Posted on by Glenn Mower

dust rich Flesh

 

May I live so:

‘if on my dust a tuft of grass were to grow, every blade would tremble with my devotion for thee.’ (from Invocations by Ansari of Herat)

 

Teacher

Teach.

Come towards to hush this

tightly

taught

dissecting

I

this mind of ‘my’

I

mine alone

this owner’s

ship of listing skin

this un-

contained husk of

lack and lust for

being seen as different and

distinct, these

sentient addictive flaws

I

darkly sow

now

deep within this sentimental hold, these

envious skeins, these half-

digested and indulged

unwatched

unwashed

infatuations of the

I

sores that pray to be

left alone to

infect

mindscapes over grown, to

freshly pull at scaffoldings of

braking bone

overwrought, this

 iron will of  ego intent can only glimpse

waverings

of such and such discontent,  for

I

have heard but seldom feel

the real and awesome unsaid

Word

that roots

and shoots

green leaves anew

to sway with ease

while anchored true to

dust

richly fed

deep within

the sacrificial flesh of

You.

Posted on by Glenn Mower

Great chains of Being

Within a recent mindfulness gathering, a sweet young soul said:

‘As I have said before, I have noticed that I spend so much time looking down, full of my own thoughts, anxious, but now I have come to realise that all I need to do is look up and see the immensity of the sky and it all falls back into place and I am somehow calmed.’

And smiling outwardly then, and inwardly in the quiet of now, I touch half awareness’s of ancient wisdom echoing within our most human senses of spiritual drift…..

St Francis (looking at the stars) saying to us ‘if these are the creatures, what must the creator be like?’

Breathing with the writings of Richard Rohr who always Eager To Love expands upon Bonaventure, who riffing in fountains of fullness talks of that flow, that overflow that filling of all things into One positive direction.

Truly being within this Being

Be-hold:
all things in unity
Be-hold all:
contradictions and
coincidences.
let go to
cohere
in here and out to
hear wholesome Heart absorptions
awesome sweet knowings
in place and
Grounded.

clarion call:
clearly to
one and to all
through hard times to
timeless Oneness
and
Love.

Be-calmed with
Sweet Hearted St Clare.
walk
within her
lightness of heart and
firmness of foot
become
strident
and soft to
observe
Cosmic Bright Light.
squint as you
hook to string
Great Chains.
thread
Alpha, Omega and Eco
to systems beyond dots to this I this unstable
ego.

Be free from
fixations
Be
crossed above lines of
sentient living and
re calcification to
re-hang such stories to
Crucified
Wisdom.
pulse in flows of blood staining flesh
broken for dead beats to
Breathe in a-fresh.

If only

we

lonely could

stop running like chickens ruining the rest
fearful of loosing our feather-filled heads.

If ever together we
refilled in grace
yolked well and beyond this darkening place
to find
A Cosmos Grown
now and before

so to rest in-
completeness
ever after deepening in love from Our core.

Notes of thankfulness:

I am, once again immersing within the richness and flow of Richard Rohr’s distillations of Judy Cannato, St Francis, St Clare, Bonaventure and so give heart-felt thanks for and to all the known and unknown ancient and modern spiritual guides that I purposefully and inadvertently absorb plunder and surf within.

Posted on by Glenn Mower

If not me

Oh

wood pigeon you deep throat

cry me to mate.

Neck ballooning with longing

you resonate

above these slates

this mist, that

diesel track to Weston.

The roof top between us

is hiding my presence.

Acting the beat box.

What have you in store for me?

What desires drive your calling

to chimneyed horizons?

How far do you fly

your bare twigs

to nest hopes on

this city bird table.

Prepare to entice me

To your perch

and if not me, then

Who, who, who?

Who, who, who?

Posted on by Glenn Mower

Becoming a true city Liver

 

A few days after an urban retreat with fellow South West of England contemplatives, sensitively and gorgeously lead by Cynthia Borgeualt from The States, I am energised again to become a true Liver in this my city of home. To take hold the call to embody all outer and inner complexities, to have a tenderized heart towards the human folly and wastefulness, the clamour and the one-eyed nature that fills our bellies and minds, our gullies and ground with extraneous clutter and junk.

I feel moved to show love for this Bristol urban sprawl, to unravel my arms and cherish the empty crisp packets and KFC bargain buckets, the smiling faces and stress filled waste skidding by, like plucked feathers upon the city’s deep-fried breath.  Affluent effluence, only curbed by pavement edge and the ever-changing boundaries of road works invisibly labouring to still the revolution of rubber on a million VW diesel engines spewing stationary while raging for space to park their precious egos.

I feel ignited again to awaken the collective throbbing generous Heart, to engage in the wild ride of internal contemplation, to dive right into my chest region, to cough up hope to ingest fumes and to seep out goodness’s that I know already somehow flow in the elusive internal sanctifying citadel within.

To be guided by Eckhart as above and Borgeualt and Rohr and rivers from the now, to embody and allow such goodness to melt in and flow out from this sliver of light, this hidden gate. And yet more, to be

‘washed clean in contrition, heart filled, made ready, in longing made worthy,’ (Julian of Norwich Showings, Chap 39).

to fully embrace the onslaught of daily clinging to city centred passions.

To resolve to evolve.

Indeed, to go further, to microscopically, internally begin again and again to slowly grow the becoming’s of a true new Liver in and within these boundaries called home. To quietly sift  through the Avon sea salting rhythmic crest and flow, to raise up and shift asunder, to ingest in unseen, untold, unhinged Bristolian fashions and in such limited human passion to sail deeper, opening softly internal organs to sing and singe within the fire-fuelled South Westerlies.

To fill up inside-out lifetime surges of wantage, unskilled non-frilled wilful wastage and in respite to welcome all upon such purposeful blood, upon and yes despite such and such longstanding chest breath clots of sadness, to wish release-full-ness, to draw You in.

Yes harvest deep to worrisome spleen and moving on to engrain in layering’s of stomach stretch an ardour of floating bloat that slowly creeps through intestine small and largely bubbling in half-digested forms, to boil down and to Transform all this living gnawing grind into a purse perfectly formed and gently divine, honestly held until at such a time that all is well, and all is well and all re-joins this Earth sublime.

 

‘A (wo)man goes upright and the food of the body is sealed in a purse full fair; and when it is time of necessity, it is opened and sealed again in full honesty.’ (Julian of Norwich, Showings, chap 6).

Posted on by Glenn Mower

Today’s Third Eye

 

‘What I’d really like to do and I think it’d be really cool, if I could do this is ….’

and the white-haired man carrying his waste around his middle, strides past.

Dandily, holding a cigarette at arms waft, he brushes ash theatrically into the overhanging flora and fauna.

Loosely, at an unsteady trot, this drone is followed by a smaller bobble hat big bearded youth, beating out boredom and servitude in his flat foot pavement flop.

 

And in those four strides they are fixed in brain and gone from view.

 

In the next rotation of university square, in the next glimpse, solidity unravels as anorak and fleece unzipped they re-appear, all soft stress melt upon sharing joke, tall lilting laughter and smiles upon some mission complete.

 

And in those four and plenty strides all is released and remade anew.