Tag Archives: Easter

Happy Easter!

I hope you have enjoyed this Lenten journey through my reflections, photos and art. Here we are on the day of Resurrection, and I wish you a very Happy Easter!

God bless you,

Keren x

 

Three Days Later

Three days later small

 

Blood curdles into the grain

Mixes fresh with old

Responding, the sap sings

Though long dead and now discarded

Roughly hewn and unplaned

Yours the only carpenter’s hands

It has ever known

 

Sings then, and rises

Green shoots writhing

With untameable life

Curling, encircling the rusting nails

Budding in split beams

Filling the cracks with flowers

Rising from wooden wounds.

 

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt

Lent 37

donkey from brenda catherine pfa small

You always forfeit your right to be regal, and tinge everything with humour and sweet humility, as though to show us how wrong we are about everything. No Arabian stallion for you, but a small, stocky donkey, one such as your mother rode that fateful night. No gold and lilies, but palm branches, green and thrown down, life ready to be trampled. Every thorn bush you pass reminds you of the crown you will soon wear for us.

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

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

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