I never could
see it in myself,
that origami fold
of accommodation,
beautiful in its grace
and considerations,
but the creases
wear thin after a while;
I see it in her,
this kindred spirit
across from me;
offer silent permission
with a glance
and watch as she unfolds
just a little,
reconfigures her angles
to her own liking,
sets things right,
sets things free.
Poem ©2025, Jen Payne. Photo by Miguel Á. Padriñán. If you like this poem, you’ll love my new book SLEEPING WITH GHOSTS, on sale now!
I love summer
how the ants know it’s coming
before the rest of us realize,
how they announce its arrival in a
parade across my kitchen counter,
their appreciation of the small morsels of sugar
I’ve misplaced, the renegade crumbs
how the mosquitos are consistent
in the hum-hum-sting of their assault
at the backs of my arms, my legs, my scalp
and at the sweet tender skin of my ankles,
how assertively their bites manifest
as persistently-itchy welts
long after the union of
proboscis and skin
I love the sharp pungent aroma of bug spray
its perfumed plumes of offense
that linger on clothing and linens,
its placebo effect that lulls one into thinking
a stroll in the grass or evening walk
is not the suicidal effort it inevitably becomes
how calamine, all these years later, still has little effect
I love how the sun is brighter and hotter now,
how it sizzles in the sky and scares off cloud cover,
how sun begets sweat that trickles down my neck
and back and armpits and the crooks of my knees
so that everything is damp and humid and sticky
including my sheets at night, and the pillows, too
no matter how often I wake and flip them to the cool side,
no matter the window unit chugging along
the fan blowing luke-warm air and irony
how humidity hangs in the air,
keeps everything summer moist
swells up my fingers, makes mock raisins
of my toes in their constricting summer sandals
that bind and dig-in, leave criss-cross marks
like tattoos that say Summer Was Here
I love the incessant noise of lawn mowers
the ARRRRRR ARRRRR ARRRRR beat of blades
the tease as they fade around the corner
but return for another stanza
often accompanied by the
RRRRRRA-ZZZ-ZZZ RRRRRRA-ZZZ-ZZZ
of the weed whacker
Oh…all of those summer noises!
the startling shock of motorcycle manhood as it revs its engine
just as it passes my open window,
the cigarette boat in the harbor insisting no it
is bigger and better than any motorbike
the backing-up beep of the landscape van,
the beat box boom box bass of radios blasting music nobody likes,
the violent scream of the chain saw against even more trees,
the fireworks erupting to celebrate their own percussive noises
in an ongoing summer competition of what the fuck can be louder than this?
I love the busy-ness of summer:
the ants and mosquitos mere poster children
for the weeds, the outside chores,
and the inside chores,
the long and sprawling list of Things to Do
and Places to Be and just how many
carnivals, fairs, markets, and outdoor sweaty buggy get togethers
can one fit into a two-day weekend that requires
hours of slogging through touristy traffic
crawling along at 20 sweaty, noisy miles an hour
Perhaps, though, what I love most about summer
is that tortuous steamy day in August,
as heat forms in waves off the macadam
and gossip spreads of eggs frying and Lucifer rising,
when the air conditioner coughs its last breaths
of what passes at that point for “Cool”
when you look, then, to the heavens
to beseech god up above to make it stop
and you see what appears to be trees aflame…
and know, intuitively, that soon it will end
graciously and gloriously end.
Poem ©2025 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 is often
effortless
this charge
a light somewhere
a word
a phrase
a road highlighted
on an internal GPS
how to get from here
[ thought ]
to there
[ something written ]
with little but
an invisible arrow
a compelling
a compulsion
an understanding
that it’s fleeting
unforgiving
fickle
if not me and mine
then someone else
somewhere else
will get it
catch it
in whatever way
they have learned to catch
mitt, net, rain barrel
I prefer mine
organic
open a door
a window
my arms
let the words come right in
no ceremony
or formality
no place settings
and certainly
no roughhousing
(live and let live,
I always say)
you wanna be a good poem
or a bad poem,
one anointed with laurels
or just doddering
in the margins?
come on out
with all your slick juices
scream and wail and
take that first breath, baby!
and then there it is
whatever it is
good, bad, mediocre
I don’t mind them
any of them, really
they’re warm-ups
stretches
practice runs
compost
take a deep breath
because the good ones?
Mmm, yeah,
the good ones,
they glow!
preternaturally
hum and buzz
and vibrate a little
so you have to keep
reading them
over and over
pinching a dream
is this real?
You just birthed
an angel, mama —
a wild wondrous angel —
watch her fly!
Poem ©2025 Jen Payne. Photo by Eusebiu Soica. 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 pull out a
The
like a step ladder
how else to get
up and into a poem?
It
also works
I is a steep incline
and We takes some effort
of course
someone somewhere
might shout
TAKE IT OFF!
like they do commas and capitals but then we might find ourselves flat out and running on and on with none of the visual implications of poetic pauses
The
at least gets me started
revs up the reader for what comes next
without
It
I might just be Haiku
©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.
The specter
I never reveal
is in the line next to me
and I step back
as if to disappear
behind a display
only an illusion
funny, we were here
the last time I saw him
and he called out
across the parking lot
an apology that seemed sincere
but somehow haunting
I still hear it
The fraught words
admission of the time
he went a little crazy
so much I left lights on
and locked doors
listened for creaking floors
the ghost of a threat
Photo by Plato Terentev. Poem ©2024 Jen Payne.
If you like this poem, you’ll love the poems in my new book…
I’m afraid I stayed too late in dreams
this lovely autumn morning
turned and turned and turned again
because I was flying
Flying!
and I didn’t want to land,
become pedestrian
in the pursuits of the day
I wanted to keep flying
over the black sand beach
where it started
over the incoming tide
its waves no longer at my feet
over the jetty
where people stood and stared
I want to stay with the
monstrous effort of lifting,
of pushing the air like water
higher and higher
as if I was drowning before
and
perhaps
I was
Perhaps that —
all of that —
was just drowning
and this is rebirth
pushing and pushing and pushing
forward or up or through
blankets puddled on the floor
sun streaming through the window
the morning roaring
Get Up!
no matter that I already am
Photo by Nadin Sh. Poem ©2024 Jen Payne.
If you like this poem, you’ll love the poems in my new book…
The review says my poems are accessible
and I know that is a gold star
on something so easily otherwise considered
not something one reads on the fly
though quite the contrary, one does or one can
I do anyhow
keep a dog-eared volume
within easy reach for a metered pause
now and then and again
The volumes change-out of course
famous old school to popular lowercase
he said, she said, now more they saids,
collections and anthologies and
the short-but-sweet chaps
Which is not to say they all get gold stars
some enhance my furrowed brow,
deepen the lines that live there,
make me close-up a book with a clap
some even, I confess, make me feel small
stupid, insipid, imposter
Like the time that Rogue Poet
infiltrated my writing group
and made us all feel somehow lacking
somehow not good enough
somehow not even poets
Like the time the Queen Bee
sat in the front row and watched
the little drone vibrate so much the mic shook
and the poems fell sharp and hard to the ground
and her look — just her look — said
you are not something one reads at all
ever, not even on the fly
I wonder sometimes if they were real,
the Rogue and the Queen Bee,
and not some amalgamation of my self
and all of her inner critics —
you are a fabrication, imitator, mutt
with no pedigree for poetry
stop now please
But someone — or someones —
think I am deserving of a gold star
5 stars sometimes too
with accolades and atta girls
and just enough kindness to make me feel
momentarily monumentally poetic.
Photo by ArtHouse.
If you like this poem, you’ll love the poems in my new book…
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. .
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
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
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.
randomactsofwriting.net