Monthly Archives: March 2016

198: Lighthouse

lighthouse JasonGillman MF

Beaming out, no bushel to hide under here, the naked bulb streaming your light into the darkness of tumbling waves and crashing blackness. Breakers splashing caught in the brightness for an instant, like onyx or flint, cracked and crenelated edges gleaming. And so alone, lone you stand, and sometimes do you wonder if the pay is worth it? And you close your eyes and remember the saturating, drowning hubbub of the city, and realise it is you who has been saved, sat tight in your ivory tower, hoping fervently no shipwrecked prince will come to rescue you.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

197: Tower

tower Plume MF

Reaching so far, beyond sight, into blinding clouds, and did you think of the ending before you began? No, for the common parlance meant there were no barriers to your thoughtless dreaming and no time to consider consequences. And thank God, then, that he broke up the party and framed new tongues so that splitting the atom at the centre of everything and deciding that I AM was NO MORE might take long enough to let mercy and truth unfold in our hearts.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

 

 

196: Park

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Oasis filled with the lain down palm branches of hosanna honking geese and Victorian trees, how thankful we are that you stand rooted here in the middle of town. An island in the traffic, a soft green place in the midst of all the busy-ness, throwing down the gauntlet of stillness, challenging the furore of that must-ing, to do list, A to B and back again that rules our frantic lives. Benches to ponder on. Lakes to cry into. Bracing winds to close our eyes to and then face. Trees to trace with tender fingers, the bark reflecting our creased and cracking skin, telling us we are okay, that we are meant to have folds, and that yes, the ducks are laughing at us and at life, and we can join them if we can still remember how.

 

© Photo and text Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

195: Garden

SAMSUNG DIGITAL CAMERAGardens dotted along the line of your life are oases for us too. Where you placed us, and walked in the cool of evening, naming us and fashioning the first Designer clothes. Where your forehead oozed bitter blood, and you longed to sink deep into olive roots. Where you prayed and we slept. Where your death began with a kiss in the scented night air. Where you rested for a time and then awaited angelic hands to roll the millstone from around your neck, our sin borne and removed. And where you smiled at Mary and spoke her name and cartwheeled her heart and ours.

 

© Photo and text Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

 

 

194: Rolling Stone

194 hotblack MF rolling stone

Not by the gentle hand or tears of Mary, but by hands bronzed and timeless, the rock is rolled. This new wheeled invention is hard to grasp, the movement of heaven’s cogs purposeful and interlinked with plans hardwired into the very fabric of time. God’s well-oiled machinery releases the new wine, and out it flows, music of the spheres, trumpets muted by the world’s deafness nevertheless heralding the rebirth of the divine, with ten fingers and ten toes and the gaping wounds of having already, at so tender an age, made all well.

Mistaking the greater miracle for the gardener, we miss it, and stare, open-mouthed at heaviness made light, a strange emptiness, and notice only the absence of moss.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

 

193: Tomb

192 tomb SerendipityMuse MF

Laid out cold, frankincense rising. Your spirit soars downwards through the stone manger, and the fall is into the arms of an unseen victory. The echo of it rises and fills the empty chamber, music to heal the world when it is set free. For now, your swaddled form sleeps and far away you wake, embracing death as you did life, in all its fullness.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

192: Place of Skulls

192 golgotha edouardo MF

Three prongs of a wooden pitchfork await us then, after the long and bloody climb that births a new pilgrimage. Flesh already shredded, hanging limp, needing lifting. A mock rising, a thorny gehenna, human refuse disposed of along with God’s golden boy. No longer any separation between the holy of holies and the thieving murderers, the wheat and the tares burn together, and the incense that rises opens the gates of heaven and hell, and all is let loose, so that even the moon burns and the sun melts and the curtain is unseamed.

Everything falls apart here, and the unexpectedness of its totality catches the enemy unawares, open mouthed, jaw in another dimension. All history transfixed by this pivot of pained perfection, in which everything is held together, in this eternal, beautiful, brokenness.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

 

191: Restaurant

191 restaurant FotoRC Mf

Clean-footed you arrive for the feast with all your mates, even the quiet one who smiles too much, and eat your fill, the specialness of the occasion dulled a little by a strange atmosphere rising from the bitter herbs that you cannot quite put your finger on – or dip your bread in – the metallic tang of silver clinking a short way away. And the traditional blessings seem a little more vibrant somehow, though all dulled by the wine you each lean this way and that, up against it. And the new words rankle, even as they spark with power, and then you start to leave one by one, heading for the fresh air in the garden, where the night air zinging with olives may waken you, or send you skulking into the shadows. Behind you, under the table, thirteen lots of breadcrumbs mingle with the dust.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

 

190: Cottage

190 cottage GaborfromHungary MF

Thick old, solid stone, grey as Father Time’s beard, topped with a thatched short back and sides. Square leaded windows look yonder, and see the haywain stalled after the heavy rains. Smoke rises, but carefully, through the tall stovepipe hat up into the English sky: grey, blue, or patched white with lonely clouds, never quite able to make up its mind.

A chocolate box mirage of domestic bliss, cosy family corners, evening Scrabble and the smell of slow cooking casserole on the range. This remains a place of tangled memories, as most small spaces are, home bitter-sweet home, a hearth around a roaring fire, but the sound of the belt still echoing on dismal Sunday afternoons, beyond the reach of the church bells.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

189: Gallery

189 Gallery photojock MF

Tucked away treasures, walls dripping with gems in slow oil and running in watercolour. Tints mixed with time and talent, hidden under this bushel. Find us then, and carry us home, gaze on our given glory. But do not keep us under wraps, gathering no dust in your collection box, pinned like butterflies, paralyzed by formaldehyde frames, never to breathe the free air again. For to live we must dazzle you with the subtle play of motes in the sunlight bouncing off our surfaces, moonwalking in the craters of creation, and like you, we must sing the songs we were given.

 

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com