Tag Archives: processing

Echo, Sadness

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Echo, Sadness
By
Joseph Anthony Petro

 
Echo, sadness, on the walls of my chest,
Over the skin on my shoulders,
Echo, sadness, roll down my arms
And splash from my fingers,
Echo, sadness, through the waters of my soul,
In the hollow of my hands, in the pit of my belly,
Echo, sadness, through my bones,
Through the shell of my memories,
Echo, like sonar and find the lost ships of desire.
Echo, sadness—shudder through the ghosts
Of my mind, allow them the gift
Of dissolving like mist in light—audible light—
Let them sing as they go, thinning
Into particles of mantras and prayers.
Echo, sadness, ring in the bell of my heart
And pour through the valley of my past
And the mountains of my fears.
Echo, sadness, here, in this rattled and quivering breath—
Shallow and catching—echo here and in this here–
Sound the call of healing and let this be but a beginning
Of the unleashing of the mighty dragons of joy
From the company of heaven.

 

 

 


 




It All Starts With a Question

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It All Starts With a Question
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

It all starts with a question.

Somehow, someway it gets spoken

Or simply lifts into your life, like

Morning.  Either way

It appears and your life changes.

Perhaps it sings into your life, like

Morning birds that say:

“Flock! Tree!  Let’s Go!

Stay! Sun! Fly! Wings!”

Maybe it gets puzzled up in chatter.

Perhaps it crashes into your life, like

A tree branch through your roof.

Perhaps it stands unspoken for years

In a corner of the room, like

A lamp without a lightbulb.

Perhaps it drifts into your awareness, like

The fragrance of morning coffee,

Old books, or the air just before rain,

No matter how or when it arrives,

The thing to do is to remember:

There is a quest in every question.

And sometimes questions

Need to be followed casually, like

A child on a walk in the woods,

And sometimes questions need to be pursued, like

A lost child in a carnival.

And sometimes questions simply need

To be acknowledged, and the answers

Pale in comparison to the fact

That you were finally able to ask whatever it was

You so desperately needed to ask.

And sometimes the answer is so utterly everyday

You miss it, like a stop sign or a dandelion—

And sometimes the question and the answer

Arise together, like

The butterfly in the cocoon,

Or the bird in the egg,

Or acceptance in the sorrow,

And sometimes…sometimes,

It all ends with a question,

And when it does,

The thing to do is to remember:

There is a quest in every question,

And no quest is ever deemed unworthy

Simply because the end winds up being

Another beginning, or the “X marks the spot”

Ends up being the very place

Where your knees touch the ground

Or your eyes search the sky,

And no quest, no matter what

Any staunch individualist says

Is ever meant to be traveled alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 


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How It’s Supposed to Be

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How It’s Supposed to Be
By
Joseph Anthony Petro

The trajectory is supposed to be
Like this—a gently sloping road
Rising steadily towards the next city over,
The one nestled in purple hills and gleaming rooftops,
And the road is supposed to be
Straight, and the road is supposed to be
Wide, and the driving safe,
And the air bright and the sun shining,
And there are supposed to be
Signs, clear as bells, along the way,
Unmistakable in their direction
And sense of helpfulness.
The road is supposed to be
Free of obstacles, dotted with pleasant shops
With curios and books, and little cafes
Where you can order the best smoothies
And read all day if you want to.
Yes the road is supposed to be
Free and easy, a short jaunt from here to there,
A Sunday drive in Spring that ends
With a picnic and a blanket and a basket
And not a single ant or yellow jacket.
Come to think of it, who needs a road?
Why shouldn’t it be that you simply walk
Out of your front door and wind up exactly
At the beginning and the end, all at once?
Where you walk down your driveway
To the sidewalk which turns on itself
In a closed-circuit loop, leading down
And around and right back up
To your very own door,
And so you are where you’re supposed to be,
And there isn’t any need for a journey.
In fact, why open the door at all?  Why even go
To the door in the first place?  Why even get out of bed?
Why not just stay inside
Where the covers are warm and the house
Empty and the walls full of the fantasies
Projected from your mind,
And your feelings are fine, in no need
Of changing, and all of your memories
Are fine, in no need of processing,
And all of your dreams and goals for the future
Are fine, powdery dust, in no need of pursuing?
Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?


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