Posted on by Glenn Mower

Be still and know

I read a call to

 

‘Be still and know that I am God’

and my questions become more than just the One

how for example can I know and still release

my ever unravelling thinking fluff

my cling to this life long enough

to untether and completely trust

like Hildegard de Bingen’s feather

like some non-specific spec of dust

that this heavy clod of earths unease

will float upon the breath of God

by knowing stillness if you please

 

Why for instance would I welcome in the dark again

deeply ingest todays Ton-Glen of tension

blood-shed death and grief

if still breathing out I barely taste

Your luminous love above this stench

of mindless city living waste

 

But really

 

what if it could really be this easy

if i could seamlessly become We

if You could find Yourself in me

and what if all that’s needed for this embrace

is to clear some clutter

to lose my head

and create a heart shaped whole instead

to find You already found

in that place You dwell

within my ground?

Posted on by Glenn Mower

Searching for real peace

Rilke, Rilke, Rilke,

 

I call out to you beyond this dark incarceration

I turn and tap-tap

and tap again towards the warming flow of you

and suddenly these damned thoughts break

and freedom floods from sweating pores

reminding me to bathe once more

within your overflowing Brook of Hours.

Refresh my being

so I become awash

and away within your mystical yearnings

your improvised outpourings

escaping this doubt to drown

yes drowning freely within these

watery wonders beyond my dried

and sorrow filled mind

and within this age-old

re moistening of newness

my vision softens

and reflections haze to

the greyness of these half ingested present days.

 

Breathing beyond this shallow pit

this constricted pleasure chest

I Panther prowl your prose once more;

‘His gaze, going past those bars, has got so misted

with tiredness, it can take in nothing more.

He feels as though a thousand bars existed,

and no more world beyond them than before.’

and smiles rise upon

a frail frame of trembling lips

and eternity missed in this flat packed paced world

of shape shift and guilt

of self-made universes spinning deeper within

the worrisome furrows

of my earth-bound skin.

 

Rilke Rilke Rilke

you offer the pause

the claw back and break

to my urge to perfect an ever exhausting rake

through the tap-tap trappings

and pressured increase of this current time.

Your fossils of sight

still seeing within those collected

and yellowing paper-back pages

stills my frame

my very being that

I might re-find the realness of ages

and taste once again

a peaceful existence beyond

and within

this word filled mind.

Posted on by Glenn Mower

Work, rest and pray

It is a privilege to spend some of my time witnessing others movements towards health. Often it feels so much more than ‘going to work.’

 

Waiting for my client to arrive

 

Oil wet

Side street

Sweats

Rainbows.

 

Puddled

Rain

Poaches

Feathers.

 

Purple skies

Bleach

Seats

Lilac.

 

Air filled

Tumbler

Collecting

Time.

 

Cactus

Grey grit

Re-cycles

Jar.

 

Door jam

Opens

Hope filled

Rest.

 

Listening

When I listen

I dance within words

mine

yours.

 

Jumping

I bump into preconceived rhythms of disturbance and rhyme and yet

imperceptibly

we two tip-toe towards an expansion of time

Towards a place where

connections and oneness with sentence and sentience

force aside

my collator, my narrator, my personal promulgator, until presently,

Presciently,

We three clear the ground in readiness for the re-emergence

of Natural stillness

and Eternal love upon

breezes of ease and lightness within

Our shared

breath.

 

Posted on by Glenn Mower

Meeting my un-metered form

 

 

Mists hide your contours within my tired mind.

Big fists smoothed into soft crossed painter’s palms,  tenderised by formaldehyde and time long gone from indistinctly grey days of soul stoop carcassing, plumbing fingers in the frozenness of Barrett Homes, to solder on with septic chores for family woe that ripped your flesh down to the bone.

Pathetically, I edge away from the now and from late of you.

From the laying still, still laying there, a body sunk within the folds of your first and last light grey suit, avoiding the strangest taste and semblance upon half remembrance of lips too prominent and skin too old to.

Diagonally, upon one knee I squint upon the maleness of my ancestry.

On crow’s feet and disbelief I try to catch a breath, to reach beyond this, dis-ease-full-ness, to casket grip my way towards something even, as yet, cannot and will not be connected even unevenly to heaps of bones and sombre slips of workmanship within this cold un-metered room.

Posted on by Glenn Mower

Upon visiting my dying dad

 

and as I try to catch

my breath my

strapping vigorous Father

hunches over His

hospital bed.

trying to thread the

crotchet blanket over

and over His toes to

offset the freeze from

metallic paint upon

His wired frame.

this current causing

such painful frustration

as body shreds

on pills like torpedoes. He’s

falling in panic He’s gripping

and slipping away from

‘This fucking blanket’

that spreads and travels

while cancers unravel and

spirits shard upon

this washed out N.H.S. wall.

taking the most of

the fullest float of

my weight

less

ness.