Tag Archives: blindness

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

 

 

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176: Mall

175 Mall fidlerjan mf

Spreading mollusc like, arms burgeoning everywhere, it seems, and stores begetting stores. A lichen upon the tarmac, breathing in card payments, breathing out sparkling things to hold our attention a little longer. The smell of newness, factory wrap, stodgy powdery chocolate muffins and coffee that tastes of polystyrene, any real edges dulled smoothly soporific by the muzak. Here and there a blot on the landscape, a piece of grit in your shell of perfection, threatening to dispel the mirage: a mad bag lady, obscenities dripping from her mouth like angry drool; a volunteer rattling a tin, asking for a little attention to be paid to reality; a woman in a lavender hijab, seditiously being different and reminding you that your homogenous waspy whitewashed shops are a sorry sepulchre of sameness.

Your flowers are cut and covered in cellophane, your paintings mass-produced by machinery, and your shine blinds us and your neon tempts us further in. But the grit may yet make pearls in the bright artificiality and the unwashed man carrying his endtimes sandwich board may well one day cause the screen to short-circuit, and for a moment, a hundred thousand shoppers might halt and see the world as it really is, bags dropping like tears from their unclenched hands.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

 

149: Esplanade

esplanade

I sit, hugging my knees on the concrete, the hardness raw with discomfort. I am here but not here, not wanting to be part of the bustle that isobars around me and flows past in a stream of busy-ness. Unusual and so ignored, somebody-else’s problem hunched on the uncaring pavement.

They all pass in oblivious haste, but as I blink open teary eyes, I can just see, over the lip of the overflowing rubbish bins: a pebbled beach, and beyond that, a watery cobalt expanse that reaches to the sky and seeks out all the edges, that rocks back and forth just like I do, sounding like the breath of home.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015