Tadpoles in the Frog Pond

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

The thunderstorm has rolled up

its heavy canvas bags,

and is off to the next town,

bees go back to composing

the narrative of the day

in satins and velvets,

the sun slips back into the sky

on a shining blue gondola,

and throws light into the trees.

Sometimes it feels like the night

nearly succeeds in preventing

the day,

sometimes the day seems academic

and uninspired, and one daffodil

is all daffodils,

and sometimes what you want

is misnamed profane, and what you don’t

is misnamed sacred.

Whatever the case may be,

or how baffling the bonds you make

in the night are, shadows

have their own nuanced glow,

and nothing is unforgettable,

and there are still tadpoles in the frog pond.

Abide within yourself.

It’s easy to become too spiritual,

like me.

The day expands and contracts

with or without you. May as well

loosen your voice

and circulate vowels and consonants

through your breath, and sing forward

into your life.

One day you will roll up

your empty canvas bags,

and be off to the next town.

Something to Remember

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

There are ants in South America,

and parts of Texas and Louisiana,

that cultivate mushrooms.

They forage, cut, shave, and compost leaves;

they knead and heap the mushroom beds,

sowing the spores with meticulous care;

they fertilize it all with their own tiny,

ant shits. The mushrooms (rhozites gongylophia),

would never exist if it wasn’t for their diligence.

They carry the sails of their leaves across

the sea of undergrowth, shuttling spores in little

caravans; they communicate with substrate-born

vibrations, and they even mate in the air. And,

when the queen leaves the colony in search

of fresh soil, the first source of nutrients

for the new garden is her own wings,

which she tears off and lays there, like

iridescent blessings to keep the future alive.

Afterthoughts

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

Ever wonder what the dead think about

when they watch the living? Let me tell you.

They think about how it is you haven’t

figured out that eternity isn’t a particularly

good incentive when it comes to hopes and dreams.

They think about the shifting source of light,

and how it pursues you to the end,

and how it causes you to be brilliant, yet

staggering, when it comes to the hazardous

business of loving someone. They know

miracles when they see them. They know all about

the fascinating intricacies with which you try

to delineate time. They remember what is was like

to be barely present, and how the forces

of need and want become life’s afterthoughts.

They think about how they forgot the first work

was to find themselves, and ultimately, how

the whys of this and that become just

another irrelevancy in a long line of irrelevancies.

They think about how they didn’t notice day-to-day

revelations in their perfectly well-hatched plans.

They wonder if you will ever see the sun flooding

distant hills, or the moon shepherding stars.

They wonder if you will be more careful

than they were when following the mere, guiding

outlines of the late-evening roads leading to where

you think you should go.

Hope and Astonishment

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

The Devas in the trees investigate

your movements with feathery thoughts,

deciphering shadows and wind.

They know all things tremble,

and that you cannot flatter the soul.

They know spring has no idea

how to be modest. What they want

–and you can believe they want,

is for you to tremble just enough

to fall into the hands of right now,

and to then rise up with all the audacity

and mischievousness of the morning.

Testify to the power of praise,

and with the bell of your mouth,

ring out songs of hope and astonishment.

The key to it all is that there are no locks,

no lofty heights to attain. There is only joy

and sorrow,  and the spreading of wings into the sky.

Maybe for the Sake of the World

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

Have you ever felt the earth of your life

crumble, and then experience

the depths of love others have for you,

and suddenly become hungry

for shadows, raving, raging, and finding

a way out? If you haven’t,

consider nothing impossible. Someone,

or some community of someones,

loves you so much, and maybe for the sake

of the world, that you finally see being loved

isn’t so bad after all, and then you change forever

into what you always wanted to be.

All Manner of Hope

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

It’s easy to misinterpret shadows–

and to not know whether or not the moon

is the moon or a scythe.

Up to, and beyond the point of imagining

anything, it’s good to remember it’s all

up in the air.

And yet, bees, those librarians of the day,

still hum about their work, and drapery

still follows the form of the body.

Strings yield to tuning, and leaves fall

on the backs of elephants, and ants

caress each other with their antennae.

The day, with all of its movable parts

(and, for whatever reason, takes excursions

into the realms of faraway, while at the same time

concentrating on other things), is always

at hand, but loosely so, and without shame,

for there is no sin in wanting tomorrow.

No matter how we see the moon,

the shadows—darkness can be luminous

and within its folds all manner of hope.

Take comfort in not knowing. Mysteries

are the way into the wonderful, and understanding

even a moment, isn’t the end of the road.

Meditation in C

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

The day slowly closes its doors and shadows begin

taking up residencies around park benches and dishes left in the sink,

evening drapes silver in the willow—not unlike the streaks of silver in my hair,

the growing darkness makes the heaps of buildings and abandoned factories

into asylums of shadow. Thunder sounds a blast, and lightning creates

little skirmishes between what you think you see and what is actually there.

It is important for me to remember

darkness is susceptible to light,

and breaks easily. No matter how dark the night gets

moonlight fringes treetops and gardens,

and no matter how heavy the bundles

of shadows on my back become, light has gone

mountain hunting, and will return tomorrow

to begin its careful workmanship on another day.

I know there is necessary darkness, and morning can be recklessly sudden

and bright, so before the avalanches of rain begin to fall, I let the night

shepherd me to my door, and I forfeit the day for the reverence of fear.

You see, dreams are coming to carry me down shoals of rivers

flying towards the sea. Everything in my head will become disheveled

even before I take off my clothes, and someone will swear me to secrecy,

and I will find myself just outside the garden of Eden, where I will look down

and find the serpent’s tooth, and wonder how I will ever make it across the long

diameter of woods. This happens almost every night, and I end up kneeling among

salamanders and sylphs, only to begin swaying until I slump over,

giving myself up to the old theologies of guilt.

But maybe this time, the silver in my hair

will be ungovernable, and I will hear

the deep melodies of blood flowing

through my veins, and I will snatch up the ember

that has spirited from the day, and perhaps,

with a tinge of the demonic, stand

through the little shiverings, and

embroider the night with fire.

Hymn

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

Through every gate angels spread in descending curves and wild delight–

bringing quickenings and seeds of roses.

Ananda! Ananda! Ananda!

The innermost is now outermost, as the Great Imaginatrix

brings her absurdities of joy and a thousand reassurances,

and elaborations of flowers and bliss.

The intuitive swinging of branches to-and-fro, says it all—

this ecstasy, this immediacy of music is for you. Ananda!

All heartbeats are given, and everything is the source of everything,

and everything is amenable to desire.

And the magic of farming, and the magic of bridges

surprises even all of heaven.

And pre-cum is adorable, and sweat initiatory, and everything

is kin to the lion and the lamb.

And every eagle and pelican, salamander and frog, every manta ray

and cuttlefish—shatters chains of thoughts.

And while the ax is ever-present, so are seeds of roses,

and contingencies of sweetness, and Saraswati strums the vina,

and the outermost is innermost, and mountains are faithful,

and rebirths too, and all things incline towards unison.

Ananda! Ananda! Ananda!

Angels are here! Angels are here! Angels are here dancing among us.

Why Square a Circle?

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

All those thingamabobs in that one

kitchen drawer reveal the genius

of dreams. Who was awake when they

opened the drawer, slipped in another

something or other, and then slid the drawer

closed?

There are no edges to the mind, no corners,

no boxes to think out of, and it is more

than knowing there are no boxes in the first place.

There’s only a circle as wide as the world,

and why square a circle?

There are Time Beings and Idea Beings

that live in the mind. The Idea Being plays

in the darklight, and wants to know everything,

and ventures out whether we realize it or not,

and goes on little quests that sometimes

turn into epic ones, and vice-a-versa.

The point is there is no point, no linear

one track mind. Idea Beings are into surprises.

The Time Being stands in silence

in the center of the circle and counts noon

to noon—not waiting, not wanting, not

expecting anything. It only fashions

preludes, and sometimes ventures out

so we can venture in. Sometimes

they reveal themselves when we open

the drawer and wonder—smiling–

how it all came to be, and why, knowing

whatever it was we are searching for

will not be found (it’s in another drawer).

And so, for the Time Being, this is one

of those moments when it offers its hand

to the Idea Being, so they can dance themselves

into flight, flying far outside the circle.

Remind Me

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

Remind me again that my baggage

is collapsible, and that I can stop kicking,

that everything eclipses something,

and that everything is more than itself,

and that when roots shift, they carry bones,

and how I must put up with risks,

and that light is supported by darkness,

and that it takes time to possess space,

remind me again that you will enter my life unseen

and start singing, that you will guide your breath

through consonants and vowels, and spin words

into tones, and that, if needed,

you will hold a note that curtails time,

remind me again that your voice

can feel like thunder in the air,

and that it can also shine like a firefly

describing the evening,

please, let your voice leave your lips

gliding, unharmed, light-combined, star-

distilled, nectarous, giving rise to waves

inside me, touch my sleeping wings–

help me remember sky, and the bliss

of being myself.