The warmed blanket
offers as much comfort
as the ghost
who held me in dreams
said all the right things
too late to even consider
a new lease
fucking cliché
at this age
find myself wishing
I were the type
to waste away in bed
where dreams
at least offer promise.
Poem ©2025, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you’ll love my new book SLEEPING WITH GHOSTS, on sale now!
This morning I awoke
long before dawn
to silence
silence
no car’s labored approach
no wind for trees
no waves or buoyed bells
no dull urban hum
it was a silence so soft
so weighted
as if the world had died
as if I had died
both within the bounds
of possible
on this burning year:
supermoon rising
a comet’s approach
devils circling
so I stayed a while
let winter
have her way
with bones
and wrapped myself
in quiet nothing
nothing
Poem ©2025, Jen Payne. Photo of December sky from NASA, by Preston Dyches. If you like this poem, you’ll love my new book SLEEPING WITH GHOSTS, on sale now!
The earthquake of a man
who altered
the course of my life
three seismic times
was nearly killed
several arrhythmic times
just last week
and I want to tell you
I felt the aftershocks
I want to tell you I knew
woke with a start
felt his fault line shift
I want to tell you
I felt something
so I’m standing here
bare feet on the ground
waiting to be moved.
Poem ©2025, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you’ll love my new book SLEEPING WITH GHOSTS, on sale now!
As one ghost lies dying
from heart ache,
another suffers tragic loss,
and a third fades quietly
into the ether,
she is reminded that
always,
in the epic final battle,
everything resurfaces:
there are fires burning,
smoldering moments of despair,
a defeated arch nemesis,
a warrior waning and
AND
a heroine — walking wounded —
considering the sunrise
its event horizon
the point of no return
from all of this
and all of them
these lost souls
her poetic impetus
what will become of her now?
Poem ©2025, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you’ll love my new book SLEEPING WITH GHOSTS, on sale now!
By the time I can walk
freely to the backyard again,
my summer friends have flown,
their brightness replaced
by soft subtle grays,
and I can’t help but wonder
about the cardinal,
her wing askew,
who spent the season
managing her brokeness
as deftly as I navigated
my own;
she moved about
as best as she could,
stayed strong;
found her stride
and her song.
I miss her now,
these cold mornings
more quiet
without our shared infirmary,
and I imagine her
somewhere safe,
like myself,
moving without limit.
*As if on cue, I saw my cardinal friend in the backyard just this morning, the first time in a month!
Poem ©2025, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you’ll love my new book SLEEPING WITH GHOSTS, on sale now!
Do the birds know
I am not myself
moving gently towards them
seeds in one pocket
water in the other
barefoot in the cool, damp grass
tticking to call the cardinals
tticking to say I have not forgotten you
I have been here all along
just moving more slowly
finding my way to solid ground
done with the flitterings of grief
and old limitations —
so what of loss?
these leaves had to fall
it is the natural order
churning and churning
everything changing
the leaves, the river,
and time tticking too
Poem ©2025, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you’ll love my new book SLEEPING WITH GHOSTS, on sale now!
the Mystic says to reenvision my life story
to purge the inessential elements
and exorcise old ghosts
this, just days before the Healer
reminds me that old stories
are just old stories
are just old stories
old stories that say
“we don’t have room for you”
right now, anymore, again
“for reasons of space and other limitations
that have nothing to do with your merits”
nothing to do with you
right now, anymore, again
“but thank you for your interest”
so when a friend says she is
taking the YES steps
all I can see is the
surgically precise removal
of my bloodied ego,
its clots and cartilage
forming bitter words on a page
that I’ll turn into kindling soon,
remind myself that forgiveness
and an open heart
(healing and self-love)
sometimes mean
putting down those old stories
and walking away
leaving them to fend for themselves
deep in the dark woods of the past
their smoldering incense
wrapping around
my wicked incantations
while I dance in the freedom
of letting go…YES!
Poem ©2025 Jen Payne. NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Writing 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.
Maybe for breakfast you have one egg and toast without butter, and coffee without cream,
and maybe you swallow down the bitter truth of it with a token smile,
grab your bag from the hallway table, and escape into the crisp, cold morning air
breathe……….breathe for a while
because you know at supper, after work, you’ll only have one glass of wine, if that
and you’ll take those things you brought home with you today — the snips and pieces of passion — and tuck them back into that bag, that safe hiding place until tomorrow
so it’s easier tonight to be one-note and unobjectionable,
small and of no consequence to anyone’s conceit
so it’s easier to say no, no, no, it’s OK, and this is enough,
when what you wanted to say was
“I’ll have orange marmalade and butter, please, and sweet cream that whips to a peak, and three chilled glasses of Rosé.”
“I want to get up on that dance floor, darling, and make a complete fool of myself because one of us is leaving soon, and we won’t get this chance again!”
No matter what we think
or how it feels,
we don’t really break break,
even our break downs
imply eventual turn ups.
Oh sure, we bend a little,
(bend over backwards, too)
fold under pressure sometimes
lean into the pain
collapse with exhaustion
appear to come apart at the seams
and yet…
And yet.
Upon this holy ground of spirit
there is still room to breathe,
we are not damaged, we are flexible
we are not falling apart, we are rebuilding
we are not broken or undone.
By the very fibers of our being,
we are strength and grace
unyielding.
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