How I’ll Glow Up

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

Do Unto Others

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

Some Days I Just Want the Jiffy Corn Muffin

• 

• 

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

Finding Exile

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

Poet on a Rock

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

The Shy Ones’ Hour

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.

May’s Full Moon

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.

30 – To My Muse

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

29 – Just Once in a Very Blue Moon

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

28 – New Eden Revealed

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

27 – Resistance is Futile

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

26 – When Will They Ever Learn

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

25 – I Live in a House of Cats

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

24 – Incognito

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.

23 – The Fine Print: A Dream

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.

22 – Rebuttal

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.

21 – The things I didn’t say…

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.

20 – the gods are weeping

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.

19 – LOVE is My Logo

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.

18 – What if La La La Is My Superpower?

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.

17 – Treeline

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.

16 – Double-Dutch

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.

15 – Long Weekend

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.

14 – The Face of Waiting

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.

13 – 50-Word Classified Ad: Rose Colored Glasses

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.

12 – In which the poet considers the half-life of love by way of nuclear reaction

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.

11 – Places of Waiting

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.

10 – Grieving Place, II

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.

9 – Charlatan Prophet Preaches

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.

8 – Trauma Theory

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.

7 – Tribute: Sargent’s Weeping Hemlock

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.

6 – What Forgiveness is Due

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.

When the Mania Collapses in On Itself Again

for Janet

She — burning red on the outside rim
of a recent manic spin,
her hair in flames —
could not find space to fit
her guru self
anywhere in the cockpit,
left it and its
lowercase god
— the one she introduced me to —
somewhere in the space
where the inhale and exhale meet

she was barely breathing
words shooting through the air
like pew! pew! pew!
and her eyes…
her eyes were blazing madness

she was madness
at my doorstep burning
her counsel afire with delusion

I tried to reach out —
breath like a blanket
to swathe the flames,
while my heart screamed
drop and roll! drop and roll!       please

please     come back

I reached into that space
her galaxy of lunacy,
but her trajectory
was light years from now

gone!

I hear she touched heaven
learned to breathe in a final breath
found peace as she dropped
into the hands of god

Image, Thundering Neurosis by Mario Sanchez Nevado, used here with permission from the artist. For more of his work, visit www.marionevado.art.

Under His Spell (or I am Sure He Was a Sorcerer)

I saw him fly once
up a steep flight of stairs.
I tried to outrun him
(but wasn’t too scared).

Watched him drive blind
down a street’s wrong side —
from a kiss no less.
(I was there for the ride.)

He disappeared like ghosts.
Gone for weeks, not days.
He drove into a tree once,
walked away unscathed.

He’s cheated death and watched death
and wrestled it in the street,
he’s had past lives and nine lives,
and one I’ll never meet.

His devil’s smile and demon laugh
they melted me every time.
Telepath, empath —
I swear he read my mind.

He foretold our future
in such hypnotic prose,
then all of it came true.
(or mostly, I suppose).

He was impulse, reactive
conniving, and wild,
charming, seductive,
I was broken, beguiled —

Because I ate all his lies
(and fed all his fears).
My heart craved his magic,
But his voodoo stole years.

Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. Image: Tamara and Demon, Mikhail Vrubel.

Enjoy the Ride!

Fair warning, Friend.
The ride is shorter than it seems.
After the first few hills,
the thrill tapers off.

Then expect lots of bunny hops

up, down, up, down
up, down, up, down

Best to allow for leg room.
And breathing room.

If you have a high-tolerance
for that kind of thing,
you might enjoy an extended ride,
just table any expectations,
and make yourself a little smaller
(if you know what I mean).

Either way, it’s all downhill from here.

Enjoy the ride, though. It’s not bad,
there at the top of the first hill.
It’s exciting and full of promise.

Wheeeeee!

Until the bottom drops out.

Then you have to scramble,
remember where you left yourself,
gather the bits and pieces
from underneath it all.

There’s no refund for time spent,
so salvage what you can:
photobooth memories and souvenirs.

Poem ©2023, Jen Payne

Rockport

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