Tag Archives: recovery

Foundations

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Foundations
By
Joseph Anthony Petro

 

Listen, O ears of my soul–
Hear past sounds and any meaning
The mind gives those sounds,
Listen through the chatter
And traffic, and everyday sonancy
To the Foundation Song
Exhaling steadily through all creation.

Look, O eyes of my soul,
See past appearances and any judgments
The mind assigns the images,
See through replicas and glitter,
And shifting shadows
To the Foundation Light
Shining steadily through all creation.

Taste, O tongue of my soul,
Discern past flavors and any cravings
The mind makes you think
You must obey.
Savor through the empty calories,
The sweetness and bitterness,
And everyday seasonings
To the Foundation Bread
Nourishing steadily all creation.

Feel, O body of my soul–
Breathe past fear and any memories
That say you shouldn’t experience bliss,
Rise past shame and the torturous ideas
That pleasure is somehow wrong
To the Foundation Joy
Cresting steadily through all creation—
Spilling you, emptying you, filling you,
Lifting you to sink into heaven’s bed
Where you are allowed to desire desire,
Where you are allowed to be ravished
And to ravish, where it is safe to lose yourself
And find yourself in the rapturously
Catching breath of the Beloved.

 

 

 

 


 




Prodigal Song

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Prodigal Song
By
Joseph Anthony Petro

 

Little by little,
More and more
Is being carved away,
Hollowed out,
Emptied out,
Ruled out,
Clarified,
Loosened,
Released,
And unblocked.
Little by little,
More and more
This uncluttering
And diminishing
Leaves me clear
And open and ready
For Your breath
To flow through me,
For Your fingers
To nimbly cover
And uncover the holes
In my memories
And what I think
I want and need,
Ready for You to play
Through me
The song You know
I most want to sing,
The song You compose,
The song You arrange,
The song You gave me
In the beginning
When You first kissed
My forehead
And let me go.

 

 

 


 




Along the Way

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Along the Way
By
Joseph Anthony Petro

 

Along the Way

 

I will fumble for the right words,
Old ideas I’ve built around how I think
Everything should go will crumble,
And there will be no doubt that again
And again I will stumble and fall.
I will bumble a big deal.
I will mumble telling the truth.
I will grumble when following
Someone else’s directions.
My thoughts will become entangled
In a jumble of feelings.
And through it all, the stomach of my soul
Will rumble with hunger for You, and You alone.
Along the way, which is of course, here and now,
The earth will be calling my name,
And as I draw closer to You, You will somehow
Tie heaven and earth together as I kneel
And allow my self to be lifted and placed
Securely in the lap of the way it is,
Where all of the fumbling and crumbling,
Stumbling and bumbling, mumbling
And grumbling, jumbling and rumbling
Will settle where it needs to be,
Which is in the sacrament
Of the present moment and me being
Humble.

 


 

 

 




Suggestion

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Suggestion
By
Joseph Anthony Petro

 

Life isn’t like a rollercoaster with steep, anticipatory climbs
And sudden, exhilarating drops. It’s more like walking through the woods
Along a path that keeps disappearing and reappearing
At seemingly random points along the way.
The next time it disappears, walk only
Until you find a level enough space to pitch a tent,
And then spread out all your stuff—your current, new-fandangled (and unreliable)
Compass, your dented kettles, your books and journals,
Pocketknives and pieces of flint, and your old, crumbling
Provisions wrapped in old, crumbling tin foil, and hunker down
For the night, or the better part of a day or a week,
Or until you begin to feel like a caterpillar tired of its own cocoon,
And when that happens, wriggle out of your sleeping bag,
Crawl through the narrow, triangular opening,
Stand, stretch, look around, scratch your head, and you’ll find–there,
Where you hadn’t noticed it before, will be the path,
And today it might be inclining upwards, and just the sight of it
Will be enough to make your legs ache,
But slowly get down on your hands and knees anyway,
And start packing everything back up, stuffing everything
Back down in your knapsack, and then tie on the kettles
And hoist the whole kit and caboodle over your shoulders,
Where it will likely knock you off balance a little,
But then steady yourself, take a deep breath,
And start trudging again.
And after awhile of walking, looking at the ground,
If you keep your sense of awareness at the ready,
You will suddenly bump into another hiker
And you’ll walk, side by side, sharing stories,
Things you’ve seen and heard along the way,
And suddenly, without either of you even realizing it
The weight on your backs will have lightened,
And the path, no matter whether it’s clear or not,
Will be clear now that you’ve fallen in step
With someone else heading to the same place;
That place, over there, that’s really actually here,
Where you’re walking, together, on the journey
To yourself, to each other, to the wide open space
Called Freedom.


 

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What To Do

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What to Do
By
Joseph Anthony Petro

 

If you fumble around long enough
Words will turn up.
The trick is to keep searching.
Look under the dusty cushions
Of old ideas,
Or in the loose pockets
Of worn out prejudices,
Thumb through the flat, leather wallet
Of your past accomplishments,
Reach for the every day,
Explore the every where,
Touch the faces of revelation,
Brush open the hands of wonder.
Most of all, allow your awareness
To settle into the moment, like
A butterfly settling on a flower,
Or better yet, like a tone
Blossoming from a bell.
Your life is brimming
With meaning. This moment
Is ringing with the One
Word that holds all words,
That lifts all burdens into sunlight;
This moment, this life–look here,
Look now.

 

 

 


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Insight

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Insight
By
Joseph Anthony Petro

 

Today as I prayed, I imagined standing
Near a sandy beach, and as I did, fear vanished
And so did anger, resentment, jealousy, and shame.
All that was left was an ocean
Of sorrow, and an ocean of joy,
And I am convinced in this moment that the soul
Knows only these two emotions: joy and sorrow.
The rest of them belong to the mind.
And the body has the blessing (or curse,
As the case may be) of feeling them all.
Of course fear will crop up
Any minute now, or some ancient shame
Will appear out of nowhere
And turn my gaze once again to the ground.
That said, I hold to the idea
The beach inspired: the soul only knows two emotions.
A boat cannot sail across an ocean of anger.
Only over heaves of sorrow or
Buoyant ripples of joy can a vessel
As fragile as ours get anywhere.
And all the other emotions pass.
Only joy and sorrow remain—
Waves of sorrow, like wind
Through reeds, currents of joy,
Like fingers through harp strings,
Sorrow that wanders abandoned houses,
Joy that claps its hands with praise,
Sorrow, limitless, and dark as night,
Joy, shimmering, like a sea of gold.
The eternal dance of union and longing–
The substance and form of all we ever wanted
And all that we are, or ever shall be,
Is made up of the rhythms of joy and sorrow.
So I will hold still and I will sing,
For today I know the soul’s journey
Is sure, the soul’s journey is born
On waves of sorrow and currents of joy,
And ends on the shore where the Beloved waits,
In perfect peace, to welcome us home.


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Owl

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Owl
By
Joseph Anthony Petro

Somewhere
In the night trees
You ask the question
While at the same time
Bragging that you know
The answer.
And you glide
Around our houses,
Drift through the moonlight
Over our backyards,
Confident in your silent wings,
With the night
Coursing through your bones
With sheer joy
Above us all.

I lie awake
Listening.
When I am finally able
To sob the same question
Into the darkness
I am racked with dread,
And I frantically try to avoid
The turn of your head,
Desperately try to blend in
With the surrounding shadows,
Wildly try to pretend
I have not been left out in the open—
And so I run, or I freeze,
Hell-bent on avoiding the talons
You close around those
Who do not know
The answer.


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The Burial, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

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Burial
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

The spirits gathered around my bed
Hooded, cloaked in darkness,
Arms like terrible branches
Grasping and hungry.
They wanted the child
I was holding, and yet I
Was only a child myself,
Unable to protect myself
Or the child from their frenzied hunger.
And yet they wanted the child.
And in the blackness of that midnight,
In the utter aloneness of that moment,
As the spirits tore at my arms,
I wouldn’t give them what they wanted.
I held on to the child.
But not out of heroics.
For the child I held was already dead.
And I simply wouldn’t give her up.
I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. And my life
Became a shrine to this baby,
This baby dead from as far back
As I can remember.
And just as the spirits from the darkness
Surrounded me, and just as I sometimes feel like
I have become one of them,
The spirit of that baby lives
And guides my every movement.
I cannot bring the child back
But I can live in her honor,
And bury her at the roots
Of the Tree of Life, believing
She will rise again, transfiguring
However she will into my life
And yours, informing us all, like
Breath, like a garden, like morning, like
The wide open sky.

 



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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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Declaration, Seed Poem II

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Declaration
Seed Poem II
By Joseph Anthony Petro

Hear Ye! Hear Ye!
O Seed of Compressed Light,
In your own sweet time
Break open, fall apart, dissolve
Into earth and warmth and sun,
And grow, dive upwards
Through the dark sea
Of ground and soil, and rejoice.
Express yourself as pure,
Undivided devotion to light
And the utter deliciousness
Of being yourself.

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