Study hard, be smart.
Weigh the pros and cons of your decisions.
Stand on your own two feet.
Hard work is a key to success.
Dream big.
Love what you love with passion.
When you fall off a horse, get right back on.
Laugh a lot and often…
and you’ll come out on the other side just fine.
Do I have as much of a death wish
as the motorcyclist
weaving weekend traffic,
hair in the wind,
shirt so caught up in the moment
his rib cage is showing,
and he not a care in the world?
Am I embracing life as much
as the motorcyclist
weaving weekend-traffic,
his arms outstretched,
wind in his face,
that loud vroooom of
rebellion and joy,
not a care in the world?
Poem ©2024 Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
He used to choke on Cottonwood seeds,
the sweet smell of wild roses,
strong female voices,
and perceived insults in dreams,
but never on his own bitter words —
that acidic response to
the odd, queer, gaudy, perverse —
probably never on the dry, brittle body of Christ
from whom he now finds absolution
that never requires atonement,
only tithes
and tethers to rank ideas
and pungent, noble hatred.
Poem ©2024 Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
This is my ode to summer
its simmeringness
its swell of sounds
everything astir
swarming
seething
its steamy storms
smoldering
its days s t r e t c h e d
supplemented
by sustained sun
and incidents
of social sustenance
sonorous
and
incessant
until September.
Poem & Photo ©2024 Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
In the earthy space
where he and his crown have fallen
lies a sacred place
of rain-brushed roots,
rough, rocky undersoil,
soft green moss and
a small dry hollow in which
one might curl up
wait out the storm
dream of that first root
extended deep into the
damp and loamy sod
its acorn nut split
wide open, screaming
cap askew, laboring
before a symphony release
of tendrils here and there
here and there
excuse me please
this place where it all began
I touch the underside
stroke my hand across time
one hundred
two hundred
his rings indecipherable
how many years
and storms
and creatures like me
tucked in for solace
and safekeeping
can you leave me here please
and leave me be
to watch the dark clouds
gather and pass?
Poem & Photo ©2024 Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
They will no more notice
the loss of the White Pine Way
than they will the spidery web
of atlas lines
that told you how to get
from here to there.
That sacred knowledge —
our finger touch of distance and time,
the intuitive knowing of how —
as foreign as the waypoint Oak
that stood mid-path,
its forked trunk noting
this way to loop back home or
that way, the path less traveled
that way, where the white pines whispered welcome,
and the weathered veins of the world let go
just long enough for you to hear your breath
and muted footsteps on the soft ground,
where you could disappear
into shade and shadow
and silence…
before the storm
the shearing off of what
we thought we knew for sure,
the deception of always
and certain revealed now
against the stark blue sky.
Poem & Photo ©2024 Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
No one seems to notice the whale doing backflips down the aisle. Small and almost indiscernible from the waves in the bay, maybe it’s the lighting that gives it a forced perspective. Because there, to the east, the sun sits center stage and setting. So while 30 faces bask in the golden glow of stardom, just one looks east at a sideshow not to be missed.
Poem ©2024 Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
Darlin’
I’m gonna plant my flag
with the righteous,
the ones Jesus would host
on a starlit patio
with wine and
fresh loaves of bread,
talk about the good guys,
they’d be his favorites —
his ragtag crew of saints and misfits,
the migrants who shared his path,
the strong sinful woman he loved,
the poor and the afflicted,
the beggars who had no choice.
Forget fear and fallacies,
I’m gonna arm myself
with love and compassion,
unlocked and at the ready,
even for you,
my sweet, misguided, friend
don’t you think
love thy neighbor as thyself
would look good on a t-shirt, too?
Poem ©2024 Jen Payne. Inspired by a t-shirt promoting “guns for good guys.” If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
The coffee here
in this cottage
by the sea
is a meditation
in itself —
never mind
the mechanisms
of convenience
this is hot water
from a kettle,
poured over
rich grounds
gravity and steam
grace and silence
sunrise
simmering
through glass
brewing
patience
Poem ©2024 Jen Payne. Photo of Baloo and Shere Khan, two of the beloved trio BLT (Baloo, Shere Khan, and Leo) from the Noah’s Ark Animal Sanctuary. Click here for the story. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
The carpenter bee
pays little regard
to the clamor
of dogs barking
and boys splashing,
intent on its
discoveries
here
and here
and here
here
and here
and here
no matter the rain
that approaches
on tip toe
across the pond,
no matter the
strange woman watching
from the bridge above
Poem ©2024 Jen Payne. Photo of Baloo and Shere Khan, two of the beloved trio BLT (Baloo, Shere Khan, and Leo) from the Noah’s Ark Animal Sanctuary. Click here for the story. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
A poet and a sculptor
were walking
at Long Point Trail
sometime after midnight,
the moon was dimmed
by evening clouds
so while the bear
definitely looked like a bear,
the two tigers
were harder to discern.
He, the sculptor,
backed away quietly,
tucked himself
inside a cabinet
of curiosities,
emerged apologetically
as Hubbell Gardiner,
and disappeared up
the misty woods road.
She, the poet,
picked up a driftwood stick
and stood her ground,
roared like a lion
until the bear ran for its life,
turned to face the tigers
then knelt down
and offered them tender kisses
and soft gentle strokes
along wicked, wild stripes.
Poem ©2024 Jen Payne. Photo of Baloo and Shere Khan, two of the beloved trio BLT (Baloo, Shere Khan, and Leo) from the Noah’s Ark Animal Sanctuary. Click here for the story. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
I sense her ghost here
on this blustery coast
400 miles east of where she lived
and lies, still, now
Perhaps she came here
with Him, my grandfather
kept his house here, too
in routine obedience
but her haunting is more subtle
more hint than apparition
she’s a shadow at the window
moving white cotton curtains
for a first view of morning,
a creak in the wood plank floors
and a swish of sweeping sand,
the smell of ivory soap
and eucalyptus by the sink
its cold cast iron against my belly
sends a chill as I suddenly
consider a cup of tea
and her early silent pleasures.
Photo and Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
The sun has fired up the moon this morning,
so much there’s steam rising from its Sea of Rain
or so it appears there to the east, above the harbor
between Saturn and Mars — not to forget our place
its ten degrees high, just right of the circlet of Pisces
where Aphrodite and Eros tether together forever
a thunderous moment — for gods and humans alike
all of us illuminated and roaring through space
the birds are well aware and in an uproar
a predawn cacophony of sound and sacrament
a chorus of gulls calls out from the shore,
a crow offers its blessing, the doves in mournful prayer
grieve the night’s quiet before it ends
the day quickly writhing and rising to meet us
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. Photo by Alan Dyer. For more see his website. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
moon stones
round and white
translucent
fearless in their
devotion to tides
the pull of their namesake
reveal all and nothing
in one full breath
of a shimmering wave
their stillness
a talisman
of strength
and awakening
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. Inspired by The Wild Unknown Animal Spirit Deck and Guidebook by Kim Krans. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
Ain’t nothing more Roughneck
than a man who castrates bulls
with a rope he pulls
from the backseat of his pickup,
whose hard gravel laugh
makes you stand taller,
wipe a tear from your eye
and matter of factly
explain yourself
and that goddamn car —
you swear for affect —
fold up the Damsel
with neat corners
for her next distress,
today you’re a Warrior
no more than inconvenienced,
a firm hand on the
blade tucked in your front pocket
and eye on the ironwood stick
you keep in the back seat
for walking
(or wounding, in a pinch).
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. Photo by Ivan Mudruk. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
To my left
the great star sets
while to my right
the full moon rises
in between
nothing but this
odd appendage of land
jut out into the sea
and I think for a moment
that if I stand tall and wide
and step one way
or the other
I might instigate
some universal force
to move them
up
and
down
back
and
forth
at my command
I am Rose on the bow
queen of the world
ancient goddess who
commands the fulcrum
day
and
night
then
and
now
up
and
down
back
and
forth
Photo and Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
The red fox
near Race Point Beach
circles back as if to ask
“are you coming this time?”
We’ve met before,
he and I, here
on this sacred sequence
but I don’t recall him asking
it was more of a tease then
to this serious request
and I consider
for a moment following
through the pitch pine
and winter heath
into the dunes
lie on my back
forever to watch the stars
as whales breach
and moons rise over
my bare white bones
Photo and Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
While watching whales,
wondering:
do they laugh
as they breach,
squeal in delight,
exalt the air
with fins and tails
and tittering,
or is the entirety of joy
contained in the
ooomph! and huzzah!
spouted
for all to see?
Photo by Taylen Lundequam. Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
FOR GREG
How are you a ghost here
when you were often only a conversation
words on a keypad
our ethernet tethers and ideals
someone I barely knew
save for a soft, full kiss on tiptoes
and the perfumed promise
of again and more
on a day that never came
but here, in Truro now,
your ghost whispers daily
of bourbon and dunes
the curve near Longnook
a family I never met
and Cassie at the Lobster Pot
you, even then, a shadow
of what might have been
those air wave words
“whatever she wants”
you told her
paying the price
from two thousand miles away
Photo and Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
Poetry comes
sometimes
in precious drops
hard won from
a tea bag
saved by the sink
folded in foil
for a second cup
at lunch with
saltines and butter —
if rations allowed —
her whole life,
my grandmother’s,
was that spent tea bag,
all of its elixir
steeped for someone else
with none left to spare
for her own self
rationing every bit
so brittle she broke
too early
rare glints of love
and laughter
that peeked out
through the folds
like poetry almost,
or should have been
her sparce, beautiful life
a poem, really,
that not too many
could read
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
They tell October tales about these things, the damages and injuries, the unforeseen consequences when humans think they control beasts.
It’s why we kept them under beds and in closets, in heavy chests with wrought iron keys and secret words.
Everyone knew the rules: what not to open, where not to go after dark, what should never be said out loud, and what to wear on a strand of string around your neck at all times.
Then they evolved. They made themselves small enough to live in pockets. They lost their tails to roam more freely. They learned to talk to us, to answer our questions. They paid attention.
But we did not.
We loved their companionship, the immediacy of their response. We needed to feel connected and important. They made us seem relevant and center stage.
So now we all have a monster. It tells us where to go and what to do. It knows exactly where we are and where we’ve been. Its shorthand directives — the beeps and dings and whoops — lead us around all day, call us back when we go astray. It monitors our heartbeat, our sleep cycles, and just how fast we can run.
If we could think about it, it would be terrifying.
Photo by Roman Odintsov. Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
The Universe is conspiring
conspiring frogs, I tell you
as little zabko considers dragons
the oracle insists on
clearing, cleansing, healing
revealing
the true nature of a spirit
out of balance
in need of water
for energy life breath
in the light of the
frog moon
drink from the cup
she says
put down that heavy load
forgive
rest
release
Inspired by the The Wild Unknown Animal Spirit Deck and Guidebook by Kim Krans and When Women Were Dragons by Kelly Barnhill. Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
drops of Jupiter
9 to 5
total eclipse of the heart
hold on
50 ways to say goodbye
unwritten
it’s all coming back to me now
don’t go breakin’ my heart
any way you want it
I would do anything for love
(but I won’t do that)
don’t stop believing
take me home
bless the broken road
you can feel it in the air tonight
save tonight
believe
I saw the sign
straight up!
all the small things
give it up
I want to break free
a thousand miles
dance the night away
a moment like this!
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
Red is Relief (now)
Racy
Rmmm! Rmmm!
and ROAR
(what a) Rush
this Rocket (ship)
Ridiculous
Radical!
Righteous (dude)
Rejuvenating
and I am
Reborn!
Rebellious
Rambunctious
Rowdy
Risqué?
a Red Car driver
Rock star
Right as Rain
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
Her first husband was a rogue
too young for what she had in mind
but it was high-school sweetheart love
and her parents insisted
in a Roman Catholic sort of way
his too, it was a good investment
that soon included the benchmark 2.0 kids
in a house-and-white-picket-fence world
but he was prone to outrageous fortunes
and accidental accidents
that practically left him speechless
her too, most nights, waiting by the phone
so she gave herself a Divorce for Christmas
and never, ever looked back.
But he did. Retraced his missteps
relived his worst nightmares (and mine)
hit rewind and started over
with a nimble bride the same age
his first wife had been
though a better investment this time
consented not contrived
with two more dividends and
a house on a Dream
where he sometimes smiles
that scoundrel smile
to his reflection in the mirror
a flash of wicked conceit
for an endgame so very well played.
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. Photo from Canva. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
I suspect
the next
I know of you
will be the summary
the
life well spent
synopsis
and I know
it will come
as a shock
that sparks
through me
stays a while
like you did
perhaps
between now
and then
we might meet
embrace
like old friends
but
linger
a long, slow
epilogue
never to be
be printed
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. Photo by Céline. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
Hope is balancing a silk pin
while Faith dances round on top
Vision is blind and searching
and Dreams are at full stop
They used to call on Whimsy
and get her to stir the pot
But she’s bunked down with Sadness
and can’t really help a lot
So they lean into Serenity
and pray with all they’ve got
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. Illustration by Elizabeth Chandler. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
The day is still
in silhouette
its angels
and demons
simplified
to sharp lines
against
the pale sky
hard to take
offense yet
left to
revel in the
chorus
just a while longer
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. Photo by Miriam Espacio. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
Ice Floe has always been my number one pick
a slow hushed push out and away
nothing dramatic
Walk into a cornfield and dissipate, not bad
Witness Protection Program
Bermuda Triangle
Tornado (too much)
Tardis
Wardrobe
Rabbit Hole
Worm Hole
or Alien Abduction!
without the probing questions
More ET or First Contact
Just take me with u
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. Photo by Miriam Espacio. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
You can tell a lot
from a handshake
who has the upperhand, really
decipher the code
and read the room
in one firm
(or not so)
gesture.
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. Photo by Alena Shekhovtcova. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
Poetry
like the maple’s seed
demands fertile ground
but more than that
temperature
and
location, location, location
clear days
and rain
but not too much
then
patience, perhaps
room to put down roots
figure itself out
bide its time
pray it’s not interrupted
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. Photo by Antoni Shkraba. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
When even the cat
knows you’re having a hard time —
it is time to rest.
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. Photo by Antoni Shkraba. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
I’m livin’ on the edge these days
distant cousin twice removed
from almost everything
Twilight zone or
outer limits
or this someplace
where everything in between
— the meat and cheese of the day —
are too much to bear
lettuce pray
I feel crazy, almost,
just enough to be scary
or raise concern
but only if I start talking
and there’s no one to talk to
thankfully, maybe
on the edge of night and day
except the cat
which makes it even madder
I’m considering a nocturnal existence
here on the dark side of the clock
leave the decision making
and negotiating to the day walkers
who don’t burn hot when the sun rises
do the birds only wake to the dawn
or are their insides flaming like mine
wondering what comes next in
these unpredictable days
Pay no mind to that man behind the curtain
he only thinks he controls his days
every day is unpredictable, darling
you’ve just had the blinds ripped off
the rug pulled out from under
your wings clipped
This too shall pass
she thinks with a wicked laugh
and what comes next will, too
so round and round we go
until we, dizzy, die
I feel thin, Bilbo said,
stretched like butter
over too much bread.
I need a holiday.
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. Photo by Antoni Shkraba. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
There was no time
for gratitude
or remembrance
how the bees
loved her in spring,
the blossoms
full of promise
how the Robins
sought refuge in her
abundant branches,
suffered storms
raised families
no time hold
the memory
of her sweet fruit,
consider
its ripeness
one last time
to thank her for
summer shade,
the filigree
of shadows,
the soft
unexpected breezes
nor even to
regard the lichen
and velvety moss
that gathered
in her neglect,
embraced her
unpruned limbs
One hopes
the axman
soothed her,
that the
Jays and Doves
were nearby
comfort
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
It’s a snake and turtle day at the pond
66° and everything seems enchanted
suddenly!
except my winter hips
which long for the agile ease
of the black racer
except my worried brain
that envies the tranquil turtle
and its sunshine meditations
but my ears still hear
know the garter under leaves
understand the ire of the wren
the wingbeats of the heron
my heart still marvels at the
osprey’s enthusiasm
to sing love songs
for yet another season
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
The path
to Wit’s End
starts wide
and unexpected,
beckons you
with promises of
Hope Ahead >>
There are steep hills
built high on
Anticipation
followed by
dark valleys of
Disappointment
that eventually lead to
a narrow rocky path
marked
Just Keep Going >>
eerily dark
day or night,
its brambles making
forward movement
near impossible
its Switchbacks
and Turn-Arounds
keeping you
sufficiently
dizzy enough
not to notice
you’ve arrived
Wit’s End
breathless
heart pounding
Fight or Flight
muscles
glistening
wondering do you
follow
This Way >>
one more time
or jump?
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. Photo by kublizz. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
She is a peculiar cat
full of spice
with an innate
determination
and
confidence
Said “I am here”
the first day
without qualm
and has been
persistent since
I wonder sometimes
how she came to me
what wheel was spun
in the great
Cat Distribution System
that put two and two
together to make
she and me here
at this particular
moment in time
that demands
my own resolve
and fortitude
asks me to lean in hard
like she does, often,
insisting
I belong here too.
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. Photo: Molly helping me write this poem. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
I am most envious
of the cat
sleeping
who knows not
the
long lists
or burdens
besides
the
particular
angle
of the stranded
string
its shadow
enough to
contemplate
for this day.
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. Image: Woman, Cat and String, Will Barnet. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
Or: When a Writing Prompt Takes You to a Battleground
The poet’s
skin soft from age
(perfumed in
Calvados perhaps)
knows the pulse
of waves
beneath her
feels how they
beat within, too
remembers well
the stories
and great heroics
of trust
and love
walks now
a gravely path
to an expanse
of cratered lawn
where ghosts
commune
in whispers
and tears are
only memory
reflected in
the morning rain
where sharp wires
— a final kindness —
keep her safe
from another fall.
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne, recollecting a trip to Pointe du Hoc. Photo: Pointe du Hoc, courtesy of the World War II Foundation. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
Folklore says
the witching hour
arrives between
midnight and four,
but I beg to differ
I will tell you
with no uncertainty
that the devil appears
sometime between
7 and 9
as regular as the sun
in a wild cacophony
of sounds and alerts
hoof beats and
tire beats
engines roaring
bass thumping
Pavlovian dings
for here! no there!
over there!
and here!
Cursed notifications
and incoming calls
and speech bubbles
that
pop! pop! pop!
bang! bang! bang!
Headlines
and Bylines
and Subject Lines
It’s mischief
and madness
and mechanisms
seeping through
the heavens of morning
that only
the most wicked
could fashion
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. IMAGE: Wikicommons. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
some will say the rain
come again some other day —
not spring buds (or me)
Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. IMAGE: 1933, Kawarazaki Kodo, woodcut tulips. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
He uses a word
I should know
should be able to define
provide example,
one of my own even
(poet, my ass)
To be, or not to be
like the woman next to him —
roll up a sleeve
to show my favorite lines
inked in perpetuity
So I make a note
That is the question
But shouldn’t I come equipped
with the tools of my trade?
The rhyme. The reason. The rhythm.
Emily etched on a forearm
I’m nobody.
But am I a poet?
Really?
And what am I making
of this wild and precious life?
Two roads diverged
and I found myself lost
wandered lonely as a cloud
until the word pulled me back
said LOOK ME UP!
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Until you find your way back
full of sound and fury
Poem and photo ©2024, Jen Payne. With thanks to William Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, Mary Oliver, Robert Frost, and William Wordsworth. IMAGE: Still life with skull, candle and book, Paul Cezanne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
April arrives in flames
bright plumes on the horizon
and it
without the benefit of sirens
instead inspires birdsong
and the slow rumble roar
of the long
awakening
so I drop and roll
in the field
press my ear against the ground
to hear the millions yield
their sound
the bulb and bird and beetle
how we go
too
from smoke to red hot fire
the days from start to end
burning holes
through quiet
Poem and photo ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
The trees are singing
incantations
like magic,
and I think
maybe the swan
is in need of some
she seems
too still for spring
this morning,
adrift along a
newformed current
of rainy days
but then
the bird king
resplendent
in his long
silver robes
soars slowly
in a wide arch
and at once
she rises
sees the world
through
morning eyes
to her savior
nods her regard
while above
the marsh hawk
his catch on display
banks on
our community
and calls it
righteous
Poem and photo ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
Two mischievous ones
stripes flared in moonlight
didn’t flinch (or flex)
at the warrior posed
above them
one two three four five six
they intent to forage
just before dawn
and she to breathe
the star-lit moment
deeply
hold the silence for
one two three four five six
their leaf scrratching
and indecipherable giggles
were her guru’s chant
hiding mythology
and god
one two three four five six
thank god
for she had no fight left
just breath
and stars
and the
quiet morning pause
punctuated
momentarily
by skunks
one two three four five six
©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
Barefoot and moon-lit
she sneaks to the shed
to consider the
bucket of bones
she keeps on a shelf
picks at the
small white moments
she never thinks to bury
only to hold them again
turn them over
in her hand
press her thumb
into their curves
and brittle endings
remember sometimes
the soft flesh
that held them together once,
their silken wings of flight
oh how they soared!
When she is quiet enough
she hears them sing
whisper secrets
and stories
she saves in her pocket
shimmering
burning to be told
Photo by Jonathan Read, WildCraftsUK. ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift. .
These stories —
stories of men and women —
are familiar,
their expectations,
disappointments,
betrayals.
But my empathy
and anguish
are subdued now,
lingering in corners
and far enough
across the room
to not matter
all too much
in any immediate sense,
like the urge to smoke
that rises sometimes
with coffee or
at 3am with cold, cold stars.
And I swear I will never lie
to myself again
like that:
baking hope in cakes
or diamond rings
or affairs with
unintended consequences.
I will bide my time to 80
(god willing)
inhale the old habit
as promised,
but never again
will I lie in wait
for those stories —
stories of men and women —
I used to tell myself.
©2024, Jen Payne. Written after reading So Late in the Day by Claire Keegan. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift. .
Listening to The Piano Guys in My Car
As if by maestro’s cue,
five black ducks dove
bold into the current
as Beethoven’s
Five Secrets
took off in flight,
its eddies of sound
mirrored in the
rain-raged waters,
music and
a murmuring
of shore birds
swirled around
the sun’s
reflection,
carried with them
their quiet riddles
in ripples
and whorls,
while the familiar
and foreign
danced in the Sound
of shimmering secrets.
©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift. .
See here, this sweep of time
that swings in swift strokes
from what was to what is
what was to what is
overlap so seamlessly
sometimes
I see it all
simultaneous
joy leaves and smiles fade,
trees fell from storms,
and silly giggles
echo off the shadows
of a ghost
who seems taller now
than the tree itself
as I skirt the shore
skips stones
in a high swell
so intent
to take what was
leave what is
what was to what is
what was to what is
what was to what is
©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift. .
I was trapped in a house of the past
where staircases appeared
twisting to nowhere
and rooms were puzzle games,
where I walked through
old conversations
and emerged in the present,
my foreign reflection
in a hall of faceless mirrors,
the scenes of people
I used to know
still in their old spaces
were so real I could touch
the pencil he held in his hand
at the desk he used to write from
but only she
only she
was my only constant
broadcasting into rooms
to show me the way
with an urgent regard
so as not to get trapped there
hurried me to dress
and gather my things
as if the house were on fire
as if my insistence to stay
would alter a future
I still have no heart to imagine.
Photo by Pawek on Pexels. Poem ©2024, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift. .
Across town, the sky was falling.
While I settled in
for the long, windy night,
he laid beneath fallen trees —
a trauma compounded.
Everywhere, things were breaking —
foundations and forests —
and I wonder sometimes
if that was the moment
we broke as well.
The moment
all the cracks and shakes
finally finally
split us apart.
These days,
in the forest where we
first and often met,
I can see our ruins —
mark the day of our beginning,
the warped rings of memory.
and in the wreckage of canopy,
our final silent fall.
Photo & Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift. .
I try to tell from the walk,
the shadow, the stature,
the bow in the legs
is it him?
wonder what we would say
after all this time
I should hate him,
put the painful slides
at the front of the reel
instead I pull out the happy ones,
shine a light on what surfaces
of those feelings long ago,
of all that seemed possible
and even though I know better
now
I slow down
stare and stare and stare
consider the recognition
mine and his
a weird and inappropriate reunion
in a parking lot at Christmas,
Solstice Bells on the CD in my car
and he smiles
like he still owns me
joyful and cruel
all at once
so I speed up
before our paths even cross.
Photo & Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift. .
The deer path
has been excavated
from its intimate
trail of mossy secrets
to a course hewn
five feet wide
accommodating us, of course,
but not the slow poetry
of listening
here, where the
January thaws laid bare
a Caretaker’s House
like Brigadoon, brief
or here, where in the
sunrise silence
one could hear
the Lady Ferns
unfurl in fanfare
nor here, where
small Spring Beauties
gathered in gossip beneath
the wise old Oak
who bears witness now
only to the wreckage,
the red blaze nailed deep
without apology.
Photo & Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift. .
I am so tired of my humanity
of our vulgarities and violence
we never learn
or we do and forget
forget in the name of
[insert team logo here]
then we crown excellence
worship one above the other
but it’s not excellence if it’s
bestowed and not earned
if it’s dishonorable
or dishonest
He says he loves her
because she’s amazing,
but she is also a sinner
— aren’t we all —
according to that book
oh but which book?
and which god?
and which party?
and which plight?
Nevermind
Forget the hypocrisies
and contradictions
just go shopping —
Shop Shop Shop
Buy Buy Buy
More More More
to fill these gaping holes
in our souls
worship the profits
Oh holy night
but we kill the stars
and everything they manifest
a battle of wills
and wars
and words
us, them, he, she, they
big end, small end, dead end
Dead End
all of us
with no surgical procedure
to repair the despair
no subscription
prescription
no mantra
talisman
ritual
get down on your knees
devotion
we just spin spin spin
round and round
and round and round
same song, different day
different year
different decade
different century
and the beat goes on
La-de-da-de-da
Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift. IMAGE: This true-color image shows North and South America as they would appear from space 35,000 km (22,000 miles) above the Earth. The image is a combination of data from two satellites. The Moderate Resolution Imaging Spectroradiometer (MODIS) instrument aboard NASA’s Terra satellite collected the land surface data over 16 days, while NOAA’s Geostationary Operational Environmental Satellite (GOES) produced a snapshot of the Earth’s clouds. October 2000, NASA.
Trespass
This is no place for a cricket
I said out loud
to him and to nobody,
then lifted him gently
into the confines of
an old coffee cup,
belly of a whale
for all he knows of
Columbia and Sumatra,
but they sing there
like he does,
and who’s to say
his are not folklore
themselves —
long-told stories
passed down
late at night,
to our ear
cacophony,
to theirs
a thousand tales
a million years
the universe
in the short patch of grass
now, there, and safe,
as safe as Jonah
I pray silently
forgive us our trespasses
as I walk back to my car
parked askew
in the crowded lot.
IMAGE by Hobiecat. Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
She knows, of course,
it’s why she’s allowed me here
this intimate task of parting,
of packing up your things,
why we smile easily
between hidden glances
so this is her
We’ve known each other
forever, of course,
wondered enough to troll,
but we’re like minds and hearts
as well, why else
would you have loved us both?
I don’t tell her I saw you
a shadow, a whisper
in her room,
that your smile
was in gratitude
for the kindnesses
here now, and then,
when I held tight your
sorrows and secrets.
Instead, we just laugh
at your photographs,
agree to keep the tape
in the top drawer
to put things back together
after I leave.
IMAGE by Lucas Mota. Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
Once upon a time
there was a bear
and he lived
just around the corner
from the footbridge
where the jays
still caw about a troll
and hummingbirds
wax poetic about
jewelweed
on the banks of
the stream.
It was there, one day,
a woman stood in
utter disbelief
as rain fell
on a sunny day
and the breeze
turned into music.
People around her raced by
fear in their breath
eyes full of warning,
but she, being a brave sort
(or merely hopeless)
walked up the path,
around the corner,
and asked the bear to dance.
IMAGE: Poor little bear!, John Bauer, 1912. Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
Last night, I snuck
across the pond
to the half-cut trees,
their slaughtered limbs
strewn across the yard
of the large new house
and listened while
spiders and ants
and caterpillars
evacuated, slowly.
I knelt below the
one last Maple
in whose branches
I once spied
turkeys sleeping
and I apologized
in whispers
that sounded like
midnight bird wings,
while my tears
collected in pools
around her sweet trunk
and we listened
as the stars departed
and the sun rose
and the marsh hawk
came to pay its respects
one last time.
Image: Google map of the pond and trees. Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
Orb weaver
Webweaver
Storykeeper
wonders at the
man and woman
who move
beneath her —
the fine strings of connection
they don’t seem to notice
the man moves
and the woman follows
the woman speaks
and the man nods
somehow symbiotic
each of them
picks berries from
the autumn olive —
share the savoring —
pause and pucker
at the bittersweet
yesterday’s web
tangles in the woman’s hair
and the man assists —
white web entwined with
silver strands he hadn’t noticed
as threads of memory
spark around them
I wonder what you will look like with gray hair
but wisps of time and love
their midnight musings
only float on sunbeams now
as ephemeral as
she herself
her dance
on fine filaments
the dew, the stars,
the Universe
Photo by Rick Otten. Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
The weight of a catbird
in its final sleep
too close to the road
is surprisingly heavy,
as if all of her songs —
the whistles and whines
the cheeps and chirps
the mimics of a lifetime —
are stored within
her feathers
so soft to the touch.
I pray my long gentle strokes,
my whispered comforts,
might wake her
to forage with her chicks
once more
and I stay hopeful
for fifty-one steps
until I lay her, quiet, still
in the cool soft moss
of the shaded yard,
where the stalwart maple
keeps eternal watch.
IMAGE: Gray Catbird (Dumetella carolinensis) at the Arnold Arboretum of Harvard University, Boston, Massachusetts, United States.Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
I used to hear god here
delight in her transformations, I’m so sorry
day upon day
season into season,
now she is mostly quiet
nursing deep, fatal wounds
while I mostly grieve,
whisper apologies to the trees I’m sorry
toss offerings of acorns
into the beech grove,
a futile mea culpa I’m sorry
I’m sorry
Photos & Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
I think to warn the
hummingbird
of the black snake
I met along the trail,
then remember:
snakes don’t fly,
and even the racer
would be too slow
anyway
for the flit flit flit
of this apparition
I can’t blink to see
a solo staring contest
until my eyes tear up
sure, sure — blame it on the bird
my eyes were teared already
on this quiet, dying Sunday,
summer seeping into fall
but more than that
the things we can’t ignore,
the changes that might
someday soon
require the snake to fly
for its supper after all
Punctuated Equilibrium is a theory of evolution that claims that change happens suddenly over short periods of time followed by long periods of no change. IMAGE: Tree of Life. Charles Darwin’s 1837 first diagram of an evolutionary tree sketch, from his First Notebook on Transmutation of Species (1837). Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
There’s a spider
crawling on the Buddha
that sits on my desk,
and I wonder
if she —
the spider —
is praying,
wonder if I might
ask her
to do so
on my behalf
for the
butterfly
I have no heart
to remember,
its blacktop
last breaths
and wingbeats
were things
I could not bear
this morning
on my way
to the woods
that are
themselves
dying.
Good Lord,
if I stop
to kneel down
for each
and all of it,
there would be
no time left.
Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
The great horned owl at 4
wondered at the bell buoy
and its slow solemn song;
he considered then
the leaf steps of a frog
and the tap tap tap of rain
and oh! what of the
the cricket chorus
the cat and mouse games
and that woman
there
in child pose or prayer
sharing his inquisitions
who? h-who? who? who?
Photo by Tom Koerner/USFWS. Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
He’s familiar somehow, though taller here in this dreamspace, or maybe he’s more than one — some midnight rendering of them or Him —
but whatever he is, we’re at the library — a colonnade and chandeliers, passing spines and shelves
talking about books in a rambling conversation like you have with that person who so easily takes up the space next to you
remember?
I think I know him and love him — I must — because when he leans in to kiss me I oblige
and we keep walking, out the door and through town past nighttime store fronts
until I wake up and wonder if I should perhaps entertain the idea of a Him again
or if these midnight visits are comfort and substance enough for the ten or twenty bit of road left ahead.
Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. Image by Merve. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
It started with the shock
(And the shock and awe)
Then the monetizing
of fear and attention
stimulated by 24 hour
scrolling alarm.
There was finger pointing
and hate fanning,
an us-against-them
rip current
we couldn’t escape.
We glimpsed Hope
then we lost Hope
over and over,
until the hate spilled out
formed a tsunami
fueled by the
the lock-step
dumbing down,
the entertainment value
of ignorance
broadcast on our
unescapable devices.
So we coronated a devil
the leviathan
who gorged on hate
and let plague prosper,
while swarms of protest
were never enough
to stave off the
the dead ones in school halls,
the bloodied rights of masses,
the arming of idiots
the fires and floods,
the crimes of church and state.
Then two decades in
to this human debacle,
our sanity eroded and collapsing,
they announced
that aliens walk among us
and I wondered,
hoped and prayed
Oh! but what if they are angels?
Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. Image: group of angels, Corrège. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
I had known her like a lover — the curved slope of her spine, the embrace of a shoulder’s bend, the cool pause of shaded breath. She was my solace, my companion in meditations, my inspiration for poems (and two books).
But it’s been years since we spent time together — she, the two mile loop along the backside of the preserve, and I, her loyal, adoring visitor for some ten years.
I blame it on my knees, say I can’t and shouldn’t.
I blame it on the storm that left her forever altered.
But the truth, I suspect, is that I am altered.
The woman who walked that path and heard the voice of angels…sometimes…has been, for years now, hobbled.
Hobbled by grief. And disappointment. By the other storms that swept through and changed the landscape of what I knew as my life.
I am no longer that walking woman in the same way the woods are no longer what they were when we shared precious time together.
And so this morning, we bore witness to that. She, at seven, was cool and quiet as I walked our familiar path for the first time in four years.
Did she notice, I wonder, the changes in me like I did in her? Her overgrown spots, the pockmarks, the diseases slowly taking over, the things that no longer serve her. Or me.
Did she mourn the losses in me as I did in her? Tears or raindrops, who can tell.
Did she our change for what it is — inevitable, unpreventable…necessary?
Was she as glad to see me after all this time — as I was her?
Photos & essay @2023, Jen Payne. If you like this post, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
There but for the
grace of god,
I whisper as a prayer
in fast passing
for the pigeon
who lies writhing
by the overpass,
its fatal injury
too much to bear
for either of us,
so I imagine the wings
that catch its
final breaths of sunlight
are those of angels
sent to comfort
its frightened spirit,
stroke its soft body
and hush the pain
in the flash of a second
I could not.
IMAGE: Study of Mice Dancing, Beatrix Potter. Poem @2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
It’s hard not to wonder
if mice get post-traumatic
the stress of
recall repeat remember
the night
she levitated
formed circles
scaled stairs (twice)
ran and ran and ran
hid and hid and hid
found herself
in the most unlikely
predicaments:
cat’s mouth
cat’s paw
gloved hand
and then…
then…
that wide expanse of lawn
lit by the moon
and streetlight
I left her there at 2
it seemed the safest place
despite the trauma
or because of it?
In daylight, will I find her
there still…
still in the grass
just a ghost in the walls?
I don’t dare look.
IMAGE: Study of Mice Dancing, Beatrix Potter. Poem @2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
As I grow older,
I want to make myself
a better person
I want to put down my ego —
my self ego
and my human ego —
and see the world
with wide wonder
and compassion
I want to stop taking sides,
stop needing a defense
or a logo or a standard,
let go of my attachments,
my fear, my uncertainty,
wear my age loosely
I want to open my heart,
let love in
in big, scary ways
so I am full up
so instead of dying
maybe I just burst
like the jewelweed flowers
that explode with seeds
along the trail
seeds of love
and curiosity
seeds of magic
and dreams
seeds left to flower
in the oneness
when I am gone
This is a response poem because yes, some products are made in China, but so are Pandas and Snow Leopards, so grow up. Photo by Terry W. Johnson, Georgia Wildlife Resources Division. Poem @2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gif
She seemed lost
or tired
(or both, like me)
the carpenter bee
sitting in my driveway
hot in the midday sun,
and while she wasn’t too keen
on being seen,
or moved, for that matter,
I shuttled her onto a notecard —
Post Office, Library, Lettuce —
and sat her down safely
on the cool peaty mulch
in the shade of shrubs
in full purple bloom,
left a small puddle of water
in case she was thirsty,
then said a little prayer
so small and so large
in everything, do to others
what you would have them do to you,
Amen.
Photo & poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gif
Taking center stage in the felt and fiber exhibit
was a shrouded human-size figure,
death wrapped in yellow
— the color of butter and bees —
but called Chrysalis to imply resilience
resilience in the face of everything
OMG, the everything we face sometimes feels like death —
its foul smell invading even the simple pleasures
it’s hard to ignore the crises in woods that are dying
it’s hard to ignore the crises in the violence of a Sunday drive
it’s hard to ignore the crises when even my favorite characters are battling hate and headlines
every thing of the injustice
I long for the days when my favorite characters could just fall off ferry boats and have sex in on-call rooms.
When their soundtrack was mine on a Sunday drive that didn’t require white knuckles and a prayer.
When the woods were lush and fertile, the promise of the butterfly born from the Chrysalis, color and light and HOPE.
It makes you want to lie down, wrap covers around your tired body, and sleep a deep and dreamless sleep,
because these days even the dreams are pockmarked and ravaged
and you wake gasping for breath, the bile of it all burning your throat,
a burn that nothing will assuage…except the last Jiffy corn muffin
dripping with butter and drizzled with honey,
a final gift from the bees, who swoop and swarm en masse, before leaving for good.
Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. An ekphrastic poem contemplating the juxtaposition of Chrysalis Shroud for LGBTQ: Allies Supporting Resilience by Annie Collier and Kim Hahn, and Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix by LeBrie Rich in the national exhibition FELT: Fiber Transformed that was on view at the Guilford Art Center, March-April 2023. Photos by Ashley Seneco.
If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gif
Preparing herself for the inevitable,
the sandpiper —
usually found along the coast
makes her home now
by a small pond in the woods
three miles from shore.
It’s quiet here, most days,
except when the wind
carries clamor from the south,
and she’s been welcomed
graciously
by the turtles and frogs,
the heron and wood ducks.
They’ve come here, too,
this protected space
with ample shade and shallows
to share with anyone who needs
asylum from the rising conflict.
You might say we are refugees,
displaced from the familiar
by forces not of our making
finding exile here,
making life despite the storm,
saying grace for the bounty
Photo & poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gif
The moon
all but a ghost
this morning
faces the sun
with eyes tilted
and welcomes the day.
From the trail below
I watch them greet
each other
in the sky and
at once I am
celestial,
nothing but
atoms and poetry
in a cosmic breeze,
whirling in space,
witness to miracles.
Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gif
I sit on a Noble bench in the woods
it’s barely 7 — the shy ones’ hour
we come early to this place
the humming bird at the apple bough
the rabbit among her clover
the timid turtle poking its head from the pond
to see who and what is about
so I respond with a whisper
We’re safe to float in Eden a little longer
as two herons fly overhead
and it’s so quiet we hear wings beat,
heartbeats even
this morning before the fray.
Photo: a bench along a trail in Branford dedicated to naturalist and birder Noble S. Proctor, Ph.D., who amassed a lifelong birding list of over 6,000 species worldwide and wrote numerous books on birds and wildlife. It carved wth Proctor’s quote: Always something to see. Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
She woke me at 2
bright and talkative
said Look Here
then shined a light
on things I could not yet see
and when I inquired,
she whispered something
about long dreams
and deep sleep,
but I could only wonder
at the odd and gentle
warmth
of her smile.
Photo by Ron Lach. Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
It’s been a long time, love
— my inspiration —
since we’ve enjoyed such leisure,
these moments before the sun
and you, noting birdsong,
the call of waves,
our morning folklore or
you, calling me to the yard,
to feel its damp grass underfoot,
stare into the night’s stars
while you run your finger along the moon,
those cloud myths etched in dreams
transcribed and holy, somehow,
these long, sweet days of April,
and I am more grateful
than you can know.
Image: Muse on Pegasus, Odilon Redon. Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. #NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Month. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gif
I found your letter in my mailbox today
You were just checkin’ if I was okay
And if I miss you
Well you know what they say…
The playlist doesn’t know better,
picks a song from the queue —
picks you from the queue —
and it’s a blue moon moment
just yesterday:
4 a.m. on the Expressway
up and around the city,
before they buried all of
the late night stories
beneath monuments of hours,
the car is cold,
a late winter bite in the air
and pale smoke curls
that habit more forgot than you,
a pinpoint moment
I hear the angel’s voice
clear and bright, sing
of longing and memory
those moments of missing
that arrive at random,
sometimes, like now
a hundred years since then…
you, me, our mess of love
piercing the darkness then,
this rainy afternoon now,
and I am celestial,
my heart traveling time
Just once in a very blue moon
Just once in a very blue moon
And I feel one comin’ on soon
Photo of Boston’s old, elevated central artery. Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. #NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Month. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gif
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