Frisbee
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Once I saw a dog jump after a squirrel in a tree,
and end up hanging by a branch in his mouth, until

he realized he could just stop biting and let go–
at which time he did–only to immediately

go chasing after a frisbee. And I remember thinking:
so much of a dog’s life is one unexpected joy

after another, and their universe is complete–knowing
nothing but miracles. Which then helped me to remember:

I can’t tell you the last time I made a fist,
and astonishment is a regular part of my everyday,

and there is no real distinction between us and nature,
and no real need to go chasing after facts, because,

when it’s all said and done, it doesn’t matter
who invented the kiss, and it’s impossible to wander

fruitlessly, and, if I ever do find myself stuck in a tree,
I hope I remember–there is nothing stopping me from letting go.

Which Brings Us to Today
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

I get mixed up sometimes
and go around saying:
“I am not this, I am not that,”

until I am left with who I am,
which isn’t exactly clear, and so
I try reverting back to spontaneity.

One thing I do know is pain
is the gap between pleasures,
and something shines in all things,

and that the mind divides, the soul
multiplies, the heart adds,
spirit subtracts,

and when I wake up in the morning
my dreams swiftly and smoothly,
take steps into my life,

leaving me to remember
there is no stamp of reality. So,
sometimes I pray

to Saint Anthony, like my mom
used to tell me to do when I lost
something, but since I’m not sure

what it is I’m looking for
this ends up being an act
of frustration, and so I keep looking

anyway. “Look well,” says
Something. “Opening doors
and peeking into rooms counts,”

says the dusty furniture within.
“So does eating an orange,”
says the orange. One time

I found a dust-covered piano, and ran
my hand along the top, and dust
rose into the light, and I swear

it turned to gold, and so, satisfied
for the moment, I went back and back,
knowing everything leads somewhere,

which brings us to today, and why I am
telling you this. I’m wondering:
can you give me some clue

as to who I am? You see,
I’m on the case, and it’s possible
I can only find the answer with you.

Another Game of Tag
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Once, my second graders and I were playing tag
on recess, on the newly mowed field,
when suddenly

a hawk

swooped out of nowhere, dove,
snatched up a very surprised squirrel from
the center of the field, and lifted it to a branch
in a nearby tree.

My students and I stood stunned,
eyes wide, mouths unsure whether
to make an “O,” or grimace.

We could see the hawk dipping its beak
into the squirrel–pulling out purple bits and pieces,
and when the recess bell rang
we walked slowly back to class knowing
whatever it was we were about to go learn
would mean little compared to this.

The next day, my students
found the squirrel’s tail at the base of the tree.
We marveled at it. “Can we keep it?” asked one.
“That’s gross,” said another.” I said: “I think
we should leave it where it is.”
But one student stuffed it in his pocket
and said: “I’m taking it home to show my mom.”

We shrugged and nodded, and went to go start
another game of tag.

There’s a Dog Barking in the Monastery
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

There’s a dog barking in the monastery,
there are men who drown on land. Even the wisest

grope in the dark, and lightening reveals the nature
of spirit, and I am still alive, and long ago stopped drawing

lines in the sand, and somehow eight becomes nine, and nine
becomes ten, and so on, and so forth, and no matter what

someone will have the last word. It’s my hope to be relaxed
and generous, and while silence has its faults, and the night

and I are so often not on the same page, I have still managed
to empty my mind once or twice (haven’t figured out where

it’s contents goes though), and I’ve been doted on by the wind,
and I still laugh at the word “eyeball” (it’s an eye and a ball),

and I have a zeal to do good, and if I were a snake
in a basket I’d gladly allow myself to be drawn out

by the snake charmer’s music. But really, if you need me
today, I’ll be in a monastery somewhere

in the cloudy mountains, barking as soon as
the meditation bell begins to ring.

I Don’t Know What to Pray
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

A house near All Hallows Church has Tibetan prayer flags
strung from a maple to the side of the front porch. The wind

examines them carefully, turning each one over, asking
questions now and again, and after awhile,

the questions begin to fall, like whirlybirds. A few fall within
reach, and I catch them as they do, and examine them carefully,

turning each one over, and wonder if any of the seeds share the same questions,
since many of them fall while kissing. And what of my own questions?

Have my eyes ever blazed? When was the last time
I ladled soup for someone? Have I ever had to say to myself:

“Don’t move.” When was the last time I looked through a kaleidoscope?
Is kindness ever wrong? And what would happen (if anything)

if I sat beneath a banyan tree? I pause, fireflies rising in the graveyard
next to the church, and then, I fling the seeds back into the air,

and watch them spin in the late evening sky, wondering
if the prayers will be answered, even though I myself, don’t know what to pray.

The Proud Grasshopper
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Kingyu Osho used to dance around his bowl of rice
before sitting down to eat, much to the chagrin
of the rest of the sangha.

You are your own ledge, and there is no need
to rack your brain about whether or not to jump.
Why scold yourself for anything?

We all hold the same string, and every night matures
into day, and who are we to judge those who pierce
the nostrils of an ox?

Face any direction, and leap. It’s OK to land
in the center of the circle, but you needn’t capture the tiger,
or try to tell the difference between dragons and snakes.

The universe expands, like love expands, and hate
eventually arrives at emptiness, and the clam swallows
the moon, and if you pick up a toad it will pee in your hands,

and somewhere a rhinoceros swishes its tail. And at some point
you will need to wash your own bowl, and the Buddha will
hold out a flower and nod towards the monastery of the trees,

where the problem of death disappears into the sutras
of your own dancing, and look—a grasshopper
is watching you with pride.

Light-Combined

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

Guide your breath

through sound. Let consonants

(those loving vessels

of vowels) and vowels spin

into tones, and tones

into song.

There are times to hold

notes that curtail time,

and times to enter

the unseen and start singing.

Red-tail hawks ride thermals higher

and higher—circling

describes the path

of your voice—light-combined,

and free—glides upon unharmed

into space, around stars,

through the arms of the Milky Way

playfully trying to catch it, like

a child reaching for a firefly

that rises from the grass

following invisible threads

leading into gone—where

the child—light-combined

and free, runs unharmed through

the last of the day, and into

the softness of her bed, where

her dreams, like tipped vessels

spill into time curtailed

into the unseen where all of her playing

plays, like songs upon the breath of god

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.