Writing

I write to hear myself feeling.

Watch for what comes back

You came floating down to my feet

from the sky it seemed, flowering tree

growing out of a rock

shed you like tears.


I sent you down the river.

You came circling back,

surprising

I didn’t laugh until the second time.


Whatever currents brought us together

it was laughter that sent us

each equally on our way.

You, floating again

to only you know where or to the end.

I, finally at ease watching the

dragonflies dancing

all these leaves and wind making love

the water coming

as if from forever and

heading on that same way.


I go that way too, I come back again.

poetryMegan Jones
To Live

How do you turn pages—

by grabbing
index to edges
slight stick of spit
for grip
for control
through the mechanics of choice

or by reading each sentence
pulling each word out of the page
until the pressure builds
necessitates continuance

or maybe the wind does
all the work
and can it even be called work then

—allowing what may to come
releasing into the chaos of
aliveness.

31poemsMegan Jones
How you are you

There is a science of the heart, is this feeling

pumping, or does the blood move

the heart in rhythm, keeping time,

dancing, maintaining

the logic of

physics, like it’s the same as love. (All facts melt to theory melt

toward questions, better questions, more

words for

–isn’t it too vast and too close to see.

So close one eye, focus or soften or

do nothing at all. You go on anyway.)

And is this constant motion

strength, persistence, or the reaction

made by or for or from

two forces meeting

(like every cell moves by or for or because of

longing. Close the door. Come close.)

And isn’t it more than two,

that mysterious

other in this equation of

Your body.

Your being.

And who is the you.

31poemsMegan Jones
When the green came on

When the green came on, did you notice

How the skin forgets what it was like to be so dry

and the taste of this air forgotten on

how normal it is to be well.

All this time with that ache in my throat,

dry eyes, like I could drink the oceans

thirsty looking for you.

But it comes apart at the turning, suddenly

(though time keeps pace, I just felt the rush like a bend in

reality, what is real anyway. Tell me the truth.)

I can’t remember what it felt like to

be cold to my bones.

Why can’t grief be the same. Or tell me it is,

only the season hasn’t changed yet.

31poemsMegan Jones
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