Posted on by Glenn Mower

Fissures of man in the night of sense

as I sit

fogginess fumbles and sages profess bland

magnificence upon unclear shafts

that enlighten darkness with out

and offer deliverance within.

untamed, infinite, un-chartered glimpses

and likeness to these reported experiences is all.

 

Right now, unravelling blankly

in this shifting stillness I maroon

upon the plumpest cushion of nothingness

while hunger and thirst ignite the yearn

and burning embers agitate for

peace filled light.

 

thoughts laid down once and again

draft worries for wings

attempting to glide so far beyond

this intricate stack of ego and story and sense and

this senseless fluttering so often immerses

the purest of breath into such whining

defining nasal pretence, and yet.

 

still here I sit,

vainly thrusting trust forward to

pointless bottomless shining pit

to intimate flow so distantly familiar

that shakily, as if to drown in waves

of loveliness I wash the wish

that Love becomes my watering bowl

and I become the fish.

Posted on by Glenn Mower

Wishing well

May foot steps lay light upon this precious earth

May meadows sprout sweetly within wakeful ease

May worries be welcomed with the warmest of smile

To join lip upon lip upon this evening breeze.

May quiet souls save us from amplified stress

May sharp words find stillness and suffering stall

May thoughts upon thoughts upon feelings and sense

Release, to float freely like leaves in the fall.

May conflict disperse upon in-flowing breath

May out-flows of love bathe tired worn torn flesh

May waves of abundance soothe and replete

While rays of vast darkness shine bright in our deep .

Posted on by Glenn Mower

Strengthened by Life

Breathe in and stand

for Yah

is at hand

Breathe out and rejoice

let the Wey

guide your voice

for when

peace fills our hearts

when

breath-full-ness starts

anxieties fall for

Yah Weh

is the all.

On the pure

meditate

for the just

supplicate

praise the

noble and true

give thanks for

virtue

with the loveless

consort

and with all

good report

‘Rejoice’

You say twice

and be

strengthened

by Life.

Posted on by Glenn Mower

My cups running over

 

‘A person who knows that he does not know and who opens himself to the truth without pride in his own personal capacities and without personal ambition may indeed experience the desire for contemplative freedom arising in himself unobserved.’ T. Merton.

He goes on to ask how can the disposition to contemplative freedom, to openness to natural signs of spirituality, imagination,originality and freshness of response to reality, be grown within the current technological world?

This was written in the late 1950’s America when the main technological interloper was the humble TV. How much harder can it be can it be to find ways to this stillness and peacefulness, reflection and restful spaciousness today. To slow down to allow, enable and encourage floods of freedom to wash freshness into our complicated city lives.

 

Bristol

my home town

with your creative verve pulsing

just below the surface

just beyond

the no thanks Big Issues of

metro mayor council cuts  

sofa surf and sleeping rough

to the lying rhythm of

‘affordable living.’

to the laying out of

browned duvets in

darkly disappeared

shop fronts.

 

Bristol

to all that’s becoming

encased within the bright

vacant glare of this new

shabby chic, this

industrial avalanche

of coffee chains

swallowing up

our Barista youth, our

shiny spare cash in

flat white swirls

and naked burgers for the waist

sweet potato chilly chips

warming mid-mornings

with fleeting fullness.

 

And Bristol

what the heck

I’m sure my genes can squeeze to

the double -whip–

chocca-mocha caramel slice

displayed haphazardly beneath

your cake laden

cathedral domed glass frontage.

 

And the smart phone fairy dust still

doesn’t fit the bill.

 

Bristol

in the diesel haze

of this sunny September day

you clutter me, you

raise me unknowingly towards 

a caffeine fuelled

hec-tic-tock, an

unreachable sadness of

non-specific anxiety

threatening to

distance me from coming home

to the glory be

enmeshment of dulled throb

simplicity and peacefulness

falling home within

the abundancy of expanding

flesh and thinning aging brittle bone

discovering Mind Kingdom

release

and on such short wing to

flutter brief and set

contentedly upon

The Silent Heart’s

communal ground.

 

 

Posted on by Glenn Mower

Disconnecting love

My dearest step dad sleeps and barely speaks.

My tired mother has shrunken further into the role of carer.

It is indeed a painful joy to visit them this week.

Only four months ago I was shaken by a decline, that now seems like a time of erudite conversation.

After that visit I wrote the following:

 

Edward and Mrs Jones

He gently asks his wife of 31 years

‘excuse me

but do I have a bed for tonight?’

No longer sharing evening TV

dinner soaps

picking at his food with bare fingers

he smiles at her or

un-certainly launches a friendly face in

that direction.

‘Do you remember who I am?’ asks

my mother

that she, that other sitting

and eating there

all by herself in the distance.

‘Yes, I think I do’

and they return smiles within a

pause of concerned and bemused

eternity.

Looking above his half rim specs

‘I think,’ he says

‘a long time ago

we probably

had sex

together?’

‘Oh good God’

silently with pierced heart my

mother tries to start, to start,

to restart them both.

Showing him a recent

anniversary card upon the table

‘there, there,

there,’ she says

‘look at it then,

it says grandma and dad, step-dad,

father and mum,

see,

31 years gone by,

see, that’s you and

that’s me.’

 

‘Oh yes,’ he says

‘um yes

very nice indeed

um

very pleasant.’

And brushing the embossed lettering

he says,

‘hard with things on it.’

 

‘Yes my love it’s our anniversary

card,’ she says, ‘remember?’

‘Hmmm.’

And after staring into the far

cornicing for another split second of

for ever, he adds

‘excuse me’

placing the card to one side

‘but I must go now,

just

looking for a bed

alright?’

 

‘Yes, ok Ed let’s go do that’

and Mrs Jones stands taller than she

has been all day.

 

‘Come along then my soldier,’

he hears that other person say

‘let’s go wash your face and brush

your teeth hmmm?

before I have to send you on your

way?’

 

‘Yes,’ he says, beaming within her

sing song voice

‘I used to put happy on my…

here,’ he says rubbing bristles and

chin

‘yes put happy

happy, and go out, out’

Eds points to a place beyond joint

pain and yellowed teeth.

‘Are you talking about aftershave my

love?’

‘Yes, happy,’ and reach, reach

reaching to stroke her face

‘happy, on here.’

‘Yes, yes my dear,

I remember that too, but

your breath stinks, so

it’s off to the bathroom

and then beddy-byes for you

hmmm?’

‘hmmm.’