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




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

WINTER 2018, Scribe Base Online Magazine

Winter 2018

So honored to be part of the Winter 2018 Scribe Base online magazine with my poem Snow Falling and overjoyed to be sharing the pages with poetry and artwork from the Uber talented Kerfe from

Drop over to Scribe Base and download the issue here:

Thank you to Scribe Base for this opportunity and congratulations to all the artists involved (especially Kerfe!)


Winter’s withering winds

rustle through berry’s blossom

in the gentle dawn, falling

on these days of the daffodil.

I walk by wild water

in a world wild of will.

Bloom beneath spring

summer; a blanket beautiful,

seasons are cycles,

sweet that song from seed to stone.

All words by Damien B. Donnelly influenced by the lunchtime magnetic poetry oracle

SLEEPING SEEDS, day 18 of A Month with Yeats


Day 18 of Jane Dougherty’s A Month With Yeats Challenge and today’s quote is: ‘The dews drop slowly and dreams gather’ —W.B. Yeats

Jane’s blog is:

My poem is called: SLEEPING SEEDS


We are seeds in nesting

spread out over soil now slumbering,

still dreaming in the gentle light,

now resting under winter’s plight.

We are seeds in nesting

seeking solace from this winter solstice

under blade now balancing

the dancing dew. Seeds in nesting,

waiting to come through.


all words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly



Trees tremble

in winter’s clutch,

hardening soil

hardens hearts,

frost will follow

till spring’s breath

beckons icicles

to gently weep.


All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Inspired by a twitter poetry prompt from #WrittenRiver



Time waits for
shimmering snows
to melt into memory
like kept kisses
from lost lips.

Time waits
for saturated skies
to seek sustenance
in blushing blues
since stolen
by frantic frost
and fragile freeze
like drawers deserted
of his clothes
and her shoes

as the wind whips
the chasm carelessly.

Time waits
on the sidelines
for shades of spring
to slip over shrubs,
like seductions over skin,

now stilted,
now submerged,
now surrendered to silence,

now frozen in frame
as if posed for a painting
or preparing for purification.

Breath paused
in place of still air

still water

still winter

still single

but life is lissome underfoot.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available at Soundcloud:






through time,
through time
that can never be tempered,
through twisting trees and projected paths,
projecting thoughts yet to be pondered,
through mornings unfolding
while seasons fall to winter
and wither for a while all around me,
crisp carpets crinkle
with what was once light and leafy
but are now scattered sprinkles
of seasons shadows,
like thoughts once tasted
now toppled from the tongue
slipping underfoot;
from roots they rise only to return
as I break the silence
of early morning,
air crisp and clear,
cutting through motions of stillness
colours caught on careful carpets,
rust reigns regal
as orange opens into opulence,
opens into fragrance,
revels in its own resilience,
between the trunks,
below the benches
that have seen more time than I can wait for, than I can capture;
captured kisses,
paused breaths,
hands held,
all now scenes and scents seeping into the seated silence.
Running through forests,
all falling into that perfect promise
of pause and poise
all still while the earth turns, beauty below our feet

while we rage above it.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available at Soundcloud:





And the black crow comes calling…

and summer is falling,
has burnt in blushing breaths before us,
before worshiped walls and rushing rivers,
as if it’s taken to tombs or swept below waters
raging in the ruins, sunken into shade,
shadows slip winter’s wings over sunshine,
colour hiding, as if hibernating,
climbing tall towers till showers pass.

Light is waning as if washed away
from where we bathed yesterday,
like dreams that dissolve at daybreak,
as if the world isn’t capable,
as if hope isn’t sustainable;

sweep in, stir up, swoop out, leaving us wishing, waiting, wanting.

And the black crow spreads its wings
as autumn stirs and winter sings
in shallow pools on sidewalks,
in river beds where torrents stalk.

And the black crow crashes down on the storm,
all light now shadow, all colour now fading,
all freckles now a flicker of what once was,
all changed in the flutter of a wing.

Come has the crow and we cower from its cawing.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud: