el arco de cabo san lucas under white and blue sky
Photo by Efrain Alonso on

An odd

Turn taken,

And now the road goes by beside

Burned cities all forsaken

And the ashes of fields are crumpled into dust.

The canyon wrens

No longer fly near here

And their guiding spirits

Seem to have no wings,

A numinous cloud blocks

The lunar rays from shining

While the moon forgets her phases, just

As the sun

Is lost, setting in the cave by the sea,

When the tide

Has turned out of sight

Yet beyond the time still gone,

The dragonfly flits

Anew through rainbowed fountains;

The light of heaven sings

High on the shimmering

Branches of the holy mountains

Beyond the impenetrable night

Of hidden majesty.

“Abhaya mudra”

“Fear not” – but only follow


Always wise,

With eyes

Of emerald light.


Where the black-chinned hummingbirds fly,

That host

of angels,

Who stay

Unwavering, steady on their way

Brave in the bright

Wind of dawn

Above the sea crashing long

On the rocks

Where all begins, again and yet again

Within the bells

Of Shiva,

Far along

The wave-bent coast,

In the still-sung, rising song

Of the Holy One.

In the mists of the bells of Shiva,

in the winds of the song and

The ringing of the seas.

© Copyright Sharon St Joan, 2023

The wings of nevermore

close up photography of a white egret
Photo by Zonda on
Have you left

So soon?

Where have you gone

On the shadowed wings

Of nevermore?

The moon 

A chalk 

Handprint before the winter of an old dawn

Fades. The light blue 


Waves farewell,

Bereft, a spell


Who wore the ancient cloak 

Of magic power?

Were there

Too many springs 

Of yesteryear?



On the tides of eternity,


Of misted beings

Haunt the bow 

Of the lost ship

And a fear

Lurks, why?

Look to a brighter land

Beyond the blue lake

Where smoke curls, rising



More real than you would know,

Patterns of hawkbills,

Turtles, enchanted urns, a token

Almost forgotten in the sand,

In the dip,

Where the rolling wave spills.

You may think that the myth is fading,

But know 

That the myth is life –

All the webs of life


Stronger where they journey

Beyond the knife

Of the dark wind rushing.

Will the wildflower

Grow –

Who belongs in a far, far land? – Now


The glad frogs croak

Their singing 


One day to return on the rain-drawn

Wings of daybreak,

To go, 

Now and evermore.

Always, hear,

Ever near, 

The song sung by the one who

Sings in the way of the wind on the shore

Where the rocks grow tall

Where the seagull’s call

Rises on the wave of the light of the dawn. 

© Copyright, Sharon St Joan, 2023.

The far-glimmering hill

silhouette of tree under half moon
Photo by Adrian Lang on



Rock stone lake,

Red cliff flowers on the road to the moon;

Tracks run into the curled sea of Malta,

Where the wind songs break.

Back then

There were many obelisks, all

Bright and speaking –

Not like today


The smoke whispers only

Sad tales of decrepitude,

And there are no beings singing

In the clouds,

Only shrouds

Of emptiness.


Will the gray

Seagulls return

On wings of yesteryear,

On dreams not yet forgotten?

When will the spirits, imbued

With magic, fly up through

The night mists –


Having slept,

The cobra

Rocked from side to side,

Friend of Narayana,

From the sea-green tide,

Alert, considering

Where to slither next,

Ancient being,

The one

Who used to ride among the stars,

Ancestor of many,

Who writes his text

On sandbars,


Long ago


Legends lived of hero

And saint

And those wiser than us by far.


Were crowds

Of bumblebees who count the stars.

Even now, doorways go

From the cavern

In the lake

To the mystic palaces of the tall

Wandering beings

Who still hear

The tales of centuries long slipped away,

Their shadow-light faint

Beyond the sea.

When will the time come then?


After the smoke of the fire has spewed

Down the valley

Will there arise

At last the moment of

Wildflowers, wandering moths, butterflies,

And little ones

With deep black eyes

And strange smiles of kindness?



The wind sighs


In the tall pines

And the bright moon




The far-glimmering


© Copyright Sharon St Joan 2023

The dance of Shiva

black and yellow bird perched on tree branch
Photo by Ray Bilcliff on

Within the snow


The raven-winged worlds of wonder

Become the beginnings and the endings,

The souls who are the one

Soul –

The re-awakening beginning

And the ultimate ending, broken asunder.

The soul of the snow goes

Drifting by on the many rivulets,



Are no one and everyone,

The soft-spoken spirit

Of the call of the night heron,

Floating over the waters

Of the black lake

Of eternity,

Where the boatman

Dips his pole

Toward the far shoal,


Now, with all the children of the stars,

Sons and daughters

Of heaven,

Who are dancing –


The dance of Shiva,

The one Soul.

© Copyright, Sharon St Joan, 2023


green trees near snow covered mountain
Photo by Anon on


To the land of drifting snow –


Many angels.

Black ravens circle


The treetop,

Glinting green.


Stars discern

A faint pathway

To river banks unseen.

Only divinity remains,

Only angels and singing bells,

In the gentle rains

Of spring.

Rocks washed, in the rolling


Of the unstoppable swells

Of the sea;

Tree shadows fade against the sky.

There is no one,

No one at all.

The tangles of time are all undone.

Only the lingering glance

Of eons sliding by,

Only the halo

Of the sacred night,

Only the peace of Eternity,

Only the startling snow,

Only the song of the swan

Has slipped away

Into the gray

Clouds of the pillars of the night,

Where the moon might


The white-crowned sparrow


And the magpie don

Her white robes, worn

In celebration

When the cosmic journey leads on and on

Through calming mists

Over miles of snow forests.

The one who waited to kill

The soul

No longer glimmers,

But is gone,

Into the night-waves of shadow.


The bitter song – of illusion – was never sung –

The notes were never played,

But fell instead into the yawning gap of the abyss,

So the autumn leaves never cascaded

On to the burned embers of time, unborn

With the final hiss

Of the raindrop.

Now, at last, only

The brave, undaunted raven rises

Whose eyes

Glisten wise

In the snow-radiant dark.

Only the real one,

Who soars aloft, ever higher

Over the juniper tree.


The first one,

The only one,

The God of myth

Who sparkles fire

As the bright


Of being,

Riding on the swift ark

Of the moon-crowned night.

© Copyright Sharon St Joan, 2023

Only the white owl

bird white owl feather
Photo by Pixabay on

It is only the white owl

From her tall




Might see the pinecone grow

And who

Still remembers

Even now, the snow

Drifting across the misted moon

After the embers

Of centuries

Of dark fire.

It was only

A while ago

Among the gold cliffs

That black ravens sounded their raucous calls

Of wisdom-woven prophecies,

They who brought the end of time, at last,

This time that has drawn to its close,

And now the single petal of the rose


There glimmer

Within the universe of beings, the silent

Springing feet of the herd of deer

Bounding ever higher,

Ever fast,

On their journey

Across the snow.


In the beginning,

The gold face of the setting sun

Will appear

Through silver sheets of rain that shimmer,

While, in the wandering whiffs

Of bitter smoke, will sound the cries

Of yesteryear,

That linger, still heard, echoing among the far cliffs,

The spirit of days



Now hills swept with snow

Travel farther back to

The land of mists and magic, flown.


The wings of butterflies

Unfold in the dawn,

In the beginning

That knows still the ancient ways

And there along the shore that goes to nowhere

The brave one

Walks on alone

In the far country,

The soul of courage,

Portender of knowledge.

The howl

Of the wolf, ascendant,

Will mark

The moment

When the moon

Rises over fields of stars, when Hanuman, hero

Of the earth and the skies,

In the beginning and the ending,

Brings clouds of peace that shine


Through the living fire of the distant dark.

© Copyright Sharon St Joan, 2023

When the raven danced

black bird on green grass
Photo by Daniil Komov on

On the tilting edge of the moon

The raven danced

To herald the coming

Of a newer, spirit-misted world.

Black – so many of the days

Of yesteryear,

Caught in a curled tailspin

Of swirling dust,

Yet, within the eye

Of the innocent deer,

Who stands at the border of the forest

Her toes of moonlight

Dipped in the stream

Of whirling


There, the ancient fire glows.


Not far away,

The spry

Young dragon

Who chanced by –

Timid – gathers

His courage

And leaps into the fray

To play

With his lively brother.

Old deep songs in the fall-enchanted hills


A distant memory,

A clatter of bones,

Round and round the strings

Of former days

Strung together

Like ringed stones

That still


Among the dark, foreboding, rocky pillars

Of the night.


Born anew,

The recurring

Blessing —

Of the bird-lit house of flowers

Perched on the tall hill –

Glimmers by the footsteps

Of the last fairy


By the fish-finned


In the raindrops

Of glistening showers,

Fallen from the silver mountain,


In the sacred sun,

Where the raven dreams

And dances

In the final, awakening days

Of prophecy,

In the cold wind.

Copyright Sharon St Joan 2022

A conversation by the sea

green grass on sand overlooking body of water
Photo by Nathan Cowley on

No one knew where he came from

Or why he looked a little odd,

Or what village was his home,

The one who was blue

And swam with fish

And had a gentle presence

And glimmering sea-green eyes.

They had a walk and a long talk

And after a while

A memory flickered of the friend

Known from long ago

By the rolling sea

Under the falling snow

Drifting down from the hills afar

Near an ancient star

In the lore

Of a distant folk

Who spoke

A fluid tongue that ran

On and on like the ringing rivers of time

A flickering smile

On another world

Sometime before

A gentle presence

The one who was from another place

By the sea

Of reflections

Of silver beings

Of a world


Furled in winds,

Curled in mist,


Home of spike-nosed marlin

Long ago when the sea gulls cry

No one knows when or why.

He walked out of the wandering sea

In the light of the moon

Where he used to walk,

In a castled sea,

Shimmering blue and purple,

Within the magical light of the moon

The remembering moon,

The sea with veins of light

In the liquid granite stone,

Within the magical, numinous light

Of the mystery moon,

Darkening before

The lotus-flowered light of the dawn opens

Gone now,

Where or when

No one can tell,

Returned to the world that was before

And evermore

And always again.

The one who was wise

And came from another world

Sometime before,

Sometime long ago

In the deepening land of snow,

By the echoing cave

And the wandering sound of the waves

And the lilting, peaceful song

Of the silver light of the sea.


© Copyright, Sharon St Joan, 2022


white goat in shallow focus shot
Photo by Jeswin Thomas on


No way out,

The shout

Of children laughing beyond the hill,

The sun

Wrapped up in billowing clouds,

Within the green, wavering willows

There are bowls

Of singing songs

Woven of silver shrouds

Of moonlight,

A thought



The gongs

Of the ancient temple at the top of the flight

Of stone steps,

No one knows why.

After the fall,

No recall.

No intention.

Only the mystic lands,

Where glide

The magic birds,


Beyond all paths of being

Where stands

Only the Presence of Eternity,

Beyond the misted rings of timeless time, beckoning

Where only the sacred one walks along,

Only the One

Beyond all paths of being

And the herd

Of little bearded goats

That traipses after,

Who play

In the grass on the sands,

By the rolling sea,

They are the jokes of Saturn, Shani,

Who bray

With their offkey

Bleating call


Where the seasongs

Float on the seaweed

Of the ever-turning tide.

© Copyright, Sharon St Joan, 2022

Mists of stone

Mists of stone

Clear in the arc

Of light,

Artic light, enduring


Through the dark,

Years of dark.

Buried, the lost bones

Of a bleak history,

Along with the ghostly groans

Of the dragon.


A snowflake


The wind calls,


The stones live on

And remember

The heart

Of the earth,

The cart-

Wheel tracks that run their way

Into the sea,

Of Malta, gray.

The walking before dawn

In the majestic winter

When the ice floe

Shimmered under

The dancing fairies of the moon,

To find the sacred stones

Of the path that went along, some time ago.

Now lost in the delirium

Of the modern world,


Awry from the start,

Let it leave soon,


To betray

The song of the mountain roses

That the stones may rise to an echoing drum,

Stones of mist.


The whispering fir trees of the forest,

The breath of God in the air, curled

In the smoke of the lost fires.

The eon closes.

From the eternity of being

There arises

The swan who sails softly

In long, snow-

Winged flight,

Over the hills

In the wild mists of dawn


Free at last in the lost rain that spills

Through the mist

Of the singing mountains.

Dragons awake

To drifting skies.


© Copyright Sharon St Joan, 2022, text and photo