
with textiles and textures
and people who thought
I shouldn’t want more,
I was a shadow
of winter in summer,
I was a peasant
unprepared for the palace
of people and places and graces.
I was the blue note in a home
where I didn’t belong.

I was caught
and caged in the concrete
I had pasted and painted
with colour to keep out
the cold.
I was the killer
of kindness in the castle
when I couldn’t keep track of the ties
too lonesome to hold.

II

Truth, like ties,
are tenuous,
like I told him once
and he laughed
and I knew I’d already lost him.
We were drunk then,
daily, ravenously rampant
by the river, raising the rafters
of romanticism into something
more erotic as liquor left us
more likeable,
more pliable.
More, you asked,
more of more and more
and we were whores
to the hunger, fools rocking
on a trust, that I had told him,
would turn out to be as tenuous
as it was temporary.

My old man
was a funny one,
a drinking man,
a bottle collector
who liked me like his liquor;
in cabinets next to cast offs
and collectables he could polish
at his pleasure.
My old man
was a fond one
of class and culture
who liked his treasure
in bottomless glasses
and freshly pressed sheets.
My old man
was the party clown
when the lights were leaving
and the drink deceiving
and despondent, at times, I think,
to think that he could have been more,
to think that we could have
had more.
My old man
was a bottle collector,
a drinking man
of class and culture
but there wasn’t enough room
in the bed for us all
with the more and more and more.

The sun is shining now
in this park, over sweating skins
poised for it to be permanent
while I watch the clouds gathering
just beyond the tress

where the vultures
are devouring their own virtues.

III

Alone now,
a flight of feathers
free from all shackles,
walking the single lane,
secure if it is to be
for a single day
or forever.
Alone
and casting off
the cages that once encased me,
feeling strength
that has long since slumbered,
heading along the highway
and holding all that is truly mine,
slowly retuning
to my natural state,
my own body embracing
its bounty, baring its beauty
like the womb; nurturing myself.
Loving alone now,
getting to know the curves
and the quite corners
of this midway of me
and the miles I am making,
true to the tales
of my own travelogue,
all natural states eclipse
for in returning
to this part of me,
once pushed aside,
once cast out of spotlight,
I am moved,
almost elevated,
parallel to that
which I am bound
into becoming.

I am the waters
no longer resting,
I am the stream swimming
from the city to the open ocean
and already I can feel the breeze
that those bound parks can only ponder.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

 

 

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 17; THE OTHER SIDE

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What is life
but a book to read
from both sides,
from either end,
from all there is to see here
below the constant clouds of consideration
and from far on high
where the clouds are carpet
and the stars are as close to perfection
as we can get,
for midway
through this meander
of noise and nonsense,
of love and what is left
in its place
when it has parted,
i am no closer
to the correct question
as I am to the unachievable answer.

What is love
but a sunlight
seen out of season,
a breath to better us
when there is no air,
a rainstorm
when all we can see
is desert dust
sweeping over the highway
where our hope is headed
while we are bound,
barely,
to faithful,
to fearless,
to ferocious,
as we falter, fail and fall
and rise again,
better for the bruises
ready for the next round,
prepared to bleed out
our lives along
this road we are rocking.

And still I can drink another case
of you, and you, and you, and you, and you…

What is life?
What is love?
What is the point in asking?

We are here…
happy, hurt, healing.

We have cut through the clouds
and reached the other side…

what more is there to fear?

All Words and Paintings by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

 

 

 

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 16; LILTING LULLABY

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I thought we were templates for tattoos to tell tales on,
I never thought to the tire skids and teeth marks time’s tiger
would temper on our skins. Here kitty, kitty, we call
and curiosity comes crawling out from under as cat with claws uncut.

Cute kitty, come catch, we call through the forest foliage, fooled
into thinking we are the keepers of the cage within this corner
of creation in constant recreation all around us.

I thought us all thoroughbreds, better bred, slices of a bigger plan
but it’s true that thought is not to be trusted, not all that is kneaded
rises as we were led to expect. We are busy bakers, blindly baking
in ovens too hot to hear our hunger, too closed to be open to our urges.

Cast out of kitchen we cower as canines caught between the cage
and the carnal, praying for peace with paws ready to pounce
on all possible prey. Falling on four feet in the forest already fading,
we are shadows of former selves, cut and claimed by the marks
our own malice has made of us. In the forest falling no one hears
the crazy cries of the lives who once howled only for the lilting

lullaby of love.

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 15; TURBULENT SACRIFICE

/ deuxiemepeau / 6 Comments

 

Mama was an unmarried mother
at the end of the summer of 75
as Joni hissed of the snakes
in the gardens of complacency
where ignorance was still very much alive.

Mama was only a girl in the growing
and possibly no more than just 18
when she bent down and placed
a kiss on my cheek and whispered
goodbye to her own little green.

Mama is someone who I’ve never met
aside from the dream I once had
of her life in a kingdom that ruled
you could not mother a child unless
at first you were a legitimate wife.

Mama was an unmarried girl one winter
in the arms of a man barely stretched
from a boy, her trust in the throws
that left little to believe in and a pain
that pulled on the strings of goodbye.

Mama was once an unmarried mother
and bursting with thoughts her shape
couldn’t hide, but helpless and hopeless
were not part of her form and so she did
what she could when you can’t be the bride.

Mama was a childless woman
when winter that year came cold with its calling,

and the tears started breaking

and the leaves began falling

like the water that had broken,
like the hold that had not held,
like the hope that was drowned,
and the hand that was expelled…

too short, too quick, too hard
too much to let go for good

and the snakes started hissing on the lawns.

Mamma was the unmarried mother
who gave me the greatest gift
that anyone could, of growing up
knowing that what she had done
was to give me up for a greater good.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud: