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

DIAMONDS IN THE SKY

 

We are all stars,
we twist and turn and twinkle,
we are the bright, burning light,
we blaze like the stars;
twinkle, twinkle,
we burn, we are burning
like the stars; burnt out
tick tock, 
hurtling across the sky,
hurting beneath the sky
where we cry.
We are all stars,
fast paced, fast moving,
we are scuttling, scooting, shooting stars,
shooting each other,
bullets and diamonds,
the diamonds in the sky,
the diamond of my eye,
the reflection, the defection,
the glare, the stare,
the star,
twinkle, tick, twinkle, tock.
We are all stars,
we are here now;
tick, but long gone
tomorrow; tock,
light years lost
in seconds.
We are blazing, brilliant,
bright on borrowed time.
We are nothing, nanoseconds.
We are empty.
We have burnt it all, already.
We are burning out now
before we’ve begun
but our souls
they shine eternal.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

A Repost for a week of Moon and Stars

Photographs taken this weekend during the Journee du Patrimoine (European Days of Heritage) at the Richelieu Library, more photographs coming on Wordless Wednesday

 

FALLING THROUGH SPACE

 

Ghost clouds gather over ice cold oceans
of marble we can’t break through. Maybe
there was something deeper below the depths
we dared not dive. Breath is naked. Movement
muffed. Air rigid. There is nothing left to cover up.

I blush under your absence or do I blush
before the cold truth; this is it, we are alone,
one day we will end. All we have failed to learn
will fall through space like stars, burnt out before begun.

We are flames, in oceans, dying to be seen.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

This is a remixed repost for a week of gazing at clouds.

BURNING BEAUTY

 

I lay me down neath the constellation
as soul seeks shade from observation,
this sky full of stars my sweet salvation
though tumbling towards obliteration;
how beauty blazes before cremation.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

This is a repost. Photograph is Chagall ceiling at Opera Garnier, Paris 

WHISPERED WORDS

 

Last night you came calling
like a song to soften the shadows
and found me slipping in between
the silence and the slumber.
Last night you came calling
softly with your whispering words
that filled the longing, soft words
that settled upon my bed like a blanket
to sooth me. Last night, in the sweetened
stillness, you bent down from above,
from far away, from somewhere
beyond the silence and beckoned me
closer with your wisdom, whispering
words, softly like stars in the darkness,
like hope in the loneliness, welcome
words whispered which fell from your lips
and moved amid minds, warm words
that rested softly in between worlds
of sleep and seclusion, that found my ears,
that soothed my shoulders, that caressed
my chest like a breeze, a beautiful breeze,
a beautiful summer breeze that lets you breathe,
that finally enables you to breathe. Last night
you whispered from a world away and I awoke
all the lighter as the night gave way to day.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

This is a re-post, i’m still on holiday!!!!

 

THE IRISES OF OUR EYES

 

Crazed caught on canvas, caught in colour,
thought tempered in sweeping strokes,
we can be carried away in seas of grass,
coral greens awash in the garden,
catch the canvas before its fold finds favour
in other fields the mind has yet to fathom,
we can be crazy. Quick comes the crow
upon the harvest, bleak beacons,
art is not always to be understood
nor the artist always allowed the freedom
to express; we want cream walls
and canvases to comfort the canapé,
expression doesn’t always please the pattern.
Crazed comes to life on canvas, see
how he called to us; potato faced pickers
pealing in broken browns, aged in ochre,
acrylic is not a cover up, the canvas is not
a vision of vanity, even the sun flowers wilt
before the irises of our eyes. Fields, fields,
far flung fields of amber grain, far from home,
far from fame, trying to catch the elusive light
bearing down on the bails of honeyed hay
before the black wings hanging in the horizon,
painting eyes, other’s eyes for us to learn from,
to weep for the long loss after the colour
no longer connects. Quick, catch creation
before it catches fire, before it ricochets in a bed
in Anvers-sur-Oise, electricity only illuminated
the intensity, insanity is not always sedated
after the shock. Colour cannot be captured
by constraints in a brass bed with brown
leather straps. Colour is conveyed on canvas,
in connections, in the bend the brush makes
to blend, in the waves the stars twist
into that night sky, in the lines of letters
to brothers who know us to be better
than the light sometimes allows.
He was a captive to the colour,
a captive to the canvas, to the voices
dark and distant, cut it off and the voices
still come a calling. Capture colour
before they caption you as crazy.

     

All words and paintings by Damien B. Donnelly

34th poem for National Poetry Writing Month

GOLDEN HAZE

 
Slow comes the morning,
eyes still dazzled by the delicate stars
now off trailing dust across the universe
as if plotting tracks to tempt us
further than the stubborn stance
of our single spotlights
and I wonder how far you got
as I sit here, in the silence
of this slowly waking morning light
casting shadows on the single form
in this too big room with no door
large enough to climb through.
We considered setting sails
on cotton clouds once, long ago,
in a corner of this concrete jungle,
a single streetlamp casting courage
onto our concerns of cutting free
like a jazz break from the base,
of burning our own trails of glorious starlight
across the deafening daylight.
I am breath that still can bleed now,
here now, far from that corner we once
we painted dreams on, trying to force
the foot to slow the speed of this time burning
while you; already taken to the dust,
now a speckled starlight
cutting your own groove
into an orbit I cannot observe
while tossing remembrances
down from the night sky
that fall and flitter
above the dizzying distraction
of this golden haze of mourning light,
still coming on slow.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

17th poem for National Poetry Writing Month

FOR A WHILE, TO DREAM

 

I of soft nights dream
above a sea of harpsichords,
where clouds are cooling caramel
and the stars set alight with the scent
of a pristine perfume deemed delectable.

I of soft nights dream
neath a curve of cloistered courtyards,
drunk on desires dawn will deliver
as dusk dressed Diana sets to slip
my careless catastrophes far upriver.

I of soft nights dream
on a bed of chamomile seats
where leaves lean in to comfort from cold
and fine floret rays of petals white
dance around the apple scented hearts of gold.

I of soft night dream
through this climate’s current chaos
of laughter lines beneath sweet thy smile,
of caress, kiss and chorus of choir
and the comfort that comes to call for a while.

I, of soft nights, dream…

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Inspiration for today’s poem must be given to Nigel Cowburn from Growplan; https://growplan.wordpress.com/. His wife Liz from Exploring Colour; https://exploringcolour.wordpress.com/ told me last week that his response to my poem Solo Sail was that it reminded him of harpsichords, chamomile seats and cloistered courtyards! I couldn’t let those images be passed up on. Thank you Nigel.

FALLING THROUGH SPACE

 

 

Ghost clouds gather

over an ice-cold ocean of marble

we cannot break through.

Maybe there is something deeper

within its depths

that we have missed.

 

All breath is naked.

Movement has been muffed.

The air rigid.

Nothing left to cover up.

 

I blush under your absence

or do I blush

before the cold truth;

this is it, we are alone,

we will end one day.

All we have failed to learn

will fall through space

like stars,

burnt out

before they’d even begun.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

JOURNEYS, PART 13, CONFESSIONS OF THE STARS

This poem was originally a part of my Joni Mitchell series from two years ago but it felt appropriate to be a part of this series of Journeys…

I have been courted
by counts and clowns,
too costly to count,
too 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 photographs by Damien B. Donnelly