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.
Tag Archives: depression
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.
Look For Signs, by Jennifer Angelina Petro
Look for Signs
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Having bipolar disorder is like…is like…..
Huh? Oh, um…ideas are coming, just wait a second,
I must write them down. One is about air
And how we all depend on it to lift us in our lungs
And in the tires of our bikes and cars;
The other is about the wings of demons
And what would happen if the wings
Became angels and decided not to carry the demons
Around anymore. Wait, I’ll be right there. I just have to
Get these ideas down so I don’t forget them.
Huh? If I don’t write them down the Muse
Might get angry and start ignoring me—
Passing me by when she’s handing out gifts—
Just…..wait a second. No…..wait. Don’t wait.
I am not sure how long this will take—the poems will suck
No matter how they turn out anyways—all my poems
Suck. Why wouldn’t they? I’m a piece of shit.
Huh? Why would I say that? Because it’s true.
It’s also true I am a visionary and these ideas
That are coming—the one about air and the one
About the wings of demons—as soon as I turn them
Into poems they will change modern poetics forever.
Yes, even though they’re shitty. Modern poetics suck too—
And I am a modern poet. So…wait….if you want to.
I am going to write these ideas down before we talk—
The Muse is waiting, she won’t be denied.
Huh? Where is she? She’s here, inside, and she’s there
Behind the moon and that tree. She’s in your eyes…
Wait….there is another idea. This one is about
How we talk with our hands, and wait, there is another.
This one is about why we feel it in our teeth
When we crunch snow with our boots. Oh wait,
You don’t feel it in your teeth when you walk
Over snow and it makes a crunching sound?
Told you these poems would suck. No. No. No.
I am not saying the gifts from the Muse suck.
No. Never. Ever. Her ideas are always pure gold—
It’s just they distill through me and I suck
Which, of course, colors the ideas, making the poems suck
That I make out of the ideas. You see? No? It’s OK.
No one does. Just know this—air lifts you
By your lungs and by the tires of your car, demon wings
Dream of rebelling and flying off the demon’s back,
And, and, the next time you walk over fresh, wet snow,
Touch your hand to your jaw and feel the crunch
From your boots shooting right there in your teeth,
And then, once you know these things—once you believe me
That she will be upset if I do not write them down right now—
Then, maybe you will understand, maybe you will know
What it’s like to be bipolar, but probably not—by the time
You catch a glimpse of understanding I will be
Dead. It’s inevitable, isn’t it? I mean, I cannot go on this way
Forever. God wants me home and demons are clawing at my heels
And the depression is crushing my bones—I feel it
In my teeth, and then, and then, and then…Huh? Why?
Why kill myself? The ideas the Muse will give me
Bodiless will be heaven-flavored and better than ever. But don’t worry.
I will get them to you somehow.
Look for signs.
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.
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.
Rising Up to Meet the Road, by Jennifer Angelina Petro
Rising Up to Meet the Road
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
There are poems unfinished
Waiting in the woods beneath roots of trees
And hovering, like horsetail clouds behind the moon;
There are songs unwritten
Following beside me as I walk,
Their melodies coming in snippets, like
Distant birdcalls or pieces
Of dreams, and soundbites
Of conversations overheard
In used bookstores, classrooms, and coffee shops,
Their rhythms blossoming
From the muse and the soul touching all night, all day,
Every day, when I am not able to dance
Either asleep or awake;
There is work undone
Waiting in the universe, making its way
Towards my door, opportunities
Growing, like flower gardens
Planted when no one is looking,
But they are coming, they are revealing
Themselves little by little, like
Spring in the coldest of winters;
There are people unloved
Waiting in the wings for me to release the spirits
That bind me–to make my way
Towards the light, to open
The hands of my heart
And let in those who see
And feel and know my name,
And for me to step through
The fourth wall and into their arms and lives;
There are answered prayers
Unprayed, waiting to be let loose
Into the world, like
So many fireflies, like a carnival
Of children, like a collection
Of songs and poems
Published on the wings
Of pain and healing and lifting their way
Into moonlit clouds and sunlit days,
And alighting back down as angels and
Moonbeams, sunbeams and ends of rainbows,
Petals of cherry blossoms,
Dragonflies, and cries of cicadas
And morning doves, and beings
Of all the elements, and all of this, all of this
Swirling into one, worthy to be lived
Life of one woman rising up
To meet the road.
Hopelessness Fogging, by Jennifer Angelina Petro
Hopelessness Fogging
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Ravens gather in the spring oak,
Waiting, staring down;
Day after day they descend
Into the budding branches
Until their gathering becomes a flock
And their flock a swarm;
When they sense hopelessness
Fogging through my bones in my room,
As one they open the cloaks of their wings,
Drift to the ground,
And move—one bobbing, black, cawing sea
Marching towards my door.
Moon Psalm, by Jennifer Angelina Petro
Moon Psalm
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
You pull the tides in with silver reigns
And flood the shores of my already loosening faith,
You bring dark water to the roots of my self-loathing
And sprout entire orchards of menacing trees,
You coax little rivulets to migrate to hidden gardens of shame
That grow in the corners of my mind, helping them thrive
And spread like vines of poison ivy,
You throw down rain and muddy the earth of my hope,
You trouble the lakes and ponds of my dreams, creating resonances
That only go so far—far enough to seep over the roads
Of where I think I should be going, far enough to soak the fields of wonder
I used to love; far enough to lap at the horizon that for some reason
Still wants me–Moon, you draw forth tears from the well of my soul
And turn the waterwheel that powers the millstones
That grind the flour of my sorrow into the bitter bread of not caring anymore—
Moon, you know I need you—you know you are the most high—
Go ahead drown me–carry me home in the folds of your silver river
And lay me on the shores of your breathing
Where I can become one with the sky.
When There is Nowhere to Turn, I Find Myself Surrounded by the Moon and Her Messengers of Light, By Jennifer Angelina Petro
When There is Nowhere to Turn
I Find Myself Surrounded by the Moon and Her Messengers of Light
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
One morning, walking through the January forest,
I watched the path double back on itself and disappear.
One evening, sailing on an indigo ocean of questions,
I saw the horizon swallow itself whole, like a monster all stomach and mouth.
I too searched for brains, a heart, and a home,
And the yellow-brick road turned into rust.
Heaven has fallen from the sky like so many shot-down stars.
There is nowhere to turn that doesn’t lead to ghost towns and empty silos.
My aspirations get stuck in the trees, like shreds of shawls.
Angels’ wings have folded.
Smiles are rimmed in blood.
Embraces reach for me and miss, grasping themselves.
The time has come for whirlwinds and blizzards,
The time has come for floods, and bone-rattling thunder,
Look—the sun was just swallowed by a wolf—
Look—the bridges have all burst into flame–
Look—
The moon is growing fuller,
Taking over the darkness—
Look—she is pulling the sun from the belly of the wolf–
Look—she is stilling the thunder and plucking my prayers from the trees—
Look-she is unfolding the path and shaking out the horizon and spreading it afar, anew—
Look—she is picking up the fallen stars and hanging them back in their places—
Look—she is brushing the angels’ wings and rubbing their shoulders—
Look—she is wiping the bloody mouths, like
A mother wiping a child’s face—rough and tender, all at once–
Look—she is steadying me so I don’t duck or fall when the embraces come—
Look-she is gently scolding me to listen better to her messengers of Light called:
“You.”
Look—she is lifting me, rocking me in the softest of breezes, singing,
And whispering runes and spells, affirmations, and ways through the dark,
And treasure maps and secret passageways through mountains and dungeons–
Her tears fall down her breasts, mixing with her milk as she lets me suckle
For as long as I need in the cradle of her light-filled, infinite arms.
All donations go towards my transition. Thank you. <3
Resuscitation
Resuscitation
By
Joseph Anthony Petro
Spring is trying,
The trees turning into carnivals of flowers are trying,
The roots are trying,
The sky is trying,
And the robins, the hawks,
The invisible, but audible owls are trying,
So many people are trying,
I know they are asking
Their gods to try,
I know you are trying.
I only hope it’s not too late.
That I am not already dead,
That the block not letting the air
Into my heart isn’t too massive,
Too menacing to let any breath
Escape in or out. I only hope
I can trust the kiss, the passage
Of your strength and courage
Into my chest. I only hope
The breathing will catch hold
And then gradually level into calm.
And I might need to hold your hand,
And I might need you to tell me
To hold on, or to let go,
And I might need you to have me,
To not let me drift into nothingness
Once I do let go or hold on,
Whichever the case may be once
The stream of your breath begins swirling
In my lungs, and I open my eyes
And live again.
And I might need you to remind me
There is white light around me
And within me.
And I need it be OK with you that I need you.
And I might need you to be the white light for awhile
And embrace me with healing gentleness like there’s no tomorrow,
Until I rise again a new creation.
I only hope it’s not too late.
That I am not already dead.
That once I begin to feel
The warmth of your breath
That whatever it is within me that is frozen
Will begin to thaw,
Will have its own experience of spring,
And will suddenly and without shame
Blossom into a life that is alive.