Go with the Spiraling, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Go with the Spiraling


Jennifer Angelina Petro



Morning swirls away

the dreams that visit

our sleep, as a Buddhist monk

brushes away a mandala

that took forever to create.

And just as the monk

collects the grains of sand

into a silken covered bowl

and pours them into a river,

so too our dreams are gathered

into a bowl—but this time—

made of birdsong, and scattered

into the day.


It is the same with butterflies

waking up from wherever it is

butterflies sleep—a puff

of tiny scales releases into the air

from the dream of their wings

as they quaver towards fields of light.


It isn’t enough to wish.

Go with the spiraling, brilliant

sands of the dissolving mandala,

follow the butterflies

into clouds of flowers,

merge with this moment

as the future merges with you.






Angel Speak, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Angel Speak


Jennifer Angelina Petro



Every night, a friend

Comes to talk with me,

Carrying word of faraway

And intimately near places.

Sometimes she talks,

Animatedly, with an urgency

Known only to those with important news,

Sometimes she talks

In gently bobbing waves of psychedelia,

Which carry me on their drifting

Clouds to the shores of morning.

Sometimes she chases me

Without a word—just pursuing me

As if I were quarry, sometimes

She drops me, plunging me

Into the day, sweating and panicked.

Even when she appears sinister,

I have come to know she simply wants

To send messages from the soul.


And every morning, I wake

And forget everything

She said.  Well, some of it

Lingers for a few moments, like

The scent of honeysuckle in spring;

But eventually, as I dress,

And rustle papers and books,

It fades, or lifts, or blows,

Or flies, or runs



I think sometimes

What if she ached to be known,

To be heard, to be validated, seen?


What if she simply wanted

To be there, like

An angel by the riverside.


Indeed, what if

All dreams were flocks of angels

Forming grand gestures and landscapes

Of secrets intent on revelation?


What if she was trying

To tell me she needed help

Or that the spiritual world

Was in trouble?


What if she was trying to tell me

That it’s time, as I sleep

Through my day,

To wake up and start singing?





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Some Thoughts on Seeing, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Some Thoughts on Seeing


Jennifer Angelina Petro


Vision depends on the amount of light the eye bends to its uses. The retina sees things upside down and needs the brain to flip the images right side up. As evening comes, the eyes tire and rebel against the light, and sleep passes over, closing them for the night.  And we dream, creating light inside ourselves, until dawn comes, awakening light within light, and we are flooded with things to touch and see, taste and smell, in short, to celebrate with our whole being.

Today, as the amount of light coming in from the world appears to be thinning, lessoning, I will make it my work to seek out more light and keep the aperture of the soul open. I will make it my work to create more light with sparks of humor or song, kindnesses and attention, calm words and softness of speech. And if I begin seeing things upside down, I will depend on the ideas of others to correct the image.

And if a time comes when the soul constricts–from fear or pain, closing off the light, then I will make it my work to seek out ways to ease the soul into opening, to coax it to look for, and to see, oceans of light in the hearts and minds of everyday people on everyday streets in everyday homes and towns across America.

Of course, sometimes the soul requires sleep and a time to dream its own dreams, some of which we never see.  And in those times of holy darkness, when I must become the moon to my soul, then I will sing in whispers and move quietly about the house so that my soul may rest.  And I will do the same for yours.  If your soul wearies and needs time to replenish its rivers and suns, then I will sing softly to you until you sleep without fear.

I am awake, and it is not too late.  In the soul’s time it is early, always early, and I open the pupils of my mind to new opportunities for vision and possibilities for drawing in more light through service and singing.  I allow the world to see the iris of my heart, risking everything to stand on the solid ground of peace—eyes wide open, looking for you.









Prayers of the Ghosts

Prayers of the Ghosts
Jennifer Angelina Petro


Inside of this forest of skin and bone
The autumn sun shines through the branches,
Evening breathes through the leaves,
Deer step from the center to the edges, silent as sunset,
A stream sculpts a pathway through the trees drawn by a waiting sea,
An owl spreads her wings and glides over the marsh of my fears,
A mountain, full of sleeping momma bears, stands behind me, sturdy and steady,
The moon sings through the crisp air spilling its song through the dancing ferns and whirling leaves,
Ghosts pray in the darkness, spreading ancient hopes and beckoning for light,
While dreams rest on the ground, languished on the cushioned earth and tangled in roots,
Waiting for me to answer the prayers of the ghosts, and set them free, like
Handfuls of butterflies on a newly realized morning in a newly realized spring.






Dream Image I

Dream Image I
Joseph Anthony Petro


roots of trees 2
Imagining the tree will suddenly
Lift the skirt of her roots and run,
Or dance, or simply move closer
So I can rest in her branches,
Run my fingers through her leaves,
Kiss her trunk of concentric circles.
Or maybe she would run right passed me,
Headlong into the ocean, leaves scattering
In her own private autumn, and become
A ship, trailing her wake of roots
Slowly, into the waiting arms of the sun.







And a Child Shall Lead Them: The Art of Facing Your Fears


Fear roamed the streets in the form of a pack of starving lions.  Ribs quivering, tails dragging, they stalked the shadows in search of easy prey.  Their yellow eyes scanned the alley ways and doorways, searching for the hesitant ones, the ones who needed to rise from the two-step in front of their apartment and live a new life, but instead remained glued to the spot, lost in the hypnotic gaze of future worries.  The starving lions sniffed out the ones just about to get up and make a change, and slunk in front of them and sat on their haunches, and stared them back down.  But the people did not see starving lions; they saw the forms of those they knew ready to tell them that they were crazy, that they would never make it, and that they were not good enough.  They took the forms of images of failure and destitution, and the more the people let those images stalk their minds, the more the starving lions feasted on their dreams, devouring them with gleeful fervor.  One of the lions of fear glided towards a child who wanted to leap into a pile of crisp, red and orange leaves, but was too afraid of getting bit by a tick to actually jump in.  He stood there hating himself for having such obsessive fears.  He heard the voices of his parents in his head telling him all about the horrors of Lyme’s disease and deer ticks, yet he always wanted to play in the leaves.  The sky was crystal clear and blue and the leaves glowed like a pile of treasure.  The lion brushed passed the boy’s legs and licked its lips, about to gorge itself on the boy’s dreams of playing in the leaves.  And then it happened.  The boy looked the lion straight in the eyes.  The lion blinked.  No one had ever done that before.  People weren’t supposed to see fears for what they really were.  This boy was staring back, and, much to the shock of the lion was smiling.  The boy took a step towards the lion.  The lion snarled.  The boy laughed and then tussled the lion’s greasy mane.  The lion was incredulous, and yet it felt something surge within its ribs—something alive.  The boy had had enough of not living the life he always dreamed of.  “I can do a tick-check,” he thought, and turned from the lion and leapt into the leaves in a huge, splash of autumn glory.  He laughed with joy and when he looked at the lion it was no longer a starving, rib-exposed ghost.  It was golden.  It was majestic and the form of bravery itself.  It let out a roar of triumph that sent the approaching pack of starving lions scattering like mice.  The boy dove back into the leaves laughing, and then popped his head up blowing a yellow leaf from his face.  The leaf sailed and settled onto the lion’s head like a little crown.  “Come on in!” the boy shouted. The lion smiled, flicked his tail, twitched its ears, and then roared, leaping into the pile and rolling with the boy like a puppy, happy to be truly full, truly alive, truly itself.


Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog