Epiphany

Before sleep had left bones
with dreams still whispering,
as fleeting as the sunrise,
for one short ray of understanding

Without need for scripture or sacrifice,
tithe, temple or testament.
No spokesperson or man behind a curtain
pulling levers of smoke and smite

Not all-knowing, all-powerful,
no rules and regulations in 6-point type.
Just you and me and our daily bread:
how we love one another

If you like this poem, you’ll LOVE Evidence of Flossing: What We Leave Behind, the new book by Jen Payne. Click here to buy your copy today! ©2017, Jen Payne

The Promise of More

Oh good, I just read
we’ll have a new store!
I was worried a moment:
where would I buy more?

More trinkets and whatnots,
more must-haves and then,
not one or two thingies
but eight, nine…no TEN!

Ten more things to purchase,
ten more for display,
ten more for the storage
I rented today.

If you like this poem, you’ll LOVE Evidence of Flossing: What We Leave Behind, the new book by Jen Payne. Click here to buy your copy today! ©2017, Jen Payne

Sustenance

The gull tosses
the fish
with as much
JOY!
as the osprey
overhead
displays
his catch
and I
breathe
the fresh
sea air.

If you like this poem, you’ll LOVE Evidence of Flossing: What We Leave Behind, the new book by Jen Payne. Click here to buy your copy today! ©2017, Jen Payne

The Times They Are a Changin’

It was, really, a rather ordinary house. Small and sufficient. Big enough for him and for her and their children at some point, I imagine. Red with white trim. A small yard out back.

He would sit on the front stoop and wave if you happened to walk by — a neighborly greeting, no matter your relation. You would often pass her on the sidewalk on your way to the Post Office right next door.

Every year, the arrival of spring was broadcast up and down Park Place by the grand display of two magnificent magnolias. Standing guard at the front walk, their canopy enveloped the home in luscious pink blossoms. Their breezes whispered of age and history and time passing…

Today, a dumpster sits in the yard, overflowing. Sections of the linoleum she paced upon at suppertime, the wallpaper from the den where he read the paper, the staircase they walked each night, together. And on either side of the front walk, two lifeless stumps broadcasting for all to see — change.

A dentist’s office I hear. Bright and shiny. Ordinary.

If you like this poem, you’ll LOVE Evidence of Flossing: What We Leave Behind, the new book by Jen Payne. Click here to buy your copy today! ©2017, Jen Payne