BOOKENDS; TO BE ABLE TO PERCEIVE THE SUGGESTION OF EVENTUAL ADAPTION

 

Even on wrong turns, detours; damp and derailed,
along red lines I knew would rattle,
sojourns into subterranean thoughts
of finding forever in a place that only held a past

there was still a steady stream of perception,
a suggestion of adaption
worn into walls that never would.

The tunnels were only ever to be temporary.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly.

This month is about looking into the shadow to find the light. I first moved to Paris at 22, left at 24 and returned at 40 thinking it would be last stop, rest, relax. But it turned out to be just another tunnel along this track of life. Next stop… Ireland; Boy Returns as Man.

COTTON CANDY

 

Clouds come,
cover, congregate,
create contours
out of what was once
just colourless cotton candy
to catch us unaware
as we swim through
each other’s current,
currently without caution
and I wonder if we are
no more than clouds;
coming together,
creating colours
in between the shadows
before we fall too heavy,
too saturated, too needy
and comes the rain

pouring from the corners
of our eyes.

Clouds come, clouds go.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

This is a repost for a week of looking at clouds

COULD NOT HAVE BEEN MORE, I CAME TO THE CITY

 

We held hands over hearts
housed in other folds, ink
had tipped another name
into your flesh as we fell
into holds, harbouring no more
than musing moments, the south
going north for something different,
something foreign, someone fresh,
perhaps that was all we ever were;

a diversion from all that was defined,
from all that was assured. I was never
going to be anything more than something
to adorn an ordinary day in a city far away,
I would never be ink penned in permanent,
signed in the shade of your skin where
sorrow had somehow settled into shadow,
we were too thin to be anything more
than temporary, a painting the artist
considered too crude to be continued,
too confrontational to be anything more
than crass. We were hearts folded
into the hands of other houses, however
hopeless, however harmless, however much
we kissed and cavorted, teased and
twisted, we were branches bound
to other roots, ties are eternal to the trunk;
foolish is the fragile foliage that always falls.

Time turns tides, suns set,
touch is only temporary,
a kiss can be enough to curse.

I hear you, in the wind, at times, messages
that come calling from places I cannot picture,
from sheets I have never set my skin to,
from sweltering stones I will never step upon,
whispers of what once was, a wish
for something that was momentary
to have meant something more monumental.
But not every harbour hides hope, not every
hope is enough to hold a heart. We were
brushes, tipped with colours that weren’t
compatible, merely complimentary enough
to court a spark in a corner where comfort
felt a little less cold for a while. You called me
beautiful, at midnight, on a Monday
and I called you mine neath the gaze of your eyes
and we laughed our way through all that was truth
and all that lingered on the other side of our lies.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B . Donnelly

From a poetry series inspired by the albums of Joni Mitchell.

FRIENDS FOR A SEASON

 

They were just girls in a stifling city,
each but a slip of the seasons,
baring a hope for what they might see
and running for different reasons.

Jenny was winter and already withered
and looking for comfort from the cold,
she was journey and distance all rolled into one
and the secrets she stored had never been told.

Mary was springtime and fragile under foot
yet thoughts took root in her head,
she was innocence dressed in a short mini skirt,
a fledgling of faith, a seedling to be fed.

Sarah was stuck in a summer since parted
always looking for what she had lost,
as illusive as tides that trickle through time,
she sunk beneath skin now frozen from the cost.

Together they lived and together they fought
for a season on the old river lane,
but when fall came calling all connection unraveled
and the three girls parted with their bags still full of pain.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

ON THE SHEETS

 

And you
were gone
and we,
and you
and I
were off
and running
in different
directions,
in search of
subsequent
distractions

and you
were gone,
the day
unfolding
and duties
reasoning
chores into
realities
far from
the comfort
of beds
where bodies
were bare,
where tongues
touched thighs,
trembling,

where fingers
found flesh,
feverish,
where lips
licked
the lies
we tell
each other
that time
will last

and you
were gone
and I was
empty,
had been
emptied,
la petite mort,
unburdened,
lightened
by all that passed
in the passion
and parted
with the dawn
breaking,
with your sweet
sweat still
on my sheets.

All Words and Ink Drawing by Damien B. Donnelly