Every Creature Sincere
by
Radiance Angelina Petro
Moonlight through the shifted slat in the roof
of the barn catches the face of the new-born calf.
The old woman has the smell of butter on her hands.
The shadow of the house leapt away into the woods.
The common lot of us all—the wind visiting your hair
when you step outside the door—every creature
sincere. Pay attention to the dust leaving the world behind.
In Full Swing
by
Radiance Angelina Petro
Touch the egg and it grows wings.
Morning deepens your animal soul.
Choir harmonies become light as cotton.
And from the unobstructed phoenix caves
comes the subtle bodies of light drifting
inside the hum of bees. Guided by bells
and unstruck chords, it’s time to steal
the pearl from under the dragon’s chin.
You’ve already fallen, now the knowledge
is yours. There is no sole factor in ascendency.
Everything is already in full swing.
Names of Smoke
by
Radiance Angelina Petro
Newly hatched robins wake up with dew
on their prehistoric faces. Poppies have opened
their windows letting loose their tiny, round seeds.
The rectangle becomes the triangle, becomes
the circle. There’s a hawk-headed god in the woods
returning childhood to the eyes of old men.
Rain-varnished evening trees. What lives
in their dream-like minds? The reappearances
of snakes bring joy.
The aloneness of the alone, like lungs collecting
and distributing breath, changes everyone’s name
into smoke.
I wondered what it would be like to combine some of the haiku from my most previous post. This happened:
Thoughts Walking
by
Radiance Angelina Petro
Good morning snow drops hiding under the shade
of the Siberian cypress. May I join you?
Last of the snow, may I join you in melting?
Early frog, with the gold spot between your eyes,
teach me everything you know.
Two carp—one golden, one white, emerge from the murky darkness,
moving slow as afternoon dreams.
Welcome back heron who never left. Frost sliding from your hunched shoulders.
Dear lavender field on the neighboring hill. Are you wishing
for something? It’s best you don’t.
Twisted oak, growing through the cemetery fence,
my heart is tangled in fences too.
Walking still, I find a weather-washed deer skull. Its antlers
hold the sky.
There’s a man without a home, sitting against an old beech tree,
shaking off the world.
Fly! You’ve come early, rubbing your hands together.
What mischief are you planning?
Buttercups, washed in the sun, lining my path through the woods.
I know—big steps, little steps.
Just keep walking.
A Handful of Haiku
by
Radiance Angelina Petro
Some of these haiku have the wrong amount of syllables. I don’t think Basho would mind.
after a spring rain
I toss worms back in the grass
worms with their five hearts
***
we share our stories
watching the bonfire rising
touching the dark sky
***
walking through the woods
I find a weather-washed deer skull
antlers holding the sky
***
the wind walks the change
under ochre-colored robe—
begging bowl empty
***
leaning on the oak
the old man shakes off the world
becomes the bright sky
***
the map’s rivers, roads—
age-lines tracing the world’s face—
so many ways home
***
dawn’s meditation—
a time-dented singing bowl—
trying to ring out
***
when sleep finds my eyes
owls drift from the night trees
asking who I am
***
walking by the farm
I hear the last cricket sing
near the closed barn door
***
good morning grand oak
you’ve twisted through the old fence
I twist through me own
***
shaving my glad breasts
making them smooth like fresh grapes
this is who I am
***
Hey gold and white carps!
What darkness have you come from
to swim into the light?
***
Welcome back heron
standing in the cold river
frost melting from your wings
***
Fly, you’ve come early
rubbing your hands together
who will you bug first?
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
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
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
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.
Saturday, March 16, 2024
by
Radiance Angelina Petro
This world of clay and wood
essentially turns unchanged.
Steered by an irreverent helmsman–
map spotty, and stained, everything
logged in with ink made from eggs.
The bag of unfavorable winds,
once sealed, spills across the sea.