Writing

I write to hear myself feeling.

To Venus

Flowers, round and soft and

running over with

a smell more like a taste, or

 

Have you ever felt a smell?

Let it ring or ripple or wander across

your skin,

part your lips.

And though the fingers you touch with

are themselves endlessly soft, sensitive,

the feeling of

this smell

breaks open everything you thought possible

about softness

about eagerness and the way joy

couldn’t possibly but somehow is

filling each cell of your being.

 

And when my nose left that flower,

the color and quality of light slipping into memory,

the smell

is still with me, even now.

 

That is the kind of beauty that calls me.

That is the kind of beauty

that changes the world.

 

Have you ever felt beauty like that?

poetryMegan Jones
Go

Go, stand in the river where

the water runs clear and swiftly

Where the current is the strongest

and feel it

your own strength.

Bend to let your fingertips be moved

until the rain comes. 

Then walk yourself back home,

How do you stay open like the water

Rooted, not in the earth, but inside every cell of your own being

Held in the air, in the fire.

poetry, notesMegan Jones
When all else fails

When all else fails,

as it does,

go stand in water that moves.

Everything moves.

Be still long enough

and you might feel it.

And if you don’t, know it all feels you waiting.


When in doubt,

as you are,

sit on a seat of stone and

eat strawberries.

Slowly,

lifting the green leafy handle to

hold. Holding your mouth softly

taste whatever you will.

And if you don’t, know that

you are more than your own mouth.


When you are afraid,

look outside yourself

and watch how the small fish swim,

aiming their whole selves.

And where is your whole self,

if not right here.


That is enough.

poetryMegan Jones
Wind behind your heart


There is a wind blowing

behind your heart


The same air

filled these lungs

filled the space between

each movement,

moment, memory.


The same breeze blew

through the hair of your

child, sleeping finally on a bed of earth.


The same air.

This air

spread like wings, rippled like water

around the body of your hate

aimed straight to the heart,

in words just the same as plated lead.


And still the air fills you.

Though your every cell aches

for the end.

This wind, the same one,

fills your heart with blood

and your lungs with life.

poetryMegan Jones
In Orbit

As if you are the sun

and I the earth

Spinning my dance, alone and

around you—

am I pulled in by you

reveling in your light

the way only you make my shadows

My body a turning thing

like the seasons

You a burning star,

brilliant, mystery.


Hold me at arms length like this

for as long as these days turn

I’ll turn.

Until you break your stride and

we turn together.

Megan Jones
I Am Not Standing

Am I a cloud


Is this what air and water

together feel like


Always moving


Do I ever touch the ground

Or only move her face

as the leaves dance

as the branches bend

as the tears swell at sunset.

 

Like rain

I saw rain drops on your bare branches

like stars

points of light

against the dark of your body.


Quiet

like an empty room

moving through

the shifting of your heartbeat.


And my heart is the rain

my body is the empty room.


Are you dreaming.

I am wide awake.

poetryMegan Jones
Open

I barely slept.

All my walls came down,

I brought them down.

I shattered the tower and

used each brick to plant

a forest in the center of

my heart.

 

 

I asked for your hands

and you gave me your heartbeat,

your tears, your skin shedding layers.

 

 

I’ll give away everything, to you,

anything you ask.

My cup is never empty.

poetryMegan Jones
Yes and no

a poem by e.e. cummings

 

i thank You God for most this amazing

day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

 

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

 

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any–lifted from the no
of all nothing–human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

 

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

notesMegan Jones
Flowers fade

When your ripeness fades to

a gauze veil, lace, sun dried—

you are still alive,

even as the flowers fade

fall away from spring.

I have not forgotten.


Can I be Yes

for even this moment.

poetryMegan Jones
What have I swallowed

What have I swallowed.

Your syrupy smile and lines,

lining the halls of my heart.

Don’t post me up.


I am not a cookie. I am not a drink.

I am not a candy.


But even my mother slurred my name,

sweet like medicine

to ease the pain of difference.

What is my name?


Oreo, if you see me one way.

Coffee with creamer, if you touch my skin.

White chocolate, if it’s hard to breathe.


What is my name?

The one my father gave me.


Eat your own words.

Go on they sound sweet —

I feed myself now that I’m grown.


Because I was a child once.

I swallowed two identities and

left my plate empty.

Now I feed my children

with my own blood and bones.

Clear Blood

I never saw myself

in you.

I never looked in the mirror

like I meant it.

I never expected you to

see through me.


Who am I to claim

one line and not the other,

when you see neither.

Who else will.


My blood isn’t mingled,

it is my own.

Can I see that and

expect more of you.

How would you know.