Posts in poetry
On growing

I am a soft creature

not gentle lest we forget

I bite.


I can’t recall

they way my people sound

yet they speak through me,

see through my eyes. 


My breast gave life for

more than 19 moons

through the night

every night. 

And the days are longer.


Light has a way of staying.


It is not for me

to know what comes next.

poetryMegan Jones
This is time-travel

We could be the same.


Some things stay and cause

the sensation of time

to collapse. Whatever it is

doesn’t matter as much as

however it felt to notice, again.

poetry, notesMegan Jones
Late Summer

You’re blooming out of season

like sometimes I do

like whatever I know of you

you know more

you are you

you know your time

take it, teach me.


Speaking the language of

flowers.


Breaking open, like the heart of this

Earth.

poetryMegan Jones
aerial view

I saw the sands

like water ripples


Solid rock like

creases of skin


And where the water flows

green hairs erupt,

protective like my own.



And I saw our stars come out

at night

we’ve made constellations

poetryMegan Jones
Water

Water

that looks solid

holds nothing

but itself

allowing sudden shocks of light

to forms veins of fire

flashes


Water

that looks like land

that looks like something

I could hold

something that could hold me

falling


Water

bending gravity

shaping wind

changing, always.

poetryMegan Jones
When rest comes

What happens when

the thing we let go of

and the thing we want the most

are the same


What happens when

we transmute restriction

into pleasure


What happens when

we do not go to the edge

because there is no edge


When hope and fear are the same


When my bones ache from

not moving


Now comes the morning.

Now we wake from dreams.

poetryMegan Jones
Hold my hand

What flew from your mouth,

stop my mind

fill my body with

your sound,

like an echo of emptiness—

endless.


Love met us,

mid stream struggle,

skin aching from

all this holding it together.


Did you see me

shedding layers

until I had nothing left

to withhold.


Hold my hand.

poetryMegan Jones
The love I give myself

Each budding bright

moment of petals emerging.

We are moments. A great happening.

Star swirl, billow bloom,

soft and then gone.


So soften me and water me and shade me from the heat of these days and wait for me to become.

poetryMegan Jones
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
If you're a tree

If you’re a tree

may I be the wind


to caress your leaves until you tremble

to move and feel all of you move

to not be seen as much as felt by you

and our dancing making you more

beautiful somehow

my intensity bending your constancy


To not be only for each other

but always together through every season.

poetryMegan Jones
Disappointment

There was a time when

All I held between these two hands

Was soft

 

Did life change or

my hands

 

Now all I touch

crumbles like ashes of a once living thing

 

Are we worms,

turning, consuming, changing the world

back to food for some other life,

hiding from the light,

playing our part in the

cycle.

 

Am I like those two eyes,

bitter, longing,

turning you to stone.

 

Am I like the sour boiling,

fermenting which could

in one way become your

intoxication or your sustenance,

and in another

rotting and filling you with

a smell ripe yet close to death.

31poems, poetryMegan Jones
Do I assume

I woke up before the train came

remembering all the moments

or one in particular

when self advocacy was lost on my lips


dripped down my throat to be

swallowed with the years,

the lifetimes of

living in the shadows, silent.


It was there, too,

as a student being told to

face a standing group of

classmates and teachers

and speak from my heart.


Well, I didn’t. I couldn’t.

And what if I had screamed like

I want to now.

Did you? Could you?


Am I used up on

you.


Do I assume you don’t see me,

or

do I never claim myself in front of you.

I am Mixed, poetryMegan Jones