Monthly Archives: September 2015

141: Bee’s Nest

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Sweetness dripping from heavy honey-laden combs. Heavenly hexagons filled with a million dance steps and a billion flights of winged fancy. Paniers loaded with petal-pried plenty, transformed by ancient magicks and the weaving of workers; mage and drone, queen and community. Cellular constructs rivalling model molecules, waxing fully lyrical and loaded, connected and sealed by logic and love. Lion’s belly splayed and empty, yet full of buzzing life. A nutshell riddle cracked wide for germination and the birthing of bees.

 

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

 

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140: Library of Ferns

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Embryos unfurling, stretching to prehistoric patterns. The forest light filtering through your serrations, the unfossilised, fresh-fronded teeth of pure unsullied green. Here is a nursery unravelling then, millions of years of timeless tedium, edenic shapes, untouched touchstone of evolution, perfect pyramids emerging, ancient parchments unrolling to reveal your viriditas vellum, your undeterred, unchanged message. Only the wind rustling the unread pages.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

139: Cavern

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This then is the perfect penetration we are all searching for, the arrow in the eye of the beholder, the way of doubting Thomas’ digit, the plunging into entombed darkness knowing we shall rise again. This enclosed, cloistered warmth, the smooth-walled womb-heart of God, the belly of the whale and the mouth that is on fire for truth. A homing instinct that makes us snuggle into duvets, curl wet sand around our feet, fold our palm over a pebble, run our tongue around our teeth. Here we are wrapped and swaddled, safe and held, in the bosom of our maker, in the silent cell.

 

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

 

138: Rivulet

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Unwanted, I imagine, hidden, invisible transparency, narrow as a ribbon. I flow, fast or slow, it doesn’t matter, no-one will notice. I make it over stones and round corners just because, well, it is either that or turn back on myself and sit pooled in the shadows. So on I go, the pain of inadequacy coiled in a core of current, wrapped round a vortex of sorrow, a limpid lamentation.

Yet it is only when I join my siblings; the others come from mountain high, thawed waters and collected tears shoved downhill; that we become a river and can own the name of our togetherness.

 

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

 

137: Canopy

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A covering of grace; fragrant prayers rising from those standing by, holding their hands out in holy harbouring, cottoned hips brushing gently. A lifting breeze, wafting the satin roof, filling her empty sail with healing winds, carrying cares onwards to the compassionate sunlit gaze of fresh waters. A veil between two worlds, thin as a butterfly wing, is this mantle of intercession, this gossamer woven of well wishes, hanging over her head. Untouchable now, sheltered and sustained, transported into wounded palms, fronds fluttering up and down above her, undulating waves of love.

 

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

136: Tent

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Of meeting, of feasting, a celebration of tabernacles. A place of prayer, a sanctuary for the nomadic Ark of God, for the pegged out, for the stretched and straining of ropes and heartstrings, pulled too tight, the object and the subject of love with taut fingers reaching, far apart. A place to hide an inheritance, to fall down disrobedly drunk and disorderly after the first fruits fermented in the full spectrum of the rainbow, somewhere to woo the beloved, keep sacred chalices or feed angels in disguise.

Somewhere to understand impermanence, movement, displacement, somewhere to escape the fear of knocking, envelopes and officials. Here is freedom perhaps, smoked in a pipe of peace, found in a sweat lodge, a circle of joining outer and inner, staying and going, stillness and dance: all life is here, spiralling out from the centre.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

135: Log Cabin

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Frontier wilderness, a stepping stone into the silent fray, this incongruous structure stands, like interlaced chocolate bars, waiting to melt or be eaten by the grizzly natives. Back garden or pioneer’s prairie poustinia, the point is the placement; on the edge, before the wilds, set in flailing grasses that bang their heads politician-like on the windows, or in trimmed perfect lawn, it does not matter. Only the quiet and the stillness can be heard, and the world fades.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

 

 

134: Bed

134 bed

Sickness prevents all effort, so this bearing body must sink with summoned gratitude into the sheets and let the light fall where it will. An imagined Heidi hayloft with eyes closed, I could be anywhere. A skylight shows me stars in the daytime and Grandfather lays out bread with cheese and apples, a rustling feast down below. But eating comes later, and now it is a quickening softness, a garnering of cellular energy that is needed. I gather grain into the storehouse and let the outlines of my shape melt away.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015