Posted on by Glenn Mower

Wakefulness begun

St Therese to chaplain Piere Belliere, in 1897,
a few months before her death at age 24:

I am not dying, I am entering into life.

Wakefulness again begun.
Bleeding free upon glimpsed shards of Luminous trust
that mysteriousness between this and this
sensational suffering mind.

yes

quietly wake to still
this and this constantly re-fining will
re-fuel oneself to wait upon

that still small Voice

that Glittering Jewel

that active, in-active othering choice
to re-ignite in blessed hoped for souls renewal
by sinking-in ankle deep
that Ground grown moist
from leakages of wonton wounds and size nine feet

Now

to stretch those tiny toes deeply deep
into that oozing boiling balm
that heated hopeful weight full ness
immersions that convert alarm to dozing daze and waits to be
replenished and be-calmed in fertile fires and shining mists
of Love and Grace said to exist beyond this and this
pre-occupied pre-possessed never ended re-positioning of grasp and cling to
flesh and bone and time and test.

Posted on by Glenn Mower

Strengthened in Life (version two)

 

Breathe-out

and

stand

the Weh

is at hand

 

 

Breathe-in

rejoice

let

Yah guide

the voice

 

 

for when

 

joy fills

the lungs

 

when

 

breath-full-ness

comes

 

anxieties fall

 

as

 

Love Be-stills all.

 

On the pure:

meditate

 

For the just:

Supplicate

 

Praise both:

 Noble and True

 

Give thanks for:

Virtue

 

With the Loveless:

Consort

 

and with all good report

 

‘Rejoice’

I say twice

 

and Be strengthened in

Life.

 

After Philippians V4: 4-13

Posted on by Glenn Mower

Clogged in incompleteness

If I leave

with my heart singed in fear

I step out on a road of hatred and isolation

I seep into rivers of painful recollection

deeply flowing from my neighbours eyes.

I recoil from your sideways glance

build walls to damn your half seen smile

preferring to congeal to the cut of  cynicism

(as if butter wouldn’t melt

upon this cold steak knife I call life)

I break out to escape from all that is other

rip skin from skin to bleed this heart deeply within

a barren disconnecting groan despite

Light dustings of Love.

When I feed on bloodshed and despair

I ooze in unfairness and choke upon

golden feathers that drift gloriously unseen

until sodden they fall into visions

that clog in my indigestible in-

completeness.

And so,  it seems again to me to be, so

hard to consume new limits to

unstitch my well known know how, to choose to

grow fresh green fruit in verdant gardens

to soothe in kindness when soft skin lacerates upon

time starved rocks. How to be

bolder as older I wish to choose to rock more gently this caged

and fleshy brain, swathe me in silence and wait-full-ness,

so I may gleefully greet these ever changing screams

with smiling forgiveness for

ever and ever and once and for all

to release these urgent calls to push, push, push this

river of shit that surges in my own forgetfulness.

How to keep hold of all the goodness that you foretold

the Wisdom that wades in this wonderful wetness

repleting refreshment with Words of encouragement

to this thing that I call soul.