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
I have lived in this house they called New Eden for 25 years on a quarter acre lot around the corner from Long Island Sound.
There’s a claggy pond out back, and a nature preserve just a stone’s throw away.
It’s Heaven, really, never mind the state road on the other side of the eight foot privet that keeps the peace.
The day I moved in, two bright green parakeets landed on a branch of the great old Maple in the back corner of the yard.
They seemed as auspicious as the lilac, beloved since first sight, blooming at the edge of the driveway.
Every year, I pray the lilac will bloom again, that the Maple will survive another storm to keep company with her resident squirrels and raccoons. And me.
She and I wept together when the grand Oak came down, and we still laugh at dusk when the rabbits come out to play.
Seasons come and go here at a predictable pace,
the sublime hush of winter steps aside for spring birds who sing in sparks of poetry usually lost in the busy buzz of summer
before the breeze of autumn shivers the knotweed and startles the monarchs who make no tracks, but the field mice do
tiny footprints criss-cross with bird notes and the straight firm steps of the coyote
turtles come and go, too, snakes, hawks, owls, and once a frog so big I thought he might be a prince!
this sweet spot has revealed its secrets for ages — snowdrops bloom where never planted, a robin’s nest appears beside a window, and salamanders tuck in by the bird feeder
just last week I discovered a small sliver of ocean just to the south, in between some saplings, hidden from view until now
No wonder the ospreys fly so low, and waves sometimes wake me from dreams.
Photo & 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
An old manuscript needs translation and I’m lost
(I don’t think my main character has aged well)
words are shifting under my feet
old sayings have meetings with crickets
Urban Dictionary bumps into Webster on a corner and they’re speechless
I used to worry about losing cursive:
how will new scholars read old texts?
how will poets fall in love?
Now I worry about the words themselves,
since my turns of phrase might be misconstrued
misunderstood or
not understood at all
Let’s go Dutch.
You mean split the bill?
I seem to walk a fine line of cool / rad / dope / da bomb
and No One Says That Anymore
Worse yet: Huh?
A dictionary maker once told me she loved how language changes, revels in the revealing of new words, and I cringed…
New words make me want to unlive
even though poets make up new words all the time
we have our Poetic License, after all,
a sure defense against goblin mode,
and a loophole excuse for a late adopter like me!
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
There’s an archnemesis on the playground
and devils at the pulpit,
people are afraid of words words!
ideas, thoughts, stories
the holy rage through traffic to get to their entertainment complex
pass by the street beggar praying he’s not gay or trans or black or blue or whatever their god teaches them to hate this week, this century
and history repeats
I had an archnemesis once
she threw rocks at my face
and called me a whore
but names will never hurt me
it’s the rage I worry about
the everything-that’s-old-is-new-again-rage
fueled by the mouths of demons
and poor pages of books
tossed in the street,
there next to the beggar who picks one up and reads
“He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone.”
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 live in a house of cats:
three before that were
one – Emily
after the poet
loved blue jays
a thing with feathers
and two – CJ
namesake Joy but
arrived with grief
that lifted with love
then 3 – Crystal
so full of life and love
she sparkled!
[ There were two drifters
Moose, who lived next door but preferred to garden here
and Little Black Kitty who learned to trust slowly but enough ]
Of course Lola,
Zen master
lost then found
found me
Now: Molly
Good Golly,
is Whippersnapper
a name for a cat?
Woman with Cat by Pablo Picasso. 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
In my next life,
I want to live here
in this crazy loud city
where everything feels iconic
and ordinary all at once,
where pavement
steps aside for flowers and
small spots of cool grass,
and trees carry the sound
of musicians and pigeons,
where the ordinary
walk side-by-side
with the out-of-this-world
and I, anonymous,
don’t care about reflections
in buildings made of glass,
where everyone
arrives at the park by noon
and it doesn’t matter
who or what you are,
because you leave soon,
for a few bucks
careen through the underworld,
arrive somewhere else
entirely, like magic,
knowing where you were,
and every place else,
goes on without you.
Photo & 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 gift.
I promised you a diamond
he says of our courtship,
but never a ring —
and he laughs with that smile,
like I’m in on the joke.
We make a contract —
verbal, never signed,
then I invite them in
and tell them my stories.
I’m charming and kind,
in just the right ways,
endearing and fun
everything they want,
until it’s time for me to leave.
That’s the hardest part,
as they forget the agreement,
so I do it slow to start.
I pack up my interesting bits,
then take back my affection,
I pull at the threads of what’s left
until there’s nothing to hold onto.
That’s when they leave — THEY end it
and the contracts breaks by default.
He sees me crying then and
shapeshifts to the one I remember,
pulls me to his chest and holds on
as tight as that first embrace years ago,
the perfect fit, the smell of old books and cedar,
then a devilish laugh and I wake
to the sound of tears pouring down,
midnight thunder and wicked, wicked lightning.
Image by Jason Holley. 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 gift.
This is to be expected.
I don’t come
with a pedigree
or a PH.D.
I don’t wear laurels
or titles well
I haven’t kissed ass
(or any of you),
and I know, I know
I should have bowed
low and deep
before the queen
but I’ve never been one
to follow the rules
or jump through hoops
of anyone’s making
but my own.
Alice illustration by John Tenniel. 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 gift.
You’ve got a bit of hate there
stuck between your teeth
cover up that
weak mind,
it’s embarrassing
not cool dude
more wrong side of history
than team spirit or
patriotism, even
maybe patriarchy
kinda red car
nuclear missile
escalation
compensation
if you ask me
which you didn’t
and wouldn’t
because you know
already
everything I didn’t say
and you’re gonna
wear it like a badge of honor
proud and defiant
full of fear and lockstep
down a path
towards an epitaph
that dogma won’t ever resolve
Poem ©2023, Jen Payne, written in response to an NRA backpack. #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 gift.
while the climate changed
and the people went thirsty
and the animals died
and the viruses spread
and the innocent suffered
and the kids were slaughtered
and the fires raged
and the books were burned
and the idols were worshipped
and the empires crumbled
and the people argued
and the people took sides
and the people hated
and the people judged
and the people fought
and the people cried
and the people prayed for salvation
their gods watched, weeping
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 gift.
I am love
worn proudly
in letters
L O V E
on a backpack
announcing
my membership
in the human race
of everyone
imperfect
I am
open heart
compassion
kindness
the antithesis
of hate
and lockstep fear
I am
strong
curious
fear-less
and I will brandish
that logo
brazen
like a weapon.
Poem ©2023, Jen Payne, written in response to an NRA backpack. #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 gift.
When the former lover said
he never understood how I could LA LA LA about things
I thought, now that’s ironic
because I was never very LA LA LA about him
I was more OH MY GOD and OH NO! and WHAT NOW?
But OH NO! always has a way of morphing into OH WELL…
when the adrenaline wears off, fiddle-dee-dee,
and there’s no choice but to change pace,
switch things up
MAKE LEMONADE NOT WAR
paint the dining room blue
sing Give Me Novocaine until the pain wears off
then get right back on the proverbial horse
and ride off into the sunset,
hope and optimism in a pocket
red cape fluttering in the wind
singing
LA LA LA
With thanks to Scarlett O’Hara and Green Day. 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 gift.
My path along the ridge
this morning
gives the impression
of sky walking
the fog heavy in branches
that burst in cumulous tufts
of the palest spring green
like clouds, to be expected here
meeting eye level with birds
who suggest I should be singing
Val-deri, val-dera
Val-deri, val-dera
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha
Photo & 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 gift.
They make it seem easy
two ropes turning
jumpers jumping
into the mix
clockwork
enthusiasm
everyone even
knows the words
laughter carries
across the green
where people mingle
call out
come play!
come jump!
come join in!
But my feet get tangled
most of the time
no rhythm
not even rhyme
on those days
when I’m nothing but
out of sync
out of step
out of the loop
out of my depth
While we think of Double-Dutch as a playground game, in some circles the term means “language that cannot be understood. As in: It was all double Dutch [=nonsense, gibberish] to me.” 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 gift.
It was New Hampshire
for God’s sake
and I hoped it would imprint us
how could it not?
those ridiculous mountains
their shock of snow
and sharp air so fresh
your lungs get greedy —
But you were miles away
ghosts on your lead line
climbing summits of regret
a backpack full of memories
bitter and sweet
stuck to the roof of your mouth —
which explains the dead silence
yours and mine
as we watched the snow fall
covering over our footprints
on the path outside.
Photo & 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 gift.
This here, when I see you,
it’s not longing or love
it’s just the remnants of waiting
waiting for someone to return
the shadow puppets dance
as headlights come home
or the flutter of eyes
after a long night of sleep
there you are, I’ve missed you
memory keen and vivid
how you used to be
photos flip past, the reeling
that feeling so sharp
I can sometimes still feel the cut
smell the mettle’s wound
I WAITED FOR YOU TO COME BACK
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 gift.
The future’s so bright,
you gotta wear…
vintage ROSE COLORED GLASSES
FOR SALE, b/o
well maintained,
working condition
despite numerous scratches
and brushes with reality;
good for filtering out
red flags and fair warnings;
useful in fruitless pursuits,
flights of fancy,
and hopeless causes
you have yet to see coming
Illustration & 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 gift.
The half-life of Uranium
is either 4.5 billion years,
700 million years,
or 250 thousand years
depending on how you examine
its primordial isotopes,
that which remains of its interstellar medium
its stardust —
like us,
formed inside of stars
when stars collide
so what then is the half-life of love?
its biochemical chain of events
a Big Bang complex interplay
of pheromones, dopamine, and oxytocin
elemental
does it decay more or less quickly
than that which lights up the sky?
does it leave traces?
its luminescence still seen
sometimes
its volatility, too
rapid and unpredictable change
just another reaction,
expected meltdown,
its core damage
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 gift.
I love these places of waiting
this quite axis of the world
a point around which things spin
he on his way there
and she on hers there
they, together, embrace and part
or run, race, return
and I, here, silent
silent and of no consequence
to their what-comes-next
nor to my own, really
I am here-and-now,
a great pause
a smudge of time
a nothingness
into which pours everything
peace, poetry, god
Photo & 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 gift.
before the painted parking lines
and engineered bridges
before the pervasive blazes
that welcomed every one
before the storm
that created a war zone
there was a trail in the woods
a simple trail
that wound from an unpaved lot
up a long, slow incline
and down, slowly, into Eden
or Shangri-La
or Paradise
or whatever you call the place
that brings you back
to yourself
without contortions
without effort
except for moving
and breathing
and letting go
and paying attention
to the song of white pines,
and the path of the pileated,
to the fetal curl of spring ferns
and the sweet Spring Beauty
so small but significant
you get down on your knees
like a prayer
whisper your apologies
for the trespass
weep at the loss of her
secret spot, there
at the base the Oak now fallen,
our heavy footfall
her sure demise
Photo & 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 gift.
He makes headlines now and then
one book and then another
false tears and faulty claims
a prophet for profit.
How do you know for sure,
a friend asked.
It’s posture, I explained.
No, not how he sits —
though his aggressive leaning and pointing
are tells, for sure
it’s how he postures his point
twists his words like he twists his face
pushes his prophecies and perversions
like he pushes the energy in a room
hand gestures feign truth like magicians
or priests at the pulpit,
predator preaching his Rules,
his black and white dogma
with a heavy fist to the table
so it must be true,
and you must believe
God Damn It.
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 gift.
From the fascia that constricts —
wants my body fetal some days —
I cannot extract the kamikaze pilot,
tweeze him from his destructive path
save those who drowned
or the family of survivors
who struggle, still, some days,
to keep their heads above water.
I cannot extract the boy in the photo
unawares and smiling
while sea battles raged
and mothers wept
eyes blind to the
the hard fist of the drunk
who pounded on doors
and broke happy spirits.
Some things float, you see,
carry on despite the damage.
Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. Photo of her father, taken 1945, around the time his father was considered missing in action. He was aboard the destroyer U.S.S. Twiggs, just offshore from Okinawa when it was torpedoed then hit by a suicide bomber. #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 gift.
A most graceful dense mounding shrub with broadly spreading branches that create a weeping effect with the deep green, finely textured foliage.
What would the old tree say
of her current predicament —
wedged between the state road
and the utility substation,
her circadian rhythm
forever disrupted
by the flashing traffic light,
her water source, runoff from the
nearby shopping plaza
More than a century ago,
she lived here on farmland acres,
and they named her Weeping
despite her attributes —
a vernal fountain of perpetual joy —
she, a specimen, divine
fated to become more beautiful
a champion of time
But the hour is cruel
marches against the Sargent’s desire
changes our perception of beauty
sephos, Sepphōra, Sephora®
Her graceful curves and
fountain sprays of green
have grayed, and she is deaf
to the song of her breeze
She is not long for this world
— and probably for the best —
we insist ourselves so loudly now
even the bees are grieving.
Photo by Mary Johnson. Poem ©2023, Jen Payne Inspired by the Weeping Hemlock near my house in Branford, CT. Read more in “Weeping Hemlock Gets TLC” by Marcia Chambers (2012), and “Closing the Book on Sargent’s Weeping Hemlock” by Peter Del Tredici, Arnoldia magazine. #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 gift.
While the healer laid hands,
I felt my breath return
move tentative and slow
from that tight, broken spot
near my heart
down into my belly
my soft, round
curvy belly
the one he never loved
the one I hid under layers
and blankets
and breath
So before I even finished
a poem called Things He Never Liked
I realized its last line was Me
and that broken spot was Him
a broken spot
found with breath
healed only
as I forgive
myself.
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 gift.
in the morning, usually,
before the day-to-day began
there was a space in which
you could hear the tide
watch the tightrope act of crows
their sunrise spotlight
smell the pitch pines
and housekeeping steam
Beverly or Doris arrived by 9
in a clamoring of car doors
and office doors
before the creak of steps
when Thaiwin appeared
with fresh towels
that soap that said
Bienvenue
and I was Welcome
every time for a decade
big smiles and warm hugs
first names and
how are yous like family
at the start of my days
those weeks by the shore
Photo & Poem ©2023, Jen Payne in memory of weeks spent in an old time hotel by the shore. The Village Green on Cape Cod, now closed, was sold in 2021 by the owners after 35 years in business. #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 gift.
It’s a whispers and jingles day in the woods
late winter winds wind through the pines
who whisper secrets to each other
then toss them across the pond
confidences crowdsurfing treetops
while beach leaves tambourine
a tintinnabulation
of tinkling and jingling
mingling
in breezes teasing spring
Photo & 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 gift.
You forget you already know god,
walk her hallowed halls each day,
run your hands along her life lines
as you caretake her sanctuary
You swim in her holy water,
feel her pulse in the tides
breathe her incense,
read scripture in the trees
you sing to the divine,
its holy spirit aloft on wings
How could you forget god is everywhere
where you breathe and where your step
there’s no need to lockstep,
posture, or preach
salvation is just a walk away
then, and again, and today
Photo & 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 gift.
I am not finding poems today,
do four starts make a whole?
Poems slices just 25¢!
But poetry isn’t that cheap.
Costs more than I make in a day —
some days.
Some days, I make no words
not poem words, anyhow.
Most days, they’re just
word words
that litany of things we say
or write:
Hi. Hello. How are you?
Yes. No. Maybe.
Please and Thank You.
Best, My Best, All Best
(Kind) Regards
Wears a poet out making just word words,
need to find room for poem words
like the one I heard yesterday: Floof!
And something to rhyme, like Aloof.
Do three lines make a haiku? Oooph.
That was easy as pie…
Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. Image: Pies, Pies, Pies, by Wayne Thiebaud. #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 gift.
It is certainly not quiet this morning…
5am and the spring peepers are already
singing their songs, a chorus of them
proclaims April! bright and loud
and
just an hour ago, the coyotes joined in
rejoicing in triumph,
that soulful sound as seasons change
and now the rain begins
no surprise
April showers bring May flowers
besides
thunder in the east was fair warning
a storm approaches
quick or wicked
we never know except
soon the birds will wake
shake off their damp wings
call out to the dawn again
another day for the lucky ones
Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. Written the morning after a wave of deadly tornadoes swept across the country. Photo by Damir Mijailovic. #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 gift.
“Launched by the Academy of American Poets in April 1996, National Poetry Month is a special occasion that celebrates poets’ integral role in our culture and that poetry matters. Over the years, it has become the largest literary celebration in the world, with tens of millions of readers, students, K–12 teachers, librarians, booksellers, literary events curators, publishers, families, and—of course—poets, marking poetry’s important place in our lives.”
Click here to read more about this annual celebration, then visit 30 WAYS TO CELEBRATE NATIONAL POETRY MONTH for suggestions on how you can join in!
My favorite way to celebrate is to join with the thousands of poets participating in NaPoWriMo — NATIONAL POETRY WRITING MONTH —in which we write a poem a day for the month of April.
While NaPoWriMo is celebrating 20 years this year, I’m happy to say this will be my 9th year attempting to write 30 poems in 30 days! Here we go!
It was Rockport, North Shore
right before the fall
that humid, hot July,
the slow seduction
of an afternoon,
swimming and showers
that enticed hours
of love making,
our voracious sprint
for sustenance —
four courses and wine,
Garth and The Dance
played at the bar
there on Bearskin Neck.
We were finished, even then
and we knew it,
held tight and played pretend
that one last weekend,
love and loss and relief writhing,
Goodbyes consummated
beneath summer cotton,
The End
a visible blur on the horizon
Poem ©2023, Jen Payne
We blurred the shape of time,
bent it forwards and back,
twisted it enough to find common ground
there in those early fairy tale days
when I was so astonished by Us I wept
Our movements so in sync
it seemed we were cut from one bolt of cloth
only one stored for a decade or more in a castle
full of favorite old books and songs
and endless stories — his and mine
and the ones we tell ourselves about Love
and who we are IN Love
But I never thought to look up
see the turrets and towers along the wall,
pay note to the bunker safely guarded,
the pock marks in that common ground,
the mortally wounded specters
who watched their watches
betting on our time
our precious, precious time
I thought the enemy was age
that Loss would come as natural cause and effect, expected
a well-roundedness to its execution
but I was wrong
Loss seeped slowly between the cracks I didn’t know at first were there
forced itself into the weakest places of Us
the way ivy overtakes mortar in a wall
until all that was left was the evidence of time we call Memory.
©2023, Jen Payne
Issue #1 – There’s No Such Thing as the Poop Fairy: 5 Things to Remember When You Walk in the Woods
People love the nature preserve where I often walk. Who wouldn’t? Its wide, criss-crossing trails offer welcome views of the woods and ponds and wildlife. It’s easy to forget that the busiest highway on the east coast is less than a mile away. It’s easy to forget the busy-ness of life in general — work and the To Do list and all the other mind clutter fade away when we spend time outdoors.
Unfortunately, as much as people love being out in nature, it’s hard to overlook the general disrespect many show for our protected natural spaces.
Just last week, on a brisk mile walk along my favorite trail, I spotted twelve discarded bags of dog poop. Twelve. That’s a poop bag about every 300 steps.
Some are tossed high and land on branches, like decorations. Some are tucked into hidey holes — knots in trees, crevices between rocks. But most of them are just set down along the side of the trail — as if someone is going to come by later and pick them all up. Abracadabra!
It makes me want to scream!
The thing is, once you start paying attention to them — once you start being angry about them — you start to see other things. The coffee cups, the nip bottles, the COVID masks, the dental flossers. The orange peels and apple cores. The Christmas ornaments and painted rocks, and similar garbage and graffiti.
There’s No Such Thing as the Poop Fairy: 5 Things to Remember When You Walk in the Woods was inspired by all of that. It’s a response that offers simple solutions: don’t litter, respect nature and wildlife, don’t leave your poop on the side of the trail.
At the end of the day, there is no magical creature — winged, wand waving, or white bearded — who is going to take care of the mess we keep leaving. It’s up to us.
Get your copy of the mini-zine There’s No Such Thing as the Poop Fairy: 5 Things to Remember When You Walk in the Woods today! $3.00 includes shipping.
You can pay through PayPal using a PayPal account or any standard credit card. If you prefer the old school approach, please send your check, made payable to Jen Payne, P.O. Box 453, Branford, CT 06405.
A 100-WORD STORY
Last night I dreamt of my grandmother. She was sitting next to my dad toasting champagne in a luncheonette on Broad Street. You know, the kind with leather stools spinning around a counter and formica tables? I knew she’d be waiting, but the front door was locked, so I found a back entrance, pushed past the steel workers having lunch and ran to her. My heart was so full it felt like I was drowning, swallowing air and love; racing towards that hug that almost knocked us off our feet, her arms as tight as mine, holding on ‘til morning.
©2022, Jen Payne. Photo: John’s Cafe in Portland, Oregon
JANUARY 11
Their eyes never lost touch.
They sat and talked and laughed for hours.
He reached for her hand as if he had done so every day since they last saw each other.
That familiar feeling surprised them long into the night.
They kissed.
There was lightning in the January sky.
It’s been more than 15 years since that fateful night that changed everything. How did they get there? And what happens next? Find out in WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE: A SORT-OF LOVE STORY, an epistolary novel told through a series of emails, written by Connecticut author and poet Jen Payne.
WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE:
A SORT-OF LOVE STORY
by Jennifer A. Payne
Memoir / Creative Non-Fiction
5 x 7, Paperback, 130 pages
ISBN: 978-0-9905651-5-4
$16.00 (plus tax + shipping)
You can pay through PayPal using a PayPal account or any standard credit card. If you prefer the old school approach, please send your check, made payable to Jen Payne, P.O. Box 453, Branford, CT 06405.
A 100-WORD STORY
Not that long ago, at mile marker 86.5 near East Lyme’s Pattagansett River, you could pull off the highway into a small dirt turnout, grab a container from your trunk, and fill it to the brim with cold, fresh water pouring from a natural spring. The spring was pretty popular. You’d always see a car or two parked precariously on the side of the road — traffic slowing more for the incline of the hill ahead than the waterseekers themselves. It’s gone now, save for the old turnout, replaced by a cement culvert, its condo complex runoff too foul for thirst.
©2022, Jen Payne.
A 100-WORD STORY
Harry Anderson saved my life. At least that’s what my wide-eyed younger self remembers. The man had a gun, after all. I saw it as he paid for his coffee, hitched up under his arm. I was working the overnight, back when a girl could do that on her own. And besides, the cops watched out for me. That’s why I called them. Harry was there in minutes. Dragged the man to the parking lot. Discharged the gun in a moment of midlife bravado that almost got him fired. I never forgot it — overfilled his apple fritters every time thereafter.
©2022, Jen Payne.
The mourning doves are here for the winter,
eight by this morning’s count at the feeder before
eight by their count now on the slight-sagged branch
where they wait out the starlings
with hope there is something left
that galaxy of stars like a black hole
devours everything
leaves morsels for small sparrows at least
who will sneak back later to peck out
their gratitude in code on the frost
I read it sometimes, their code of thanks,
wonder if they know I timed it —
spread seeds as soon as the doves arrived,
before the stars descended with the moon
made myself large by the side door
a warning, a warrior
let them have their take, those eight
grief is a hungry thing
even the weeping is enough to lay a table bare
Poem ©2022, Jen Payne. Photo by Jennifer Snyder, Project Feederwatch
MANIFEST (zine)
Consider a Gift Subscription. It’s a
one-of-a-kind gift idea for the holidays!
Imagine a magazine that’s like a mini art installation. Each issue is filled with unexpected images and creative rabbit holes, poetry, quotes, a curated Spotify playlist, and so much more!
$25.00
Gift subscriptions include a custom holiday greeting/gift acknowledgement and four printed issues of MANIFEST (zine) starting with the Winter 2023 issue, Great & Small.
On Friday, with only three weeks left to go before Christmas, I stopped at my local CVS for laser paper. It’s a little more expensive there than at Staples, but it’s a shorter walk, and I like to save my steps for walking in the woods and not the big box stores.
Standing in line with my laser paper and a mini Panettone — it’s the holidays after all — I realized I was going to be waiting a while. There was a long line, one open register, and a family having a serious discussion with the cashier:
Can we use this coupon? (No.)
How about this one? (No.)
Is this eye pencil sharpener on sale? (No, it’s the other one, with the case.)
Can’t you apply the sale to this one? (No.) (Did you want the lip balm that’s on sale?)
Oh yes. Hold on. Let me run back and get that.
The laser paper was getting heavy, and I almost dropped the mini Panettone. Plus I was hot now — and a little annoyed — and since the only other cashier was busy putting out the Valentine’s Day candy, I decided to leave.
Not huffy leave. Or angry leave. Just put down my things and move on to the next errand leave, practicing my best versions of Surrender and Acceptance.
Truth be told, I ended up having to do the same thing at the post office 10 minutes later. No big deal. I wasn’t in desperate need of laser paper (or that Panettone), and the letter I was mailing could post on Monday.
Since I’d saved all of that time not waiting in lines, I headed across town to one of my favorite places to walk. A trail that winds across a marsh, and up through the woods to an overlook with views of Long Island Sound and a monument to poet Jennie Vedder that reminds:
I would be one with Earth again,
and grieve not as the seasons pass,
but joyous in the pulse of grass,
exultant with the beat of rain.
I would be one with Earth again,
one with her joy, one with her pain.
It was such a pretty almost-winter day. Sunny with a nice chilly breeze. Quiet except for some lingering gulls and the Amtrak heading to New York. Perfect…marred only by the Festering I was still doing about the holidays, the lines, the people at the register back at CVS.
Then a little inner voice yelled: STOP!
You went to all that effort finding your Zen spot; you made decisions to leave the things that were not serving you; and here you are full-up with thoughts about those same things. STOP!
The thing is, we all have that choice every day. Do we sit in the muck of thoughts about this or that, or do we move on about our business? Get our shoes stuck down in the mud or walk around the edge and move forward?
But I’m not perfect, and mind-control is not my forte whatsoever…so I found that Festering’s thoughts kept trying to find their way back in again. You know, sort of in that same way your thoughts push through your moments of Meditation? Zen then Me! Me! Me! Zen then Think Over Here! Think Over Here!
So we all sort of walked together for a while—me, my thoughts, the folks in line at the post office, and the family at CVS. Until I lost site of the family, and the post office line dissipated. My thoughts wandered off about a new writing project, and there I was — alone at last! Me and my Zen, again.
There is nothing like a walk in the woods to chase away the pesky thoughts. To reconnect you with Here and Now. To show you the way to Grace and Gratitude. And Zen.
©2022, Jen Payne
It’s like sending a mini art installation that features interesting images and creative rabbit holes, quotes, poetry, a curated Spotify playlist. Layered with colors, textures, meanings (and music), the result is a thought-full, tactile journey with nooks and crannies to discover along the way. Gift subscriptions cost $25.00 include a custom holiday greeting/gift acknowledgement and four printed issues of MANIFEST (zine) starting with our upcoming winter issue, Great & Small.
Visit our Etsy Shop to order individual issues as gifts or stocking stuffers. Each costs $8.00, which includes some cool extras and shipping. (Each Etsy listing includes a sneak preview video.)
Perfect for the book lover in your life, consider giving a book from Three Chairs Publishing. Each comes signed by the author with a few creative extras.
Looking for a festive shopping experience? Then be sure to visit the Holiday Expo at Guilford Art Center (411 Church Street, Guilford). You’ll find many of our Three Chairs Publishing creations on display, along with ceramics, pottery, glass, jewelry, homewares, fiber art, ornaments, accessories, toys, specialty foods, stationery, leather goods and more. More than 200 American artists, makers and designers are featured in this year’s event. Click here for more information.
Just like shopping local during the holidays, shopping at Three Chairs Publishing’s online shop has ripple effects. Your purchases help to support the women-owned printing company that prints our books, the locally-owned print shops that print our marketing materials, and the U.S. Postal Service which reliably delivers our products to your doorstep. You also help the self-employed editors, proofreaders, typesetters, artists, and tech support folks who help turn my ideas into things I can put into your hands to enjoy.
For all of that, and your continued support of my creative work, thank you. Happy Holidays! — JEN PAYNE
When sleeping with a bear
it is critical to pay attention to the breath —
his and yours.
His will tell you when it is safe
to muck about in dreams
and when it is time
to curl up and play dead.
Death
in this case: to feign sleep
is a practiced thing
slow deep breath in
slow deep breath out
slow deep breath in
slow deep breath out
Most nights, he’ll forget his hunger
and roll over — you pray
hands clasped around your knees
making yourself small
a burr in the blanket and of far less importance
than himself and his sleep.
©2022, Jen Payne
There are tractor marks in the rabbit warren,
that sweet spot on the path where the
bittersweet and grapevines arbored the trail,
where the sounds of commerce faded just enough to hear
the rabbits waiting for you to pass.
It’s bulldozed wide, now four-persons across
nevermind the rabbits
or the winter sparrows who found refuge there
or the jays who loved the grapes
or the pileated whose only recourse
is to tap out an S.O.S. on a nearby dying ash
They’re building infrastructure in the woods, you see
plowing back desperate saplings,
piling debris where the wild asters grew
flattening out the turtles’ fertile slopes
laying instead their misplaced traprock paths
and sweet-smelling lumbered bridges
giving us more room to tramp about
another ingress marked by colored flags
nailed deep into the skins of trees
Tell me please…
Will the rabbits find sanctuary before the snow?
Were the turtles buried alive?
Do the trees weep before the hammer strikes?
Poem and photo ©2022, Jen Payne
What happened to the shape of days?
The slow unfolding of dawn, the clear delineation of time — beginning, end, respite
that marked space for pursuits of gods — Hypnos, Eros, Hephaestus. (Though rarely in that order.)
Our haloed mechanisms godlike now — omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient.
Hey Siri: Who is Hephaestus?
And so we worship false gods, bow down to their divine scheme,
keep talismans close at hand for fear to miss their callings
their new demands of sacrifice — silence, sabbath, solitude.
I fear they’ve killed Atlas, too, left our world spinning
without the stars to guide us,
without the sun and shadow, our shape of days
and time.
Poem ©2022, Jen Payne. Photo by Scotch Mist, Head of Sculpture of Chronos in Knights’ Hall of Royal Castle, Warsaw, Poland.
A 100-WORD STORY
Last night, while I slept in the just-right bed, my feet pressed against the tower wall, the Bears came and ate what was left of the wise Scribe’s apples. His favorites, he told me, bewitchingly red and wild, but rare these late fall days.
It’s quiet enough here to hear the wings of the Crow King as he flies through the stars, but not — apparently — the sound of Bears crossing the meadow in Moonlight. It seems they ate the Mountains too, or so the Fog might tell. Tell if it could speak that is, but all I hear is birdsong.
©2022, Jen Payne.
I am always inspired by those life moments that move us most — love and loss, joy and disappointment, milestones and turning points. When I’m not exploring our connections with one another, I enjoy writing about our relationships with nature, creativity, and mindfulness, and how these offer the clearest path to finding balance in our frenetic, spinning world.
Very often, my writing is accompanied by photography and artwork. As both a graphic designer and writer, I think partnering visuals and words layers the intentions of my work, and makes the communication more palpable. I hope you will agree!
“I have lived with several Zen masters — all of them cats,” writes Eckhart Tolle in his book The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment. “Watch any plant or animal and let it teach you acceptance of what is, surrender to the Now. Let it teach you Being. Let it teach you integrity —which means to be one, to be yourself, to be real. Let it teach you how to live and how to die, and how not to make living and dying into a problem.”
THE LOLA POEMS is a limited edition, memorial issue of MANIFEST (zine) that honors the passing of my own little Zen master, Lola, by considering the lessons she taught me in our time together.
16-page, 4.25 x 5.5 booklet, Cost: $8.00 or subscribe and get 4 issues for $25.00.
You can pay through PayPal using a PayPal account or any standard credit card. If you prefer the old school approach, please send your check, made payable to Jen Payne, P.O. Box 453, Branford, CT 06405.
A 100-WORD STORY
I slept on a cot near my grandmother’s bed in a room that smelled like eucalyptus. The aluminum frame squeaked when I moved, despite my small size and efforts to keep quiet. My grandfather slept in the adjoining room, his presence as unnerving as the Jesus portrait on the wall. The story goes he woke her once with a pitcher of water, threw it on the bed so she’d make his breakfast. I wonder if the train whistle ever disturbed him, pulled him down the tracks to the steel mill, back to the stacks and hot slag where he belonged.
©2022, Jen Payne.
Taking its theme from the William Butler Yeats poem “A Crazed Girl,” HEROICALLY FOUND considers how we improvise as we go along “no matter what disaster occurred,” finding balance, like the crazed girl, in “her music, her poetry, dancing upon the shore.” Quoting from a variety of spiritual and creative sources, HEROICALLY FOUND posits that the way to find equilibrium in these challenging times is through mindful presence — a meditation that opens our hearts and minds to art, to poetry, and to unexpected blessings. For writer Jen Payne, those blessings often include creativity, inspiration, and beautiful rays of insight revealed during her walking meditations in the woods and along the shore. Come along and see what you can find yourself!
INGREDIENTS: appropriation art, collaged elements, color copies, color scans, colored markers, digital art, ephemera, essays, found art, found objects, found poetry, hand-drawn fonts, handmade rubber stamp art, ink jet copies, land art, laser prints, original photographs, poetry, and quotes. With gratitude to Keri Smith and guest appearances by Dale Carlson, Joseph Cornell, Ami McKay, Charles Simic, William Butler Yeats, and more!
Special thanks to the James Blackstone Memorial Library in Branford, CT for its support of MANIFEST (zine).
24-page, full-color 5×7 + inserts, Cost: $8.00 or subscribe and get 4 issues for $25.00.
MANIFEST (zine): Heroically Found is part of THE EXCHANGE, a statewide Connecticut Artist Treasure Hunt on view, August 15 – November 1, 2022 (rain or sun). It includes GPS-tracking, QR codes, and adventuring to 15 unique public art installations by 23 participating artists. The designated sites can be accessed through a map with GPS coordinates found at www.SomethingProjects.net.
You can pay through PayPal using a PayPal account or any standard credit card. If you prefer the old school approach, please send your check, made payable to Jen Payne, P.O. Box 453, Branford, CT 06405.
I am psyched to be part of THE EXCHANGE, a statewide artist treasure hunt happening in Connecticut from now until November 1! CLICK HERE for an interactive map, GPS coordinates, and video clues from all of the artists!
SomethingProjects is launching its first project, a statewide Connecticut Artist Treasure Hunt called THE EXCHANGE, on view daily, August 15 – November 1, 2022 (rain or sun). It includes GPS-tracking, QR codes, and adventuring to 15 unique public art installations. The designated sites can be accessed through a map with GPS coordinates found at SomethingProjects.net beginning August 15.
Get ready for an adventure! Plan your outing to visit the many exciting projects in which the public is invited to engage in fun and meaningful ways in the towns of: Beacon Falls, Branford, Bridgeport, Darien, Easton, Fairfield, Hamden, Hartford, Meriden, New Haven, North Haven, Washington Depot, and Waterbury. Learn about these artists selected from your community by participating in the act of discovering what they have created to exchange with you.
THE EXCHANGE ARTISTS
Jeff Becker, Easton
Meg Bloom, New Haven
David Borawski, Hartford
Susan Breen, Bridgeport
Joy Bush, Hamden
Susan Clinard, New Haven
Jennifer Davies, Branford
Sierra Dennehy, New Haven
Ellen Hackl Fagan, Darien
Crystal Heiden, Milford
Allison Hornak, New Haven
Fritz Horstman, Bethany
Joe Bun Keo, Vernon/Rockville
Judith Kruger, New Haven
Susan McCaslin, New Haven
Bailey Murphy, Meriden
Adam Niklewicz, North Haven
Jen Payne, Branford
Roxy Savage, Fairfield
Max Schmidt, Meriden
Rosanne Shea, Waterbury
Kim Van Aelst, Hamden
Jo Yarrington, Fairfield
ABOUT SOMETHINGPROJECTS
In 2022, longtime friends and artists, Howard el-Yasin and Suzan Shutan decided to partner and launched SomethingProjects: a nomadic and provisional space providing short-term exhibitions that dually highlight artists as well as introducing communities to new viewpoints and practices by state, regional, national and international artists. As an incubator for ideas it encourages artists to step outside their boundaries and experiment with the intersection of materials, production, presentation and means of engagement with audience and space. Their locations will change, and offer site-specific opportunities. For more information about SomethingProjects and THE EXCHANGE, visit www.SomethingProjects.net.
Supported by the Connecticut Department of Economic and Community Development, Connecticut Office of the Arts, which also receives support from the federal ARPA.
**CAUTION** DO NOT USE WATER FOR THE FOLLOWING PURPOSES: SWIMMING AND OTHER WATER CONTACT, FISHING, IRRIGATION, LIVESTOCK WATERING, DRINKING…
Did the green heron see the sign?
Or was he given advanced notice
to vacate his perch on the east side of the pond?
As he left, did he call out to the wood duck brood and mallards?
Warn the turtles, frogs, fish?
“It’s only moderately toxic they say, but I don’t want to take chances.”
(Would you?)
The swan keeps a 40-foot distance, wonders if the chemical floats downstream, wonder if it’s as harmful as the turtle who snapped up her babes last spring.
The northern water snake who often skims across the pond knows not of half-lifes or bioaccumulations.
Nor will the field mouse debate the meaning of practically non-toxic with the bees who remain.
©2022, Poem & Photo by Jen Payne
Of course you were the one to call. It was late, I remember, a rainy night like the last time we met. Cars on the wet, weathered pavement, wipers marking time. Starshine in puddles and you, light years away, saying you knew I’d want to know, knew he’d been important. You knew despite the distance in our orbits, despite our final kiss that birthed a galaxy between us. My heart. You knew.
Poem ©2022, Jen Payne. Image: Mark Plötz.
Lone Seagull
due east of the
Bell Buoy at Mermaid Rocks
is background vocal for
katy-did
katy-did
katy-did
she-did
and the
cicada cricket
chorus
while the frog
in the marsh
sings solo tenor
only
interrupted
by the
footsteps
of a deer
so I,
barefoot too,
ask her:
do you hear
the sound of stars?
Poem ©2022, Jen Payne
The swan has lost her mate,
so I wade ankle-deep in the
shallow pond and
with breath like water
crossover
lie child pose
in her nest
surrogate heart
close to her side
and whisper
Far away, there once
lived a king
who had eleven sons
and one daughter…
Poem ©2022, Jen Payne. IMAGE: The Wild Swans, illustration by Joseph Smith, Tales from Hans Christian Andersen, 1965.
Are those fireflies
come to join my meditation
or all the stars
a constellation
above the grass
as waves crash
in a quiet ebb and flow
of breeze
that catches in trees
and that?
a soft bowl chime
Rinpoche
reminds
or the bell buoy
just offshore
marking time
and breeze,
the tease
of stars
Poem ©2022, Jen Payne. Image: Nicholas Roerich, Star of the Hero.
Some days, I feel like the girl in the tub with the fish in the comedy show hitting so close to home but so far out in left field that eating popcorn while I watch doesn’t seem nearly as awful as eating chicken wings during an episode of Criminal Minds. Me and my dying cat curled up on the floor, my hand stroking her tail — and only her tail because otherwise she thinks I’m about to stick another pill down her throat and she’ll run to hide from me. It’s a terrible thing when a part of your heart runs and hides from you, but I don’t blame her. She likes me best now in the mornings, too tired and stiff for any chase. Instead we curl up, like the girl and the fish in the tub, floating there in the early morning hours as if nothing will ever change.
©2022, Jen Payne. Scene from Hulu’s Life & Beth.
I have a confession to make. For the past six months, I have been disappearing down a rabbit hole, crawling to the backside of the wardrobe, hitching a ride on a tornado…and making my way to the empire of Une Belle Ville.
It started innocently enough — my nephew on his tablet in the backseat on our way home from an adventure.
“What’s that?” I asked, hearing huzzahs and sing-song chimes.
“Forge of Empires,” he said.
“A video game?”
“Yea, it’s cool. You build a city by collecting resources and building an army. I’m in the Stone Age still.”
When we got home, we sat on the couch together and he showed me his city. Just a few random huts, some dirt trails, an obelisk — but it had me at sing-song. So I loaded it on my iphone and away we went, my nephew and me sharing our cities and achievements.
“I’m in the Iron Age!” he announced.
“Me, too!”
“You caught up with me. I have three archers!”
“I built a fruit farm!”
We went on like this for a few weeks, comparing notes as we played dueling technologies. And then one day, I started hearing zap-zap-zap and kaboom instead of huzzah and sing-song, sing-song.
“What age are you in now?” I asked, curiously.
“I’m playing Minecraft.”
“Not Forge of Empire?”
“No. It was too boring. This is better, see…”
And so our paths diverged. He and his kabooms went one way, and I skipped along with my huzzahs from the Bronze age straight on through to the Industrial.
Ok, maybe it seems a little silly. It’s also one of those nefarious escape mechanisms that gets you strung out on dopamine. But given the state of the world (and the state of my family of late)? I’m all in for an extra hit of dopamine thank you very much.
The funny thing is, my city — Une Belle Ville — is exactly the kind of place I’d like to spend my time if the rabbit hole jumping, wardrobe crawling, tornado clinging thing actually worked. My fellow villagers and I rank high in enthusiasm and participate happily as members of the local Guild. We trade instead of battle, we polish instead of plunder, we explore the world and give aid when we can. We have lots of trees and gardens, a rosarium and a butterfly house. There’s a mountain preserve, a Celtic farmstead, and a vineyard. We can see the Oracle of Delphi, the Arc de Triomphe, the Lighthouse of Alexandria, Notre Dame, and a Statue of Zeus all in an afternoon’s walk. We can visit the zoo, laugh on the ferris wheel, take a hot air balloon ride, or climb the steps of the Observatory to see the stars.
So far, I’ve built a paper mill, am working towards a print shop, and look forward to the day I can build a library for my city, because we all need books, don’t we? Those other things that give us a beautiful out, an “I’ll be right back” excuse to leave the 21st century messes and remember what’s possible with a little bit of imagination and some escapism-flavored dopamine. Huzzah!
The bee in the meadow
is chanting,
its words imperceivable
but for the rhythm
the vibration like my own
chanting sometimes
before I start the day
and the bee, like me
is quick in its reverence
quick prayer
like the mealtime grace
of my childhood
God is great
God is good
let us thank him
for this food
Amen
Ommmmm
Bzzzzzzzz
ABOVE: The adoration of Common chicory (Cichorium intybus) by Bicolored Agapostemon Sweat Bee (Agapostemon viriscens). Photo and poem by Jen Payne.
HAPPY INTERNATIONAL ZINE MONTH! Come on over to the Three Chairs Publishing website and join me as we celebrate a month full of zine things! Find out about zines, zine libraries, zine history, how to make your own zine and more!
In the ruins of my cathedral
I can still hear the angels sing
they from their loft of branches
and I on bended knee
begging for absolution
that will not come
not from the pine at the pulpit
sheared off in the storm
not from the maple
whose leaves filtered light
more beautifully than glass
not from the elm or the ash
who lie beneath my feet
extinguished by our blaze
our red hot disregard
so keenly unconcerned
that we are of this and part of this
and crumbling at our very foundation
the beech knows
its grief spreads
like sickness now
leaf to leaf
branch to branch
tree to tree
in the ruins of my cathedral
On May 24, 2022, an 18-year-old with an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle fatally shot nineteen students and two teachers, and wounded seventeen other people, at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas. MANIFEST (zine): Endemic is a response that event. The proceeds from this issue will be donated to Sandy Hook Promise, a national nonprofit organization founded and led by several family members whose loved ones were killed at Sandy Hook Elementary School on December 14, 2012.
12-page, full-color 5×7, Cost: $8.00 or subscribe and get 4 issues for $25.00
Part lit mag, part artist book, part chapbook, MANIFEST (zine) is the eclectic creation of Connecticut writer / poet / artist Jen Payne. Consider it a hold-in-your-hands art installation featuring writing, photography, and artwork, along with bits and pieces of whatnot that rise to the surface as she meditates on themes like change and transition, solitude, time, storytelling, and finding refuge in these turbulent times. Each issue also includes a curated Spotify playlist. Layered with colors, textures, meanings (and music), the result is a thought-full, tactile journey with nooks and crannies for you to discover along the way.
You can pay through PayPal using a PayPal account or any standard credit card. If you prefer the old school approach, please send your check, made payable to Jen Payne, P.O. Box 453, Branford, CT 06405.
randomactsofwriting.net