The Habit of Thinking Light, A Collage Poem, By Jennifer Angelina Petro, From Words by Sam Lilley, from his book, “Discovering Relatively for Yourself,”

The Habit of Thinking Light

A Collage Poem

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

From words by Sam Lilley, from his book,

“Discovering Relatively for Yourself,” published 1981, with a few words by me

 

 

Light behaves in many ways.

It is a steady motion

full of fruitful suggestions—

some of them far more subtle

than others—but for all of them

the conclusion is clear:

 

We move through light.

 

And it’s all happening in outer space—

it’s an everyday experience

and a startling idea, with many

radiations intuiting the absurdity

of how the edges move,

of how we are traveling

towards the right and good,

with many little kindnesses

becoming the habit of thinking light.

 

The upshot of it all:

we are love’s out and back journeys,

we are not impossible conclusions,

we are instantaneous events

occupying small intervals of time,

imagining things in new ways,

we are dilations of light,

reaching towards the kind of together

where we surprise one another

with messages of hope coming directly

from the first flash of love and wanting,

that still carry us to somewhere,

to here.

 

 


The Wandering Now, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

The Wandering Now

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Are there times, plural? Times

That exist multiplied, added,

Subtracted, divided?

 

Or is it one time and one time only?

Is it one borderless time—no alpha,

No omega time? No chronos,

No Kairos, no linear, no anywhere time?

 

We do know there are

Rhythms of moons and seasons,

 

We do know we breathe—

 

Our lives,

Our breath,

 

Sifts through many branches,

Spreads through many bodies,

Moves in a wind that is kin to silence—

 

Yet even amidst the changes that don’t

Really change, even amidst the sound

Living in silence, and the silence living in sound

 

It is still a breath—an expansion and contraction

Of our place in time—

A breath that is, in itself, a spirit,

A spirit that is, in itself, a body—

A body that is, in itself, the now made manifest.

 

And from where we stand,

In all of the mystery, and all

The effort to find a center

 

We blossom and wither

In no time at all—

 

So here we are—maybe

You need to join me in

Lifting our head, lifting our hands—

And with all the earnestness of a lost soul–

Say to the everywhere:

“Show me.”

 

 

 


Souls Alive, A Little Story about The Purpose of Life, Chickens, Dragons, and Dark Chocolate, By Jennifer Angelina Petro

Souls Alive

A Little Story about The Purpose of Life, Chickens, Dragons, and Dark Chocolate

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Chapter One: The Ending

 

My parents were dead before I was born, and so was I.  Hate to break it to you, but it’s the same for you too, dear reader.  It’s the same for all of us.  Thing is, it’s a fact that’s hard to remember.  Once we infuse ourselves into a body, we’re already so delighted over the sparkling journey, that our so-called-past-becomes a distant, nearly fully unconscious memory.  I say, “so-called past,” because, as the chickens tell us—there is no true beginning or end.  The debate as to which who came first, is like arguing over which is better—dark chocolate Oreos or dark chocolate nonpareils—silly.

At any rate, let’s get back to me.  As I mentioned a paragraph ago, my parents were dead before I was born, and so was I.  Hate to break it to you, but it’s the same for—-oh, sorry, said that already.  I’m trying to focus, please be patient with me.  It’s not easy to be a ghost and keep your focus.  Think of it—everything is radiantly timeless and sugary like cotton candy, and so it’s hard to remain focused on whatever is in front of you—not to mention the fact that you can pass your hands through everything you touch and that’s pretty cool, but nevertheless annoying.

I should probably define what a ghost actually is.  It’s not what most people think.  According to the Online Etymology Dictionary (which remains my favorite website after all these centuries) in the original Old English, the word, “ghost,” was, “gast,” which meant, among other things, “breath; angel, demon; person, human being.”  The fact that the word has devolved over the centuries to simply mean the spirit of a dead person, is a travesty.  Most words today are devolutions of much richer, more wondrous meanings, and, as time goes by (which is really a very profane expression, since time doesn’t “go-by,” but more on that later—which is another word related to time that also baffles me), the human mind became less able to hold all these various meanings in one mind (which is, as you guessed it–the idea of “one mind”–a silly idea as well) and thus the intricate complexities of all words distill down to definitions that any old human intellect can tackle.

It’s entirely possible you might be thinking that I’m attempting to avoid relating the actual story I started out to tell—the one about my parents and I being dead before we were born—and you wouldn’t be completely wrong.  You see, it is a challenging story for me to both recall and to tell.  It brings to surface, like an underground lake suddenly seeping across the land, many painful experiences that must, of necessity, be brought to light.  Not the least of which involves a hungry (but vastly misunderstood) dragon, the challenging descriptions of incarnating, and the hot-button-topic-of gender identity—sure to rankle the feathers of many small-minded fundamentalists.

All that said, let’s jump into the vegetarian meat of the story:  My parents were dead before I was born, and so was I.  Now, as I eluded to earlier—any word that is used in reference to time— “before,” “earlier, “after,” and so on, are really misnomers, and highly inaccurate and misleading.  For the sake of you, dear reader, we will stick to the conventional, human terms for time.  This is not to say you are incapable of grasping such concepts, it is more to say—your heart can, your soul can, your spirit can—but your mind—well, your mind will get all tangled in philosophical debating and you wouldn’t be able to enjoy the yarn I am spinning—or, at very least, about to spin.  The broader, more cosmic definitions of “time” are going to be left for another, non-existent day.

Take a breath, dear reader, cause here we go.

 

Chapter Two: The Beginning

 

 

 

 

 


Creating the World, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Creating the World

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Most of us know how

The world around us

Helps shape us—

Our morals, likes

And dislikes, ways of seeing,

How we listen, and to whom.

 

For the sake of this poem, however,

I am not just referring to the world

As society and culture,

And the morays we absorb

So easily and release so stubbornly.

 

I am speaking of the air,

The world-forces of creation,

How we are born into movement,

And how the boundaries

Of skin and bone are sung

Into form as we live, move,

And have our being in the world,

Literally sculpted as we go

By the responsive hands of space.

 

Now, here, as you move,

As you get up from your chair

To walk across the room,

As you go to dress, or eat,

Or kneel in prayer,

As you reach out to a lover

Or to pick up an infant,

Or hand the cashier your change,

Or receive an embrace,

Know, now, here, you

Are sculpting the world.

 

The very space you move

Within-to-with, you shape—

 

The air, the back space

And the many little circles

And planes you walk this day—

Become embodying language;

Your movements create

Form and living paintings

In space and time and breath,

The world responds

To your every movement,

Your every touch, and push;

 

You unfold and color the world–

As you propel forward—

The way parts and blooms around you

As if you were swimming

In a sea of impressionable air—

Because you are.

 

As you live through-with

This day, delineating your space,

Open your movements—

Your arms and the myriad

Of little dances you do,

Widen your gestures, welcome

And invite, give and receive,

Describe space with grace and purpose—

Adorn the world

With you.

 

 


 

 

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The Way, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

The Way

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

The seed,

The blossom,

The egg,

The wings,

The chrysalis,

The storm,

The spring,

The hands,

The voice,

The heart,

Covers and blankets,

Grief and rage,

The mind,

The memory,

The questions,

Faith and darkness,

Stories and galaxies,

The way and years,

Everything loosens

And gives way

To unfolding.

 

 

 

 


 

 



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Where I Belong, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Where I Belong

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Sitting in my one room efficiency—a place I have come

To call, my burrow, I find myself

Looking back at memories of my life

And what I see are little trails—

Soundless except my mind gives them sound—

Little trails that veer off into woods

Or branch out into other trails–

They show events and conversations—

Happening right there in the path—

People emerge from the tall grass,

Say their lines, then disappear once again back

Into the field, and as I think of these memories

Some rise around bends, like mountains,

Others like bodies of water, and still others

Like wide valleys of snow, and I realize

I am not really looking back, but forward—

Looking for where the trails lead, if in fact

They lead anywhere—

For the very idea of going from here to there—

Of starting out and then winding up someplace—

Of following the trajectory of an event–

Suddenly seems effortlessly silly.

 

Where am I going?  What gives me the right

To go even imagine I am going anywhere?

Why do I suppose that this life leads somewhere

Or to some time? Why do I need to know

It has a happy ending?

 

Sitting here, alone, in the silence of my books,

I stop roaming the trails and foothills

Of memory, and instead, write this down–

And suddenly the answer appears before me—

Ink spilling form forward leaving letters as trails

And I am full of the emptiness that I have to

Go anywhere.

 

Here, with you,

Is where I belong.

 

 

img_20161108_145511

 

 


 

 

 





Surfing the Spectrum

Surfing the Spectrum
By
Joseph Anthony Petro

 

 

Darkness lives as shadows
In every sun-drenched day,
Stars and eyes of animals
Betray light shining in every night–
Travel to the end of the day
And you will stumble
Into the arms of the moon,
Venture to the end of the night
And fall into the lap of the sun–
Try cleaving the back of a coin
From its front,
Know that all genitals
Begin as one–
Try finding the middle ground
Between walking and standing—
Straight and curved travel
One continuous line–
Every breath we take sustains
And destroys us—
Bathe in dark waters dappled in moonlight,
Revel in wonder of trying to experience
Getting as close to the truth as you can—
Time and space flow like rivers—
Step into the ever-expanding now–
Surf the spectrum that blooms an eternity of color,
Skate the rainbow of possibilities spilling from infinity–
Be who you long to be—
Sing as you long to sing—
Live as you long to live—
Express as you long to express—
Reveal as you long to reveal—
Sleep as you long to sleep—
Awaken as you long to awaken–
Darkness lives as shadows
In every sun-drenched day,
Stars and eyes of animals
Betray light shining in every night–
Travel to the end of the day
And you will stumble
Into the arms of the moon,
Venture to the end of the night
And fall into the lap of the sun

 

spectrum

 

 


 

 

 





River of Grace

River of Grace
By
Joseph Anthony

River of Grace

Yesterday spills over into now, like
A perpetual fountain; tomorrow
Waves backwards, catching us up
In its unfolding tide of mystery.
Now branches tributaries in every direction
Regardless of where you focus
Or how, or which way you turn
Your attention—you’re standing
In water, or succumbing to flowing
And rivering, rushing and burbling,
Hushing and tumbling over and over
Gathering up yesterdays, like
So many fallen leaves,
Roaring towards tomorrow, like
A waterfall that ultimately resolves
Into stillness and reflection where you’re breathing,
Body dripping wet, no longer ashamed
Of the time spent in yesterday,
Or the time spent in tomorrow,
You’ll just be here, half drowned
In sorrow, half resurrected
In hope—here,
where there is no right way
to act a certain way.
Hold out your hands, time is flowing.
Make a beginning, bring eternity
To your waiting, trembling lips.


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