Writing

I write to hear myself feeling.

What matters most

You are breathing.

Speak to the stream of pain

as you will

in the language of

other universes

other dimensions,

full, velvety voice

softly.

Come out from inside of

or back toward

the dream of living

and add more

colors this time.

This story is unprecedented.

Remember

your breath writes chapters

turns pages

unfolds or unhinges

like you are happening

not an archetype.

You are breathing.

Breathe with me.

31poemsMegan Jones
When does the day turn

3:15am

How many hours of this silence does the city feel. When it is deep, dark, predawn and my eyes shift awake from
the contrast. No car sounds. No bird sounds.
Stillness.
Maybe we are the only ones moving, me and some shadow of a startled awake dreamer in another room, across town.

I wash my face again with oil. I slowly pull the window open more. Turn the blankets down, waiting.

Sounds, waves of story, constant and to be stilled. Fan swirl lightly ticking, night bug songs
echoes.


Echoes of yesterday when it still
feels like today.

 

Silence like an echo of half the light or less.

 

 

4:27am

Half the light or less.

Lesson from the predawn bed:

Or, how to hold a friend,

when I am gone:

 

The birds are singing.

 

Wake up with

that crust covered eyes,

know I’ve cried all night

in my sleep, or, then with

the sinking ache in my chest,

know my heart did beat all night

in my dreams.

 

And actually we are alive.

 

Just a few more hours waiting then

listen for the train when it’s leaving.

You can too. Why is loving

sometimes like that

long off song of silence. Waiting.

Send rest.

It is tomorrow now.

31poemsMegan Jones
Who was watching

Time slips and the air shifts,

bridge the gaps, the abyss

between what you know

and whatever you feel.

 

Trust, like the smell of this flower,

this one,

not memory

not belief

 

Trust, like how you feel

when your eyes close to sleep

at last,

when your teachers come,

disguised as they will

in your conclusions,

 

outside of time

and your eyes finally open.

 

You were made facing your own heart

first.

Megan Jones
In another life

To be a flowing thing

and maybe never bloom

and maybe never kiss the earth

 

Like waves

a bit more than silence fills

these days

 

Like waves

every moment rushes up

to my lips

 

To be a trembling thing

and maybe never know

and maybe never decompose

31poemsMegan Jones
Under blue, for pink

Bands of fabric, light, color

Vibrating

Expanding —filling the horizon,

now the whole sky,

as each street lamp goes out.

 

—filling the darkness with

pink first.

A joy like that, smooth,

turns the darkness

waking me from this dream

into another

 

And I’m crying now

as your color drains to hushed blue

like I want to live with your pink

over me.

Maybe you are wiser

knowing we couldn’t stand

beneath such sensation forever.

 

What then do I do with this sight

now memory,

my sore eyes.

You made Day and who will make Night

31poemsMegan Jones
On Sitting and Relaxation: My Somatic Meditation Practice

Sitting. I’ve been sitting.

Here’s some real talk about my mediation practice:

I’ve been a long time in only beginning to feel relaxation while sitting up. I’ve been many moons flat back on the floor, resting –searching for rest. To now be able to sit more and more is strange and wonderful.

I feel like I’m constantly opening more capacity to embrace how much I hold, how tense I am. And actually feel directly how that gripping, though painful in places, is one way I protect myself and cope with my experience. To tense limits the amount of sensation or focuses sensations in a limited way –it’s a way to withdraw from life and I have been a long time withdrawing. We have inherited so much holding, and we have so much in this life that would feel safer to push away from.

But often to not feel isn’t safer, it is death. So let me be alive while I am, and feel. Let me feel myself here on this damn cushion for 5 or 45 minutes, and finally, maybe relax.

Relaxation, as it comes, opens. Relaxation makes it more possible for me to be aware of all I try to (and do) block, how I hide, and at the same time how truly vast and grounded my being is –this connection runs deep and is so wild to feel.

To be real honest though, it is terrifying to let go. You’d think like, not having a burning pain in my back would be the better alternative but nah that familiar pain is… familiar. I have a way of being controlling, needing to control (myself mostly), so sitting here and letting that go even when I am alone can feel too overwhelming.

But there is such a sweetness and such a flowing warmth and such a connection with the Earth to be experienced. Now I have tasted that sweetness –it’s not just some idea about what meditation does. And now this gets to metabolize and come through directly into how I be and how much choice I can access in daily life. Like, maybe my ego identity can continue to shed layers and maybe I can not be as reactionary, running the same trauma loops over and over.

Maybe, maybe we can be free.

Maybe we are free.

bodywork, notesMegan Jones
Bring Your Silence

 

Bring your silence.

 

Like flames

and your aching hands.

 

Like coals

and your endings.

 

Bring yourself.

We will meet on the shore.

31poemsMegan Jones
Both and more

What comes after

Why watch the sun rise
Why kiss the earth
Why open your mouth
to say anything at all
other than
Yes or No.
You are both.

Like a sweetness
all this rushing
eyes wide
no doubt enough to break
this dream of night
this dream of skin
this dream of saying
Yes or No.

You are more.

31poemsMegan Jones
The Echo


Hearing the first

breath of this expanding

death on repeat,

even the sun will go out.


Still it has a

name written on bed sheets

an endless ending,

closing all the windows.


How is it pronounced.


The word for

exactly how many tears

absorbed in a lifetime,

bone deep soaked through


this pillow

this skin

this life on repeat.


The only one sound left

or is it the echo

31poemsMegan Jones
Miles to think

Comb the earth for

a better way to plant

memories

 

It’s not spring yet

 

Condition the ground with

the oil of skin, water of tears

Cover the black soil.

Who knows what may come up

surprise heat

surprise sun and blue and

branches budding too soon

—so you say, only they know

and make their own time—

 

Dig a hole.

Put yourself inside

and walk away.

 

This path you’ve memorized

is in your mind

and the mind is like a river

flood her and she will be redirected,

move differently and she can

and will change.

 

Go home. Stay.

31poemsMegan Jones
You are like

You are like
when the room fills with
morning’s first light. And I see you.

Your feet, set into the ground
like two portals
and a great mystery flows from you
down into everywhere you stand.

Your legs carry dreams
like twin rivers, sometimes slow
sometimes swift and full of life.

Your hips form a basin
somehow, what a miracle,
containing all of your worth.

Your arms, softly extending
translating language
into touch.

Your face, like a precious stone or
the flame of a candle,
filled with endless depths.

Your neck, the soft landing for
my mouth —as if
a grace exists to turn my kiss
into the sweetening of your voice.

And your heart,
a universe,
the universe
I worship.

31poemsMegan Jones
Held

What came up from the ground

as the day changed

time stretched between

rising and setting

 

the mind, this mind, mine

a dream of color and pattern

touched by your gaze

 

An endlessness, held.

 

It could go on

the dark of sky

the stars that are there then aren’t.

 

I’ll be there then not.

You will go on.

31poemsMegan Jones