Pockets of Solitude, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Pockets of Solitude

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

It’s easy to close your eyes

Surrounded by such stillness,

And the light from bright windows

Beyond which the day busies itself

With so many purposeful things to do.

 

It’s easy to stand in the middle of the living room

And become a winter tree, draped with a shawl

Of silence.

 

It’s easy to slip away into pockets of solitude

Where the keys to doors drifting away

Become little bird bones of a life lost

To a childhood of summer breezes filled

With fear.

 

It’s easy to let the quiet become your body,

To become as a cup in a cupboard,

A microscope in a dark closet, hunched over,

Like a monk studying spirals on vellum leaves.

 

It’s easy to never wish again, to can’t help

But noticing how fragile you are, fragile

And yet primed to become a leviathan

In the sea of your own life.

 

 

 


 


In the Rooms of Our Days, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

In the Rooms of Our Days

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

 

Snow falls, soundless,

Layering on branches, like cells

On the body, creating silence

And drapery, touching everything.

The winter wishes for nothing else

Than to build up smooth mounds

Over the ruins of sleeping seeds

And the bones of animals that passed away alone,

Giving them the kind of protection required

For secret awakenings to warmth and light—

That we all need, that we all long for

As we stay awake all winter, walking back and forth

In the rooms of our days, unable to sleep,

Unable to close our eyes and trust the spring,

Unable to remember that once

We slept in darkness, that once

We emerged from the darkness,

That once, again and again, we blossomed

Into the hands of another, that we rose up

To a welcoming sky, and that we will all, once

Again, and again, return to sleep

Beneath scrolls of silent snow.

 

 


 

 


Moment, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Moment

by

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

 

Some nights, loneliness says:

“Everything fades.

Flowers. Fireflies. Pain.

Thing is to go out in as exquisite symmetry as you can—

Laughter on the one hand, tears on the other, and then—

Let all of your beautiful failures become the wind.”

 

 

 


 

 



It’s Like This, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

It’s Like This

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

 

I stand here.  The monster

Stands there—in front of me

Mirroring my every move.

 

Separating us is a glass wall

Whisper thick and strong as hope.

 

Some days I barely think

Of the monster, yet I know it’s there–

I see it, out of the corner of my eye,

Doing everything I do.

 

There are days it pounds on the glass—

Howling, pacing, and somehow

Growing.  Every morning

I reinforce the wall, look at the monster,

And stare it down.

 

Lately, I notice spiderwebbing cracks blooming

Over the wall.  The monster presses

The glass, testing its solidity, smiling.

 

I assume it will hold.  I assume it is

Strong enough.  And then I blink and the monster’s hand

Passes through the wall as if it isn’t there.

I blink again and the monster is back

On the other side of the wall, blocked

From reaching me, or, at least, I assume.

 

Going about my life, dependent

On a wall whisper thick and strong as hope

Makes me feel, at times, like a sham, like

If it wasn’t for the wall the monster would be

All there is, like I am not as truly well

As I think I am.

 

The wall will not last forever,

The wall may need to be adjusted

In strength, and still I fear it will not last

Forever.

 

And all the while the monster

Grows, waiting, watching, studying what I do.

 

If the wall finally gives way,

The monster will take hold of me, toss me to where

It once stood, build a wall of its own,

Scream-thick and strong as hell,

And it will go into my life, smiling,

Leaving me behind and to do everything

It does, but in slow motion, all the while I am turning

Into a memory of light snuffed out

By the dark.

 

 

 


 

 

All donations go to medical expenses and groceries.  Thank you for your support.



That Stubborn Superhero, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

That Stubborn Superhero

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Out in nature, which is

To say, in us—it happens

This way:

 

The longest night comes

Filling what little day there is left

With thinly veiled darkness,

That, veil after veil, begins

To cover the day, like

A shawl thrown in slow motion

Over a lamp.

 

After the night has had its run,

It slowly—you’d better believe it—

Shrinks back to a more manageable size,

It contracts as the day exhales,

And with each exhalation, spring,

Moment by seemingly imperceptible

Moment—swells with such joy

It can barely contain itself.

 

And the light begins to coax the darkness

Into slipping away into time and to allow

Itself to grow its slow, wild warmth.

 

We have all gone through darknesses

That seemed to last forever—

At least—I have—when I couldn’t

Believe any light would ever come

Ever, ever, again, and that the abyss

Of not being able to see or hardly move

Would enshroud me forever.

 

If this has ever happened to you,

Or maybe is happening to you

Right now—believe it—spring always

Comes—little by hardly noticeable little

Darkness becomes less and less

And seeds of exhaultation can’t wait

To burst into flowers and tangible light.

 

I am not saying all darkness is bad.

There is a holy darkness, touched

With water and earth, where fireflies

Bedazzle the night, where love-making

Eases us into the sweetest sleep.

 

I am talking about the darkness

That swallows the will and chews it

Practically into nothing.

 

Just as too much light burns,

Too much darkness freezes the soul.

 

So, take my word for it—as someone

Who has been there and is taken there

Against my will every year—the swallowing darkness

Turns and slips away like a receding flood of black ink

Eventually, leaving gardens of survival,

Fragrant with honeysuckle,

And damp with laughter.

 

You’d better believe it,

Or if, like me, sometimes

That is impossible to do–

Pretend to believe it—or even if

That is too hard to do—don’t then–

Because its true regardless:

Never once has the night held captive

The day forever.  Day, that stubborn superhero,

Will break free of night’s weakening grasp,

And soar, ringing through the fields,

Leaving visible hope spreading

Over all the land.

 

tree hope


 

All donations go to medical expenses and groceries.  Thank you for your support. <3



Dream, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Dream

by

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

pool

No One was there when I opened the door after being awoken by a frantic knocking.  I stood there, afraid, and yet, by some miracle, invited No One in.  I cleared off a chair and invited No One to sit down.  I asked if they needed a drink of water.  They nodded yes.  I turned to get some water and No One started weeping.  I stopped, knelt at No One’s side, and took their hand.  No One wept like a torrent of rain.  They collapsed off the chair and into my arms.  They started to try to speak through the sobs.  I couldn’t understand what they were saying.  I caught pieces of words and phrases:  Lonely, please, it’s chasing me, afraid, tired.  I rocked No One in my arms and they wept for a long time.  In fact, Time stepped aside and let us be together for as long as No One needed.  I was grateful for Time for letting go of control and allowing No One’s pain to be witnessed in the kind of timelessness they reserve for dreams.

No One gradually wept into a deep sleep.  I stayed there, holding them in my arms on the floor.  My legs started tingling and falling asleep.  I got up slowly and lifted No One into bed.  I stroked their hair and pulled the blanket up over their deeply breathing body.  I sat down in the chair and wondered why No One had come to me.  Who, or what was chasing them?  What could I do to help?  And with those thoughts drifting through my heart like wisps of mist, I too fell into a deep sleep.

Inside (or outside?) my dream, No One had risen from the bed and stood radiant and strong, alive. I watched in awe as No One began to change their form.  Their body shifted and fluttered, lighting up like a million fireflies, taking on other shapes and forms, until, at last, No One had transformed into Everyone, and it was then I understood why they had come.  But then, Everyone too began changing shape.  Their illumination settled a bit, and their form, a moment ago like a sun that somehow fit into the space of my apartment, began to shrink in size.  As Everyone continued to distill in form and intensity, their light became focused and channeled to a specific spot in the room.  It was then I understood why Everyone had changed.  They had changed, wonder of wonders, into myself.  And yet somehow, Everyone was still there.  We were one being, one light, one heart.  And No One suddenly flickered into the room, never to be alone again. And I let myself, wonder of wonders, be embraced by Everyone, as they rocked me in their arms, for I had collapsed from the chair weeping like the rain.


 


All donations go to groceries, medical bills, and medicine. <3

Thank you. <3

Untitled by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Untitled

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Lightening does not reveal the way.

Thunder illumines the silence that is.

When it’s all said and done

Silence will be all that’s left

Standing in the middle of the room,

Touching everything,

Touching nothing.

 

 


 

Please help me with medical bills and buying food. Thank you <3

 

 


Untitled by Jennifer Angelina Petro

I do not see the light.

I do not feel the warmth of love.

The emptiness that I am deafens my days.

Silence turns into auditory hallucinations.

I stand motionless

For long moments, every day, unable to move,

Think, or breathe.  Impossible

As I have made my life

I am here existing in the nothingness

Still hoping—still hoping for light.

 

 

 

 

 


Any help for me to buy food or pay for medical expenses is deeply needed and appreciated.


i Cannot Weep Among the Autumn Trees, by jennifer angelina petro

i Cannot Weep Among the Autumn Trees

 

by

 

jennifer angelina petro

 

 

 

i’ve tried,

and those

who know

a bit

about

the depth

of dark

that hovers

over my head

knows

how much

i weep.

 

Walking

amongst

the autumn

trees, tears

shed

into the wind,

but do not fall—

they sail golden

into the wind

which is

different

than weeping.

 

No. i am

not cured

of the illness

which i am

a carrier of.

No. i am

in autumn’s

reprieve.

 

Which begs

the question:

why not

go out and be

with the trees

everyday?

Because somedays

the dark hands

holding my ankles

have just

too strong

a grip.

 

Which begs,

of course,

another

question:

how did you

get free enough

today to walk

among the trees?

 

Look—

that leaf—

that piece

of gold lying

in the brittle,

browning grass—

those treetops

lit up

above the darkening

branches—somehow

lifted the shackles

away and kissed

my feet, and said:

There

are poems

and photographs

waiting

for you.

Go. You may

never have

the strength

again.  Go.

We will

hold off

the dark as long

as we can.

 

14980784_219047185193005_4003260356378305891_n

 

 


 

 

 





Stations, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Stations

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

“Have a good one,”

the teller said,

and I wondered

as I carried my bags

to the car:

“Which one?  One what?

Why limit yourself

to only one?”

 

The autumn train

is pulling away from the station

leaving trails of red

and gold in her wake.

 

Having missed my stop

owing to worry

and a pull to end

my own life, I roam

the Philadelphia streets

looking for someone

to tell me there will be other

ways to get through

the winter stations,

there will be friends

at the end of the line

holding signs and flowers,

there will be an end

to the tears,

 

and spring will be there

waiting to the do the rest—

waiting to welcome

a good one home.