Prophetess of Heaven-Fire, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

There are so many dire predictions after this election, and perhaps rightfully so. Many people feel everything is lost and that there is no hope–so many feel their oppression will only worsen, and that everything we have fought so hard for is gone. I get it. I am an unemployed transwoman who struggles with mental illness, and I am terrified, and god-fucking dammit, I am not giving in to the fear.

 

The fear is real, and so is love.

 

Everyone is making their predictions. I join them here. Here I turn into a prophetess of fire:

 

On this day, November 9th, 2016, love will rise up and fight for all we have accomplished so that nothing is taken away. Love will rise up to meet the hatred with all the angels of heaven and transform it back into love. Love will rise up and take to the streets and outshine the sun with its power. Love will rise up and protect the minorities, the people of color and other religions, the LGBTQIA people–teens, children—-Love will surround them and make a safe space for them. Love will do these things. YOU will do these things. How? We will be love. We will be the love. We ARE the love. Together. You and I with hearts full of love burning like a holy fire–we will rise up and meet any hate that comes our way, any violence, any oppression, and we will stand together, fight together, love together, live together.

 

I predict these next four years will be hard. And, I predict more love and more power and more strength and more solidarity and more wisdom and more courage will come because of it—-Love will come like a mighty song and fill the nations with wonder, scattering the hate into oblivion.

 

Hold your fear. Share it. Express it. Write, talk, sing, dance, draw, sculpt—it is real….I feel it…my stomach is churning, my heart is aching, and dammit to hell I am taking that fear and forging it into a shield of compassion.

 

Hold your rage. Share it. Express it. Write, talk, sing, dance, draw, sculpt—it is real….I feel it…my stomach is churning, my heart is aching, and dammit to hell I am taking that rage and forging it into a sword of truth.

 

I predict the world will end. Everything does. But not now. Not today. Not tomorrow. It will end when it is time, and that time will be far, far into the future, and when it does it will end a world full of love warriors and peacemakers, freedom fighters and freedom winners.

 

Be ye transformed o nation of disillusionment and fear, be ye transformed into courage and strength—and a vision to see things as they are————ready for love-action, love-dancing, love-creating, love-protecting, love-warriors—love-bearers one and all.

 

I see a future of more freedom than ever before because the evils are now openly exposed and the world will see them for what they are—wrong—sick–and the world will stand with us as we fight on the side of love. Let love lance the wounds of hate and let love heal and give us strength.

 

Love will rise up stronger than ever. We will rise up stronger than ever. We will make our own prophecies. Make prophecies of love and let love rise up making those prophecies true by our own hands.

 

I call upon the Source of all love to rise up within us so that we may never give up.

 

May it be done. Blessed be. We are one.

 


 

 

 


So Inclined, by Jennifer Angelina Pedro

graceful-autumn-tree

 

 

So Inclined

by

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Standing by the gold-flecked stream

watching leaves plucked from the trees

in droves by the wind, one cannot help,

if one is so inclined as to reflect on these things,

but notice how much like death

autumn must be.

 

Perhaps, when the time is ripe,

and the soul is heavy with longing,

and the great wind comes,

it will pluck my soul and spirit

right from the branches of my body

and cast them into the gold-dappled stream

flowing towards the sea.

 

It’s strange, isn’t it, that during autumn

the air is crisp, fresh, clarifying;

and the light slants in such a way

as to ignite the trees with joy even

as the trees relinquish themselves

to the letting go.

 

Harvest me autumn,

for the chlorophyl of hope has drained

from my face and limbs,

and seeped into the ground

to nourish the roots and bones

of those who already gave their all,

collect me in your harvest-hands

and turn my despair into gold.

 

 


 

 

 





There Are No Wrong Turns, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

No Wrong Turns

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

There are no wrong turns.

Each and every time you have been lost

You have eventually found your way out;

It is the same with journeying inside.

Walls appear when moments before

There were none,

Dead ends rise up like tombstones when you

Least expect them to,

Passageways narrow suddenly, and fall off

Into deep ravines,

But here you are, reading this—and this

Is hope on a string of words;

Take them or leave them, the fact remains

You are reading them, hearing them

Now

Here

Now

Safe

Now

Without guardrails

And you are still not falling.

I get it, don’t worry.  I am lost

Much of the time myself, I hardly ever know

Where the road is going—if it indeed goes anywhere.

Somedays I look down the road

And only mist, or mist-infused darkness loom;

Somedays the road ahead looks more like a movie screen

Of the past than a road, and somedays,

I even begin walking or exploring the edges

Only to pull myself upright at the slightest sound

And go back to where I was, and sometimes,

Even that place—the back where I was place—

Is gone; and sometimes, and, oh, I feel terrible

For saying this—but sometimes the road

Is so utterly lonely, even though it is inhabited

By many fine souls—living, dead, in between—

And there are fireflies, and stars, rivers, and buttercups,

And there is singing and crickets, and always, the moon;

Let’s face it though—the road can be hard,

And gravel gets in your shoes,

And the desire arises more often than you would like to admit

To simply roll up into a ball and dissolve into even more nothing

Than you sometimes already feel—

And yet, it is the only road you need,

And no matter where you let it take you, or how far you go,

Or how slowly you go, there are still no wrong turns.

 

 

 

 


 





You and I Have Beauty to Share, A Poem in Words and Pictures, by Radiance Angelina Petro

You and I Have Beauty to Share

A Poem in Words and Pictures

By

Radiance Angelina Petro

 

 

poem image 1

 

Come.

Come take me

One little piece of pollen at a time.

Come.  I want you to.

***

poem image 2

 

Once I hid as a star,

Guarded by wisdom.

***

poem image 3

 

When I was ready

I unfolded wisdom’s spiral.

***

poem image 4

 

And allowed life’s dream

To draw me into the world.

***

poem image 5

 

For some, their wisdom will be fancy—

For there is such a thing as fancy wisdom.

***

poem image 6

 

Others bear wisdom that tightly guards–

Wanting to be absolutely sure before giving the word.

***

 

poem image 7

 

Regardless, when you are ready,

No matter where anyone else is in their stages of development

 

***

poem image 8

 

You

Will

Open.

Just like I did.

 

***

poem image 9

 

And you will say, come.

Come take me, one little grain of pollen at a time,

And you will share your gold

With the hive of the heart of another.

***

poem image 10

 

For that is why we have been planted here,

In the dark soil of the earth.

***

 

poem image 11

 

You and me–

We are meant to share the fragrance of the light we bring.

***

 

poem image 12

 

Until wisdom says, enough, go back

To being a star.

 

***

poetic image 13

 

For now, go ahead, shout your trumpets of joy,

Spread your granules of sweetness—

You and I have beauty to share.

 

 

 

 


 

 


Please help support my continued transition.  Thank you.  Radiance


The Moment, a Short Story Told in Poetry and Prose, by Radiance Angelina Petro

The Moment

A Short Story Told in Poetry and Prose

By

Radiance Angelina Petro

 

 

I.

Yesterday a moment passed me by at the flea market.

She moved through the bangles, baubles, silks, bric-a-brac, knives, and rings.

I saw her and she me.  In fact she turned to look at me full in the face,

And I know she was just about to tell me that every wonderful thing

Anyone has ever said about me is true—that I am a powerful force for good in this world.

We looked at each other as people passed by eating funnel cakes, ignoring us.

And just as I moved towards to her to ask her for a single, simple embrace,

She suddenly began to pull away—as if reeled backwards by some cruel fisherman,

And as she vanished, and as I began to push through people to chase after her,

She called out–I swear I heard her call out over the sounds of the many angry voices:

“Remember,” she called, “remember just how important you are.  It’s all true.”

And at the last second, as I nearly caught her to pull her off whatever terrible hook that was in her,

She stretched out her hand, and I fell forwards trying to grasp it, missing it by inches.

Then she was gone–swallowed up into nothing, never to be seen again.

 

II.

As I sat down right there, with people having to suddenly navigate a person sitting in the middle of the floor, I began to weep.  After a few minutes, out of nowhere, a little girl, holding her mother’s hand, stopped and said to her mother, “Mommy look, someone is sitting on the floor crying.”

“Ignore her,” her mother said trying to pull her along, but the girl stood stock still, forcing her mother to stop.  And then, the little girl let go of her mother’s hand, and leaned in close to me and said, “Lady, what’s the matter?  Why are you crying?”

I looked up at her. Her face was full and wise, and powdered with sugar from eating some treat—probably a funnel cake, I thought.  And then I said: “Sweet one, I almost touched a moment I’ve always wanted to touch—or that I’ve always wanted to have touch me.  She was just here, little girl, and we got close—so close, but then she got dragged away and disappeared, and I am afraid I will never find her ever again, nor she me. That, little sweet one, is why I am sitting here in the middle of the floor crying, like a baby.”

“Oh,” said the girl.

“Come ON,” said the mother, reaching down trying to grab her by the arm.

“In a minute,” she said, shrugging her mother away.

“It’s OK,” I said to her, you can go with your mother.  I’ll be alright.”

“What did she look like?” she asked.

“Oh,” I said, “she was beautiful.  More beautiful than anyone or anything I have ever seen.”

“What was she wearing?”

“Oh,” I said, “she was wearing this flowing shift of white light that made her look like she was wearing heaven.”

“I see,” she said, and then stood up, for she had sat down across from me on the floor to conduct her little interview, much to her mother’s displeasure.

“Well,” she said, reaching up for her mother’s hand, “I hope you find her again.”

“Thank you,” I laughed, “you’re very kind.”

“Let’s go,” said her mother, and then to me, “Get up lady.  Look around you.  Do you see anyone else sitting around crying in the middle of the floor because they missed their moment?  Get up. You’re in the way.”

And as they walked into the crowd, I looked after them and, to my amazement they were both wearing flowing shifts of white light that made them look like they were wearing heaven.  How had I not noticed that before? I wondered.  And as I stood, I staggered, and saw everyone was wearing flowing shifts of white light, and as I braced myself against my fears, I righted my back, stood tall, and began walking again full of wonder, my own shift of white light trailing behind me, like the train of a bridal gown.  It was everything I could do to refrain my hands from touching every face I saw.  It was everything I could to not ask each and every person if I could hug them.  It was everything I could do not to sing. And then, as I continued moving through the sea of white light, there, right next to me, holding my hand, was my moment.  She was laughing, beckoning me to look around us, and as I did, I laughed too, and knew in my heart that everything wonderful anyone ever said about me was true.

 

 


 

 

Please help support my continuing transition.  All my love. Radiance. <3

Witness, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

I wrote this poem two years ago today.  I had forgotten about it.  I am glad I found it though.  I want to live like this again.–Jennifer

 

 

 

Witness

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

When you stop
And think about it,
The idea is absurd:

Beetles that light up.
Bioluminescence
They call it.

I call it utterly and phantasmagorically
Miraculous.

Along the river banks
Of the jungles of Malaysia,
Fireflies synchronize
Their flashing lights;
In the town of Donsol
In the Philippines,
Fireflies stay around
All year, coexisting
With the locals, like
Eccentric sentinels;
In the Great Smoky Mountains
Of Tennessee,
Fireflies have been seen blinking in unison.

If you are a believer
In doubt and darkness,
If you partake of the white bread
Of theorized negativity,
If you harbor any spiritual misgivings
Then stop and think about this
Outlandish phenomenon
Occurring in backyards and fields
Around the world, better yet
Stop and see it for yourself.
And once you do, ask yourself:

Can I really keep up this charade?
Can I really keep myself
From swooning with devotion and wonder?

Why not allow these little,
Avant-garde angels lift you,
Illuminate you, and save you
From the cold, dry emptiness
Of faith in things untrue?

Try.

Try for your own sake
And for the sake of the future:

Stand on the edge
Of a cornfield at night
In deep July, or find a field, backyard, or woods
Humming with mystery, and simply be
A witness to the dazzling carnival
Happening in the tree tops,
Skimming the dark grass, bobbing
Up and down in the cool, moist air, like
Strings of moving green Christmas lights.
See these little beetles with their lovely
Blinking bellies, and allow yourself
To blossom, like
A night gladiolus, sending the fragrance
Of your newly found faith
Into the world;

Let your life shine
So that others may stand in awe
Of the delicate, extravagant work
Of the Divine.

Go ahead.

Be amazed,

And watch everything

Around you,
And within you,

Break open
Into light.

 

 

 


 

 


Please help support my GRS.  Thank you.


Rising Up to Meet the Road, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

 

Rising Up to Meet the Road

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

beautiful road

 

 

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.

 

 

 


 

 

 

 





Donations go to my gender reassignment surgery and to the continuation of the Wonder Child Blog

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

moon

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


 


This Being Transgender

This Being Transgender
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

 

Dear Autumn,
This being transgender reminds me of what you must face;
People who haven’t thought of you for ages
Suddenly find themselves thinking of you and lamenting your arrival,
Others find you a fascinating anomaly in an otherwise endless summer
Of sameness and dreamy afternoons;
Others force themselves to stop thinking of you
With hopes of postponing an imaginary, apocalyptic winter,
Still others think about you so much they stop talking to you
And pretend you no longer exist, they fear
Your blazing changes will rub off on them,
They think your very appearance signals a heresy
That will send summer reeling—
Which it does–but not in distress does summer
Go tumbling through the leaves and out of town, it rolls on
Joyous of your presence and relieved
To finally be able to breathe fully and see spring’s children
For who they really are. And the heresy? It is there–
It signals the living fully what love stands for–
And that means comfort zones expanded,
Walls removed, and doors opened into the reality
Of the here and now, 2015.

 

Dear Autumn,
I see your graceful letting go,
I see you casting gold with trembling fingers,
I see your swaying vulnerability against a stark blue sky,
And I know I let go far less gracefully,
I cling to what must be tossed away,
I flail about believing
There is nothing gold about me
To even bother sharing;
I begin believing those who can longer look at me
Or who dread how I will influence their children—
I know better though, I know they only fear
How I will influence them—how I will magically
Nudge them away from the summer
Of their inner, thinly-hidden discontent
And out into the blazing colors of enlightenment,
I know better, but I cling to brittle branches
Of self-loathing.

 

Dear Autumn,
So many people tell me they need time to be able to just see me,
Some still believe a death has occurred, and yet, here I stand in my autumnal truth.
You and I both know nothing dies when you arrive;
Summer cartwheels over the hills and warms
Another place happy to be free to think new thoughts,
The leaves you share feed the soil and fertilize the seeds of spring,
The harvest of apples feeds many with mulled sweetness,
And if they could only see you in my soul
And be awed at the revelation of color and the arrival
Of gold and my ability to finally stand in the fifth direction
Of my journey, with all of the certainty of wonder and hope
Of voyaging further into the sky, the streams, the purple mountains,
The heart of love, and the ground of being;
If they would only look in the mirror of their deepest fears—
And see love looking back at them,
And how the faces of spring infants and angels of flamenco
Gather around the edges of their vision, then maybe they would get it—
Their reflection looks like us and them—it looks like every single tree
To ever wave in the wind and sleep bathed in moonlight,
And just rest easy knowing we are not signaling the end
Of all that is warm and held sacred,
We are heralding the beginning of freedom,
We are taking the leaves of sacredness
And casting them where they truly belong–
Into an infinite sky of infinite variety.

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All donations go towards my transition and to keeping the Wonder Child Blog Up and Running.  Thank you <3



What the Cicada Sees, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

What the Cicada Sees

by

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

looking up at tree

 

After combing through
Layers of moist earth and mazes
Of roots, the cicada nymph
Blooms from the ground
And begins climbing
Seeing only sky,
And branches
Waving: “Come on,
You can do it!” And it climbs–
Eyes on the prize, heart pumping,
Wings tingling waiting for space
To unlatch and spread,
Voice still trapped in an ever
Thinning skin, confidence
Growing with every plunge
Of its hooks–higher
Until it suddenly stops
In mid-motion,
Pauses in time and space,
Unable to go even one more step
In its old clothes,
And then,
And then it gives birth unto itself,
Slowly sloughing off
Doubts and fears,
Never once losing track
Of the heaven awaiting
And the heaven of the moment,
And the heaven of simply opening
Itself to the sky,
And letting the song it has been
Composing for years soar
Through the summer trees
Announcing to all things
The truth of transformation,
The truth that we are all
Bound to change,
The truth that even the darkest time
Spent among roots and soil,
Leads to wings, leads
To open spaces, leads to becoming
Who you really are.

 


 

 

All donations go to keeping the Wonder Child Blog afloat and to my Transition.  Thank you.  Love, Jennifer