Jaci Lawson - art quilter, pattern designer, poet, songwriter
backriverbags.com

Poetry is not for everyone....I get it,

but it inspires me to quilt....

Unnatural Compost

It is not as quiet as death.

There are the faint, papery whisperings

  of dry bones

And occasionally from deep beneath

The distant rumbling of an old motor

As if a switch were tapped and some life

  remains within.

Unsettled and not yet absorbed

Into the silence of discarded belongings.

The Dance Teacher

She doesn’t care that her butt

  looks big, and it is big...

Ginormous even.

She sticks it out, stretches further,

  as far as she can,

And then, it’s moving,

Like a mountainside,

   an avalanche,

And hey now! hey now,

-          You want to  look away -

But the weight of it is too much,

And it’s all moving.

And then, for a second, it seems

Suspended

And it shifts, just slightly

   to the left,

And you can see the shape

  of the dance,

The movement, the steps.

The body is still there,

But it’s the rhythm of the thing

   that pulls the eye now,

Still there, underneath.

And unselfconscious as a cat,

   she writhes,

The shape of it lithe and sinuous.

These steps perfected when

    the body was fluid

Still pulling the dance, 

    and she remembers,

-          Blithe and large – she remembers,

And hey nonny,

She remembers, hey nonny, nonny.

White Island

Cradle me within your tidal song

You God of ocean, surf and sand.

Bind me with string of wing and wind,

to this ungentle, stony shore.

You God of currents, rhythm, and water,

softly breaking upon my hand.

Good friends are like an old quilt: the more you have been through together, the more precious they become.