After the Ritual

By

Radiance Angelina Petro

After the ritual

ritual continues.

Consider new and old

passageways–walk them,

or not, change directions,

or not. Life explores

you, nudges you

inwards and outwards

with such wild

anticipation and faith

it can barely hold in

its joy and surprise.

Reason and observe

how ways open

and close, expand,

contract. Count blessings–

not as things to accumulate,

but as provisions to use

in lean times, and by use,

I mean, share. Every step

and pause is reverence

for ground and sky,

backspace, and front–

each exhale and inhale,

and holding of breath–

ceremonies for that

precious, holy, mischievous

moment of the remembrance

of the sacred shadow

who moves with us everywhere

we go and don’t go,

until that time when we merge

with it, grow wings,

lift and soar, bank, and rise

into the darkness of another

sleep and awakening

in the universal womb

where sperm and egg

reassemble us cell by cell,

bone by bone, blood

with blood, dream

by dream, ritual

by ritual.

Yes and Because

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

“Because,” say the lavender colored peonies.

“Why shouldn’t we?” say the red tulips and yellow daffodils.

Bees hover and bob their diligent-honeyed answer: “because, why not?”

Cherry blossom petals by the thousands whisper

as they sail into the wind: “It cannot be otherwise.”

The magnolia trees nod in agreement,

and the evening sun-glinted-murmurating sparrows

sporting with the sky sing as one: “It’s true.”

From tadpoles wiggling in green-bordered ponds,

lifting themselves from muck and silt to sun and moon,

to the humpback whale arcing an impossible turn into the air–

they all say: “Yes! It is always yes and because!”

And I keep walking, remembering once again

with every step—the ever shining answer to the lie-

constructed question—no matter the doubts,

no matter the feelings or lack thereof—

I am loved, and why doesn’t matter.

I am worthy because.

And these answers will forever

and ever be the same

to each and every question.

Invisible, yet Ready

By Radiance Angelina Petro

March 29^th, 2023

When you come to the end

of the road, and the path behind

is no longer viable, and the way ahead

seems unlikely—since it is in fact, gone,

take that one more step, even if

it drops into nothing, which, in all

probability, it will.

That’s where grace lives.

That’s where dragons await

with wings ready to part.

So then, fall—

it’s not as if you have a choice

in the matter anyway now.  Gravity still works

in the unknowable.  But so does unreasonable

love.  The kind that comes out of nowhere,

the kind that catches you when you fall,

the kind that suddenly lifts you

and sets you down onto an emerging road—

the kind of love where the remarkable

breathes fire and roars you back into your life,

the kind that walks beside you—invisible yet ready,

at a moment’s notice, to step in front and clear the way—

the way that curves toward a previously unseen horizon—

where a destination calls you forward, one that stays

one step ahead, while at the same time

embracing you as the sea embraces the shore–

one that is, ever was, ever shall be yours

and yours never once to walk alone.

My Undoing

Revised for Poetry Reading at Elkins Park Library,

Wednesday, November 16th, 2022

by Radiance Angelina Petro

I do not want to be reborn.

My birth is still happening–for the rest of my life—

I will be being born.

My life is an unfolding, unburdening,

a blessed untangling, a sacred unveiling, gradual

unloosening, gentle unhusking, tender unlacing,

slow unraveling—an unceasing, uncensored, unrestrainable

joy. My thoughts are unclouded, my needs

unarguable, my light unshaded, my spirit

unharmed, untasted, unleashed.  My life

unbreakable, untwisting, uncoiling.  My desires

unbuttoning, unclothing, unconditionally mine,

unequivocally, wonderful, and exquisitely unquenchable.

My passion unabridged, my shame unlearned

with moments of bliss unhurried, unlocked, unshuttered, and rising.

I unlatch the fence around the garden

and my playfulness rambles unbridled,

uncivilized, uncalibrated, unjudged.

The reasons for my being worthy

are mine and mine alone—beautiful, because I say so.

They are undebatable, undeniable, and clear.  My voice

unedited, undistorted, my brow unfurrowed, my stomach

unknotted, my wildness undomesticated, unlabeled,

untamed, and untamable–feared by many.  My wants

unencumbered, unfaded, unfallen, and fucking

legit, and fucking mine, and there is time to feel

and unfeel, form and unform, freeze and unfreeze.

My ways are unfamiliar, unfettered, unforced,

unforgettable. My sleep finally uninterrupted.

My creativity unbound, unlimited by anything

anyone says or does–my cries unmuffled, my faith

unmovable, my rage unmuzzled, my fears

unneeded, my hours of solitude gladly unnumbered,

memories uncrowded with ghosts, the love

of myself unending, unserious, unshakable,

unseparated.  My cities of wonder, of purpose,

of possibilities—unshelled, unobliterated. My wheels

unstuck, and the road unblocked.  I unsew, unstitch,

the fabric of pain so to feel so to mend so to create

a shawl of wings.  My legs steady, my stance strong.

My innocence untainted, untarnished, unstolen—reclaimed.

My life the gift of a life unlived lived now–I am

my world—unyielding, unstoppable, and gloriously undone.

Monkey, Frog, and the Moon

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

Monkey sits in the darkness by a spring,

its crooked finger points at the moon.

Focus on the moon, frog says, sitting nearby,

forget the finger. The moon is the goal.

Monkey’s face grows silver. The moon is the goal,

repeats monkey over and over inside, until

the words become fingers directing its attention–

which floats away, ribboning a river of mist

through the branches of the trees, which also point

at the moon. And then–

a firefly alights on the tip of its finger, like

a lamp emerging from behind a shroud.

Monkey keeps its attention single-

mindedly on the moon–the goal.

Firefly flickers and winks it’s soft, green light.

And try as it might to not–monkey’s gaze drifts down

and down until, at last (as pieces of the moon flow away

in the spring), it rests on the fancy firefly blinking

its secret, flashing code. Monkey’s eyes became round—

rounder than the moon, and its mind becomes

an astonished, satisfied mind,

and frog widens its definitions of goal and moon,

and licks its lips, measuring the distance

between firefly and its glistening, opening mouth.

A rambling, unedited, stream of consciousness something—maybe a poem, maybe a prayer, maybe both, maybe nothing, maybe everything, maybe called, Interdependence Day.

Sunny skies swirl cloud and blue and sun

not above or below but everywhere in around us all

a shared breath selfsame breath selfsame air

this invisible shared inhaling and blending exhales

this ground of grass and pavement makes for no roads

only one vast common floor

floor of blood floor of starvation of unspeakable must be

spoken violence hate and canceling of people

floor of dancing floor of fighting stolen floor

rights torn away floor must somehow somenow heal floor

bridged floor above

inconceivable now conceivable all swallowing fire

hunger and toppling of trees and collapsing communities

of ingesting entire species into gone and gone and gone

bridges merging never truly apart thirst of soul

of ache for home longing for all fears comforted away and through

everything depends on red wagons and hands across the water

and apple trees and honeybees and putting your hand in the hand

of the one who calms the sea please believe in us tree and fields vegetables

and fruits forgive us our sins against you but have no mercy

but instead rage that sweeps us all into we must change

as long as we share breath of sage of seasons rituals

and last breaths and first breaths playful breaths of children

and of giraffes and bats dolphins and whales the cricket the crane

it swirls blue skies and sunlight swirling differences into somehow

a song lament psalm choir of here now angels

of purple mountains majesty of amber waves of grain

of rockets red glare and ramparts and land not free

but stolen may we breath the spirit of manifest restitution

understanding until ever more justice be done as protests bloom

and riots cleanse and conversations difficult and trembling and hopeful

move us to tears and the ability to bear witness to one anothers pain

of the ability of feeding each other ourselves from shared gardens

free us of the illusion delusions of breath being

our own we share swirling blue skies and sunlight in our bodies

may we fall into each others arms and weep until the healing is done

“Come Here,” says the Morning

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

“Come here,” says the morning,

“there are things to do that don’t involve a bed.”

“Open me,” says the door, “the day invites you out.”

“Over there,” the tree points, “walk beside that creek.”

“Don’t worry,” says the dragonfly, “I am with you all the way.”

“See that?” asks the beam of sun spotlighting

a particular rock sitting half out of the water.

“Hear that?” asks the air.

“Watch this,” says the mallard, ducking its head under,

then coming up shaking bits of light from its iridescent, green collar.

“Try this,” says the heron, standing on one leg and staring faraway.

“Guess what I’m looking at.”

“Feel that?” asks the moment, “I am everything you could have asked for,

and it is OK to ask for more.”

“Think of it,” says the mind, “the world is thinking of you.”

“Imagine,” says the soul, “your body is just as much me,

as I am you. Try dancing. Try singing. Try remembering the future you want.

“Go ahead, let it in. The day is in love with you.”

Newly Risen Roads
A poem of lost words*
By
Radiance Angelina Petro

The city streets turned
wooze-roaded,
the screevers had no sidewalks
to chalk their thorn-crowned saviors,
abby lubbers had nowhere nor anywhen to go,
store fronts shattered and ramshackled,
cafe chairs scattered (strewn) about the marshy road,
this all befounded and cabobbled
the kedge-bellied snogly-g’eared and the flamfoos.
How can this be? They wailed and gnashed
their teeth and beat their chests.
We performed the myomancy and nothing was foretold.
We have done nothing! They shouted,
and cockroaches scuttling sides of crumbling buildings
with nowhere else to go, echoed: Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Each step the people took sank them deeper,
Until the antipodes spoke:

May we ever cease our endless shail-abouting
and davering,
may the dendranthologists be right,
may we one day neeze through new branches
spying shiny-sky-blue eggs,
may we cut away each other’s elflocks
and brush each other’s hair,
promising to sing forth a new dawn,
promising to tend awake the world,
may we one day be weeping-ripe,
in order that we may go glad-warbling
through newly risen roads.

*Lost word meanings from the book, “The Word Museum,” by Jeffrey Kacirk.

1). wooze: marshy ground
2). screevers: someone who draws figures of thorn-crowned saviors on sidewalks
3). abby lubbers: someone who loiters in a church
4). anywhen: anytime
5). befounded: to perplex or stun
6). cabobbled: to mystify or confuse
7). kedge-bellied: someone who stuffs themselves as full as a keg
8). snogly-g’eared: handsomely dressed
9). flamfoos: a gaudily dressed person
10). myomancy: divination by means of mice
11). antipodes: people living directly on the other side of the earth to us, with their feet directly against ours
12). shail-abouting: to move as if bones were loose in their sockets
13). davering: walking around dazed and aimlessly
14). dendranthologists: people who theorize that humans emerged from trees
15). neeze: to go searching for bird-nests
16). elflocks: knots of hair twisted by elves which cannot be untangled
17). weeping-ripe: ready to weep, ripe for weeping
18). glad-warbling: singing or walking joyfully

Let the Day Be Praised

By

Radiance Angelina Petro

Rise from the deep

blue womb of the ocean,

and walk, ungarlanded,

to the tide-swept shore.

Blow a kiss to the past,

and be nourished by froth

and waves, and the strong

togetherness of feet and ground.

Assemble your wishes—

there is no more taking time,

no more time-keeping,

no lengths of time to follow.

Focus on the spot in the skull

that radiates tones—hear them

in advance—their floating, ringing

resonances tickling your insides.

The lungs want air–

sing with your whole body–

let the day be praised–

as one step flows into another,

and a rhythm emerges.

Let the dead watch you go

as you declare your intention—

deep and strong.

Soon you will be armed

with flames and arrows,

as you storm the horizon,

letting the world see

who you really are.