MAKING ART
So many love poems swim in my head
each rippling with silver skin
under a moon that can only sing light.
When I touch you like this
700 verses are written and lost.
Then we make love
in the aftermath of the city where once
we constructed incredible architecture,
sculptures, paintings, frescos and gardens.
I sift through dusty rocks,
an archeologist looking
for just one surface
to write a love poem on.
J.P. Dancing Bear
BECAUSE COLTRANE
It's a glass of white wine these days
not scotch and smoke in a lounge
the way I used to enjoy jazz.
It's a cd player and afternoon light
with Coltrane playing a tune
that still touches the ghosts I carry.
In his saxophone are empty spaces,
he made just for spirits to cry in
just for me to listen.
J.P. Dancing Bear
