Lines of Demarcation, by Radiance Angelina Petro

Lines of Demarcation
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

 

The robins, squirrels,
the bees investigate the day—
morning’s prashad.

I wake disheveled, but ready
for the journeying. I am the one
who descends—a celestial time-

keeper–a one-person envoy—
sailing towards soundings and distances,
everything elaborating everything,

yet going unchanged. The lines
of demarcation were never real
to begin with.

 

 

 

 


 


It’s Time to Storm the Door, by Radiance Angelina Petro

It’s Time to Storm the Door
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

 

The ark teeters on the water-shedding mountain.
There’s a bitterness in the bones of the dead.
There are no longer roads. The ground,
undernourished for lack of sun and trees,
is putrid mud and marsh. Come on god—do you think
the drying world will be overrun by saints?
There are animals scratching to get out—bellies all agreed
a reckoning has arrived. It’s time to storm the door.

 

 

 

 


 


Almost Unbelievable, By Jennifer Angelina Petro

Almost Unbelievable
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

I seem to always be sailing at night waiting
for the arrival of the day. I hold a misbehaving compass,
and the cherubs at the edges of the maps blow too many winds.

Every now and then moon-sheened dolphins leap over the boat,
and that’s undeniably beautiful. Yet mostly I wait
remembering the holy names, drifting through star-shadowed crags,

and pouring longing onto devotion’s fire, waiting
for the light and sound to come together, bringing me at last,
to your waiting, almost unbelievable, shore.

 

 

 

 


 


Bliss is Real, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Bliss is Real
by
Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

The forest of Tulsi,
where Krishna danced
with the gopis, is still there
opening to a hundred roads.

What does it matter—iron age,
silver age, bronze, or golden?
We’re all dressed like Radha.

The inaccessible one shakes
off the world. Bliss is real.
The bed of the one without a second
is waiting for you.

 

 

 

 


 



The Star-Nosed Mole, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

The Star-Nosed Mole
by
Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

The star-nosed mole has twenty-two rays
shining from its short snout, and that red, fleshy light
guides the blind eyes as it throws dirt behind with grappling claws.

These are bhakti days—even the flea leaps for joy.
What isn’t the shabd? Everything digs
for the vermillion light just ahead behind the dark.

 

 

 

 


 


I Call it Love, by Radiance Angelina Petro

I Call it Love
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

 

Watch the stick of incense travel down—
following the burning, becoming
a cane of ash as it goes. In the vanishing,
does anything need to be named? If it does, all names
are one name, and you get to decide what it is.
This morning, I call it love, and all my thoughts
are one thought, and that too I call love,
and when I rise, my gait will have changed, and the ashes
blown away by the burning.

 

 

 

 


 


When Night Comes, by Radiance Angelina Petro

When Night Comes
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

 

When night comes, it doesn’t dismiss the day.
Instead, it takes it to the river, like
a raccoon carrying a cube of sugar
with its black, velvet hands, and dissolves
it in the passing water. And every time
it looks for the white granules gone—surprised,
but with the hopeful knowing more sweetness
will appear in its hands tomorrow.

 

 

 

 


 


Morning Raga, by Radiance Angelina Petro

Morning Raga
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

 

 

Praise wanders the fields, the wind,
the long roads cut through forests.

What isn’t an altar? Everything practices
devotion, and everyday the morning opens holy books.

Does it matter if we’re in our millionth or seventh
incarnation? We’re all headed towards comforting hands.

It is no mere thing to become aware of your own
glories. Ask the nearest angel or ancestor.

The feeling of nearness, the unlit, ready lamps,
the fair principles of darkness.

I think I would never want the absence of desire.
Samadhi can wait, and every step is your darshan anyways.

The all-encompassing word, the way death washes
nothing away, the full blaze of light—

the day holds nothing in contempt.
Somewhere there’s a brown bear—its fur rippling, like

wheat with hunger, trundling towards a river.
It’s fat-surrounded heart is vigorous with joy and the soon

to be splashing for salmon. The unfolding morning raga
is strumming every string on every heart.

 

 

 

 


 


Reformation is Never Denied, by Radiance Angelina Petro

Reformation is Never Denied
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

 

 

Life works in the living and the dead. We are all manifestations
of light, and energy beams from my leaves and perfumed soul.
With all my ingenuities there are still manifold forms
of the unexpressed mind. Without a cloud in the sky
I am still so diligent in how I pray, and I pick gravel
from my tires with my keys before I drive. I fix my ideas
on stars, ignoring direct contact with the devas in the trees.

Once I heard that plants in a darkened room tremble
when read ghost stories. And walking through Bermuda
grass somehow reminds me all bodies are water carriers.
My changeableness, my stubbornness, my gospel fables,
the little branchlets in my body somehow holy. And I can’t help
but admire Japanese beetles with their copper-sheened
wing covers and forest green heads.

I don’t know where these words are going or if they mean anything.
What I do know is I can’t stop casting my thoughts, like
propellers from maple trees. William Daut said: “Reformation
is never denied.” And so, I’ll keep going—lifting rain-bent daffodils,
and feeding blackberries to chipmunks on my back porch
until my cataloging mind becomes still as a windless pond.