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

Preparing for Aestivation

Today’s warm breeze
is not the first sign, of course,
it started weeks ago
when the clocks moved forward
and the sun shifted,
when I folded my favorite sweater for the last time
and the wide windows welcomed
the cacophony of spring sounds —
motorbikes, lawnmowers, chainsaws, barking dogs,
the hammering, hammering, hammering —
soon the shimmery waves of heat
will rise from the pavement,
the mass throngs of people will
congest on sidewalks, beaches,
street corners, town parks,
the hallowed trail I call Heaven,
and the endless days will unfold
hour by hot, humid, buggy hour
while I stock up on iced things,
hoard stacks of library books,
move to the cooler part of the house,
give praise to the window machine
beneath which I’ll spend the months
dreaming of those long and silent winter days,
their fertile ground for contemplation
and undisturbed peace.

Aestivation is a state of animal dormancy, similar to hibernation, although taking place in the summer rather than the winter. It is characterized by inactivity and a lowered metabolic rate, that is entered in response to high temperatures and arid conditions. Image: Snailhouse by Raiskina Marina. Poem ©2023, Jen Payne.

Introvert at the Event

I may as well be invisible
in this library of ghosts
only the manager sees me
tells me I am early
motions to the chairs
by sunlit windows
where flowers bloom
my shadow cast
long against the dusty floor
it, the only other notice
of my presence…
conversations collide
around me
old friends embrace
offer bouquets of smiles
brush past without excuse
so I step back,
meditate on book spines
pretend they are company enough
until the show begins
and I listen to stories
and laughter
my chair rocking slow —
I bet they think its haunted.

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.

5 – Grieving Place, 1

in the morning, usually,

before the day-to-day began

there was a space in which

you could hear the tide

watch the tightrope act of crows

their sunrise spotlight

smell the pitch pines

and housekeeping steam

Beverly or Doris arrived by 9

in a clamoring of car doors

and office doors

before the creak of steps

when Thaiwin appeared

with fresh towels

that soap that said

Bienvenue

and I was Welcome

every time for a decade

big smiles and warm hugs

first names and

how are yous like family

at the start of my days

those weeks by the shore

Photo & Poem ©2023, Jen Payne in memory of weeks spent in an old time hotel by the shore. The Village Green on Cape Cod, now closed, was sold in 2021 by the owners after 35 years in business. #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.

4- Whispers & Jingles

 It’s a whispers and jingles day in the woods
 
late winter winds wind through the pines
 
who whisper secrets to each other
 
then toss them across the pond
 
confidences crowdsurfing treetops
 
while beach leaves tambourine
 
a tintinnabulation

of tinkling and jingling

mingling

in breezes teasing spring

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.

3 – Reformation

You forget you already know god,
walk her hallowed halls each day,

run your hands along her life lines
as you caretake her sanctuary

You swim in her holy water,
feel her pulse in the tides

breathe her incense,
read scripture in the trees

you sing to the divine,
its holy spirit aloft on wings

How could you forget god is everywhere
where you breathe and where your step

there’s no need to lockstep,
posture, or preach

salvation is just a walk away
then, and again, and today

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.

2 – No Poem Today

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.

1 – April Comes This Morning

It is certainly not quiet this morning…
5am and the spring peepers are already
singing their songs, a chorus of them
proclaims     April!     bright and loud
and
just an hour ago, the coyotes joined in
rejoicing in triumph,
that soulful sound as seasons change

and now the rain begins
no surprise

April showers bring May flowers

besides
thunder in the east was fair warning
a storm approaches

quick or wicked
we never know except
soon the birds will wake
shake off their damp wings
call out to the dawn again
another day     for the lucky ones

Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. Written the morning after a wave of deadly tornadoes swept across the country. Photo by Damir Mijailovic. #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.

Happy National Poetry Month!

“Launched by the Academy of American Poets in April 1996, National Poetry Month is a special occasion that celebrates poets’ integral role in our culture and that poetry matters. Over the years, it has become the largest literary celebration in the world, with tens of millions of readers, students, K–12 teachers, librarians, booksellers, literary events curators, publishers, families, and—of course—poets, marking poetry’s important place in our lives.”

Click here to read more about this annual celebration, then visit 30 WAYS TO CELEBRATE NATIONAL POETRY MONTH for suggestions on how you can join in!

My favorite way to celebrate is to join with the thousands of poets participating in NaPoWriMo — NATIONAL POETRY WRITING MONTH —in which we write a poem a day for the month of April.

While NaPoWriMo is celebrating 20 years this year, I’m happy to say this will be my 9th year attempting to write 30 poems in 30 days! Here we go!

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

Narrative Arc

We blurred the shape of time,
bent it forwards and back,
twisted it enough to find common ground
there in those early fairy tale days
when I was so astonished by Us I wept

Our movements so in sync
it seemed we were cut from one bolt of cloth
only one stored for a decade or more in a castle
full of favorite old books and songs
and endless stories — his and mine
and the ones we tell ourselves about Love
and who we are IN Love

But I never thought to look up
see the turrets and towers along the wall,
pay note to the bunker safely guarded,
the pock marks in that common ground,
the mortally wounded specters
who watched their watches
betting on our time
our precious, precious time

I thought the enemy was age
that Loss would come as natural cause and effect, expected
a well-roundedness to its execution
but I was wrong

Loss seeped slowly between the cracks I didn’t know at first were there
forced itself into the weakest places of Us
the way ivy overtakes mortar in a wall
until all that was left was the evidence of time we call Memory.

©2023, Jen Payne

Late December Bird Watch

The mourning doves are here for the winter,
eight by this morning’s count at the feeder before

eight by their count now on the slight-sagged branch
where they wait out the starlings
with hope there is something left

that galaxy of stars like a black hole
devours everything
leaves morsels for small sparrows at least
who will sneak back later to peck out
their gratitude in code on the frost

I read it sometimes, their code of thanks,
wonder if they know I timed it —
spread seeds as soon as the doves arrived,
before the stars descended with the moon

made myself large by the side door
a warning, a warrior

let them have their take, those eight
grief is a hungry thing
even the weeping is enough to lay a table bare

Poem ©2022, Jen Payne. Photo by Jennifer Snyder, Project Feederwatch

Breath Counting

When sleeping with a bear
it is critical to pay attention to the breath —
his and yours.

His will tell you when it is safe
to muck about in dreams
and when it is time
to curl up and play dead.

Death
     in this case: to feign sleep
is a practiced thing

slow     deep     breath     in

slow     deep     breath     out

slow     deep     breath     in

slow     deep     breath     out

Most nights, he’ll forget his hunger
and roll over — you pray
hands clasped around your knees
making yourself small
a burr in the blanket and of far less importance
than himself and his sleep.

©2022, Jen Payne

They’re building infrastructure in the woods

There are tractor marks in the rabbit warren,
that sweet spot on the path where the
bittersweet and grapevines arbored the trail,
where the sounds of commerce faded just enough to hear
the rabbits waiting for you to pass.

It’s bulldozed wide, now four-persons across
nevermind the rabbits
or the winter sparrows who found refuge there
or the jays who loved the grapes
or the pileated whose only recourse
is to tap out an S.O.S. on a nearby dying ash

They’re building infrastructure in the woods, you see
plowing back desperate saplings,
piling debris where the wild asters grew
flattening out the turtles’ fertile slopes

laying instead their misplaced traprock paths
and sweet-smelling lumbered bridges
giving us more room to tramp about
another ingress marked by colored flags
nailed deep into the skins of trees

Tell me please…
Will the rabbits find sanctuary before the snow?
Were the turtles buried alive?
Do the trees weep before the hammer strikes?

Poem and photo ©2022, Jen Payne

Chronos Weeps

What happened to the shape of days?

The slow unfolding of dawn, the clear delineation of time — beginning, end, respite

that marked space for pursuits of gods — Hypnos, Eros, Hephaestus. (Though rarely in that order.)

Our haloed mechanisms godlike now — omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient.

            Hey Siri: Who is Hephaestus?

And so we worship false gods, bow down to their divine scheme,

keep talismans close at hand for fear to miss their callings

their new demands of sacrifice — silence, sabbath, solitude.

I fear they’ve killed Atlas, too, left our world spinning

without the stars to guide us,

without the sun and shadow, our shape of days

and time.

Poem ©2022, Jen Payne. Photo by Scotch Mist, Head of Sculpture of Chronos in Knights’ Hall of Royal Castle, Warsaw, Poland.

NEW! Limited Edition Issue of MANIFEST (zine)

Issue #10, The Lola Poems

“I have lived with several Zen masters — all of them cats,” writes Eckhart Tolle in his book The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment. “Watch any plant or animal and let it teach you acceptance of what is, surrender to the Now. Let it teach you Being. Let it teach you integrity —which means to be one, to be yourself, to be real. Let it teach you how to live and how to die, and how not to make living and dying into a problem.”
 
THE LOLA POEMS is a limited edition, memorial issue of MANIFEST (zine) that honors the passing of my own little Zen master, Lola, by considering the lessons she taught me in our time together.

16-page, 4.25 x 5.5 booklet, Cost: $8.00 or subscribe and get 4 issues for $25.00.

BUY NOW

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You can pay through PayPal using a PayPal account or any standard credit card. If you prefer the old school approach, please send your check, made payable to Jen Payne, P.O. Box 453, Branford, CT 06405.

Now Available! Manifest (zine): Heroically Found

Issue #9, Heroically Found

Taking its theme from the William Butler Yeats poem “A Crazed Girl,” HEROICALLY FOUND considers how we improvise as we go along “no matter what disaster occurred,” finding balance, like the crazed girl, in “her music, her poetry, dancing upon the shore.” Quoting from a variety of spiritual and creative sources, HEROICALLY FOUND posits that the way to find equilibrium in these challenging times is through mindful presence — a meditation that opens our hearts and minds to art, to poetry, and to unexpected blessings. For writer Jen Payne, those blessings often include creativity, inspiration, and beautiful rays of insight revealed during her walking meditations in the woods and along the shore. Come along and see what you can find yourself!

INGREDIENTS: appropriation art, collaged elements, color copies, color scans, colored markers, digital art, ephemera, essays, found art, found objects, found poetry, hand-drawn fonts, handmade rubber stamp art, ink jet copies, land art, laser prints, original photographs, poetry, and quotes. With gratitude to Keri Smith and guest appearances by Dale Carlson, Joseph Cornell, Ami McKay, Charles Simic, William Butler Yeats,  and more!

Special thanks to the James Blackstone Memorial Library in Branford, CT for its support of MANIFEST (zine).

24-page, full-color 5×7 + inserts, Cost: $8.00 or subscribe and get 4 issues for $25.00.

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MANIFEST (zine): Heroically Found is part of THE EXCHANGE, a statewide Connecticut Artist Treasure Hunt on view, August 15 – November 1, 2022 (rain or sun). It includes GPS-tracking, QR codes, and adventuring to 15 unique public art installations by 23 participating artists. The designated sites can be accessed through a map with GPS coordinates found at www.SomethingProjects.net.

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You can pay through PayPal using a PayPal account or any standard credit card. If you prefer the old school approach, please send your check, made payable to Jen Payne, P.O. Box 453, Branford, CT 06405.

The Pond is Quiet Today

**CAUTION** DO NOT USE WATER FOR THE FOLLOWING PURPOSES: SWIMMING AND OTHER WATER CONTACT, FISHING, IRRIGATION, LIVESTOCK WATERING, DRINKING…

Did the green heron see the sign?
Or was he given advanced notice
to vacate his perch on the east side of the pond?

As he left, did he call out to the wood duck brood and mallards?
Warn the turtles, frogs, fish?

“It’s only moderately toxic they say, but I don’t want to take chances.”

(Would you?)

The swan keeps a 40-foot distance, wonders if the chemical floats downstream, wonder if it’s as harmful as the turtle who snapped up her babes last spring.

The northern water snake who often skims across the pond knows not of half-lifes or bioaccumulations.

Nor will the field mouse debate the meaning of practically non-toxic with the bees who remain.


©2022, Poem & Photo by Jen Payne

Upon the Death of a Friend, 1986

Of course you were the one to call. It was late, I remember, a rainy night like the last time we met. Cars on the wet, weathered pavement, wipers marking time. Starshine in puddles and you, light years away, saying you knew I’d want to know, knew he’d been important. You knew despite the distance in our orbits, despite our final kiss that birthed a galaxy between us. My heart. You knew.

Poem ©2022, Jen Payne. Image: Mark Plötz.

Summer Song at 4 a.m.

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