Dancer, Like A Feather

He floats like a feather on air.
She can see him moving --
But she can't see how he dare
Twist and spin like a record grooving.

She cups her fingers free and loose
Around her chin and mouth
And imagines a Canada goose
Returning from further South,

Soaring over her head,
Her hair and ears and brain.
Or else she imagines instead
That her love can make it rain.

But now her attention's arrested;
He has taken custody.
They have yet to be tested,
But they know that nothing is free.

The stop button has turned back
The advance of the music's flow;
The heart began to crack
Inside the stereo

But somehow it goes freestyle,
And somewhere the sound's still playing:
In the off-key hum from behind her smile,
In the tender things he's saying.

Masterpieces

There's music in the poetry
And poetry in music's footsteps.
Words and thoughts and sound mixed up
And color in the mind's recesses.

There's beautiful art in symmetry
And serendipity in new concepts.
Lines and colors and hearts freed up
From nature's law and processes.

The idea in the word is free
And words watch over their own precepts.
The book is the jungle, all jumbled up,
Predatory words stalk consequences.

There's soul and mind and ancestry
And blood and love in great depths
That fill up artists and all end up
In original masterpieces.