Moonsnails. Painting by Reni Moriarity

Moonsnails

Moonsnails curl
in on themselves
like women sleeping,
soft rounded shapes
in grey-blue night.
Moondrops fallen
upon quicksilver sand,
bared by La Bella Luna
and low, curving tide.

The Seer's Bowl...a sestina form

Lifting silver ewer, arms pale and bare,

she stands at the Seer's Bowl
to pour clear singing liquid,
her back bending,
cool and steady gaze
in her face's reflection.

Another day for temple reflection,
seekers who come to bare
souls within her gaze,
pray to wash them clean at her bowl,
heads quietly bending
to rippling liquid.

Thoughts become liquid
given time for reflection,
perception willingly bending;
beauty in the bare
frosted glass bowl
that cools and soothes the gaze.

Whose eyes in the gaze
multiplied by waves of liquid
in her tidal bowl?
Known for more than reflection;
a future laid bare,
light and time bending.

She whispers the question bending
to meet each pilgrim's gaze.
Will you strip bare
and fall liquid
through your future reflection,
forever in this bowl?

Some dive into the bowl,
all future will bending
to one moment's reflection,
hypnotized gaze
in near-frozen liquid;
life blue and mystery bare.

I would bare my intent unbound in a bowl.
I wish the future liquid and choices bending,
the gaze of fate in hindsight reflection.

Never Call Yourself A Poet

Never call yourself a poet
just write like you believe
and keep it to yourself---
the knowin'...not the poem.

Never call yourself a Godly man
just understand and lead with
quiet, kind example. Hold close your
counsel when you've not been asked.

Never call yourself righteous
just find True-North on that
carried-within compass and be prepared
to take the high road, the long way.

Never call yourself your
religion as a trump-card play
just judge less and let
forgiveness set everyone free.

Never call yourself humble
just disappear all but ears
and love for one another.

Never call yourself a poet
just write like you believe.

Numerology Explained

One for the one
stepping forward,
two for who you meet
upon the road,
three to see a balance
of heart mind and spirit,
four for even
cornerstones to load.

Five's alive in every
different direction,
six are heels that click
one back to home,
seven questions beckon
one to ask within,
eight is what it takes
to flesh the bone.

Nine as a line defines
our understanding,
nine's the sign
this cycle is complete,
ten is zen,
it's one and it's nothing,
ten and then
it's gather, rinse, repeat.

Wind Singing in the Cedars

Wind singing

in the cedars

tosses a cloud

up the Sound,

bluer than baby

skies swept clean,

space hidden

behind light.

Wind singing

in the cedars,

time keeps

my pulse.

I spy Buddha

in the bushes,

breathe deep

and become,

wind singing

in the cedars.

My Mouth Is Not My Voice

My mouth is not my voice
but it's the flower of my song
fast being stomped to hell,
made into poison.

Broken teeth like promises,
like dark ragged rocks
waiting to make a wreck of me,
a ghost-ship and Sirens echo.

My mouth is not my voice
but it speaks of my abuse,
my fears of monsters
in the midnight
and monsters behind
dragon light and drill,
waiting to make a wreck of me,
a wraith of tone and crumbling bone.

Twice as many nerves make
my instrument what it is.
Twice.

Mouth small, yes,
deformed, yes,
and beaten in time like
Willie Nelson's sweet
Martin guitar.

It's not how you look,
it's how you play.
I've played almost 54 years
They don't understand,

I'm not ready to stop.
I'm not ready to stop.

My mouth is not my voice
but shredded flower of my song,
roots and bone rotten---
traitors or tortured or
tailored in genes---
all the same, I guess.

I want them gone---
Out damn teeth!
Out damn poison
slowly killing me!

My mouth is not my voice.
My mouth is not my voice.

Days Too Tough

On days too tough
to be human,
I find my inner-feline
and a patch of sunlight,
gold and warm
to curl in.

On days too tough
to be human,
my mind seeks the deep
dark and still waters
for this mermaid
to swim in.

On days too tough
to be human,
I give myself wings
and dream a new sky,
paint a few clouds
while I’m flying.

On days too tough
to be human,
I remember that I’m
nine-tenths divine and forget
the one-tenth, living---
just the days too tough
to be human.

Blue Nude by Picasso