If You Become Lost, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

If You Become Lost


Jennifer Angelina Petro



Keep moving,

The road, they say,

Is made by walking,

I know, that sounds

Trite and annoying,


It holds true.


Think about acorns.


I imagine

They haven’t a clue

About what is happening,

Or where they are,

Or where they are going.


They go.  I want to

Believe they dream

Of sky and wind and sun

And roots to hold them

As they sway in said sky,

Wind, and sun.

I also think they haven’t

Any idea that their dreams

Are real, on so many

Blessed levels.


So, what do they do?

They move inside—

Something unfurls,

Like having the morning

Tucked away within them,

And as this slow, green,

Galaxy of branches opens,

They move outside.  While they may

Not know where

They are going,

They open themselves

To possibilities and roads.


Sure, they meet stones,

Rocks, pass worms

And bones, perhaps

Even a sleeping bear or two,

Sure, its dark inside, and outside,

And, for the most part, cold.

Yet, they rise, moving

In ways that remind me


If you become lost,

Keep moving.  You may

Not know where

You are going, or

Where your destination

Will be; what skies

You will open up into—

What horizons you will see,

What birds will find safety

In your arms.  The light knows

However.  The light knows

Wherever.  The light knows

Whenever.  The light knows

Whatever.  The light knows

Whyever.  The light knows

Whomever and whichever,

And shiningever, and singingever,

Callingever, lighthousingever,

Lookingforyouever, thewayever,

The nowever, the light knows all

The question words,

The light knows all

The answer words,

The light knows all

The inbetween words,

The light knows all

The unspoken words.

The light knows


The light knows

You carry its child.

The light knows

You will both be born

Again, and again,

Into the way home.






All donations go to medical bills and groceries. <3

The Lighthouse and the Lightkeeper

The Lighthouse and the Lightkeeper
Joseph Anthony Petro

The Lightkeeper climbed the spiral stairs he had built
Many years before, illuminating his own way as he went.
Arriving at the barely burning light, in the sea-whispered darkness
He trimmed the wick, like a gardener pruning a flower.
Shrouded in salt-scented silence the wick wept in pain and gratitude.
The Lightkeeper knew all about the storm-swirled foundations
Of the lighthouse–her laborious beginnings and genuine attempts
To remain solid and in good standing with a shore covered with rocks and waves,
And an ocean full of lost vessels–untethered, uncaptained, bobbing
In their own sickness, void of direction, unsure of the way ahead,
Lost without rudder or sail. The Lightkeeper knew them each by name.
He knew their voyages, their origins, who built them and set them sailing,
He knew where they wanted to go. He knew the emptiness in their hulls,
And their desire for treasure. He knew their wheels longed to be held and steered
Despite their cries to be left alone.
He knew he wanted each and every one of them safe in the harbor.
He knew all about the ideas that the wind-tossed-tide threw around like little shells—
Ideas that say the world no longer needs lighthouses,
Ideas that say it is somehow wrong to shine, or wrong to want or need
To be rekindled by another, that the ships are perfectly fine
Drifting as they are with their own unique and uncriticizable navigation equipment.
Into these ideas he simply implanted the sound of the sea.
Having finished his trimming for now, the Lightkeeper
Touched his light to the wick with all of the tenderness
Of an angel kissing the forehead of a sleeping infant,
And when spark caught spark and the light of the lighthouse
Began to blaze, filling the space with warmth and steadiness
Ship after ship began sailing for home, and the lighthouse
Remembered why she was there and how important
Her mission was. And then the Lightkeeper
Looked at her flame dancing in the light of his light and said:
“This is my Beloved daughter in whom I am well pleased.”