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.
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.
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
The moon and I shared space today
before the world awoke
and though we both were silent
it felt as if we spoke
about this wild spinning thing
and how it does transpire
the comedy and tragedy
and all the little fires
That golden wink up in the sky
a secret shared with me
our sweet spot in the morning
its rare tranquility.
I am sure the red fox wonders,
as does the otter and friends,
what happened to the horizon,
why the light that’s not a star shines
from sun down to sun up
with no seeming purpose,
why the fresh salt air is slow to come
The gulls know, of course
They see from the sky
the new and larger rooftops,
the wide expanses of useless green,
the decks and porches and drives,
the construction constructed from the edge of their pond to the edge of the harbor
They see even, in the biggest living room
of the biggest house
the big screen TV,
which,
on certain mornings,
lights the horizon just like a sun,
casts shadows on the fox
and the otter
who will never know again
the rush of first light and certain breezes.
Alive without breath,
As cold as death;
Never thirsty, ever drinking,
All in mail never clinking.
My nephew, fresh from the pages of Tolkien,
sees a fish carcass on the beach,
predicts Gollum! though we both wonder.
He considers the waves left from a storm,
the wind that blows us each askew,
thinks with furrowed brow, like me
as I sift through those things I know:
the trespass of raw sewage
and slick film of leached oil,
the change of warming waters,
our persistent lack of rain.
But he’s off on a new adventure now,
throwing boulders with grunts and gasps,
Take that! he yells, a holler into the wind
as loud as mine would be if allowed
to grieve the things he cannot see.
The contrast of
misty gray
against
May green
in the treetops
out the window
tells me it’s raining
before I even hear
the gentle tapping
on leaves
and grass
and spring flowers
bowed in gratitude
for the veil of quiet
descending
even poets bow
for the respite
stay inside
the rain says,
there’s a poem waiting
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