Hanuman, you are there

landscape mountain with trees near body of water
Photo by Alex on Pexels.com

Hanuman,

Eyes of the green-rolling ocean waves,

Eyes of the beauty of peace, blue

Essence of being,

Your world is true.

Then, we knew you before,

And remember you from when this earth began.

You ride on the wind,

Through the star-

Bending branches of destiny.

Your heart braves

The upheavals of all that should not be.

You – the soul of all being.

You are the iron-gray rocks of eternity,

You sing in the sky;

You shine, effervescent, In the sun.

You walk in the moon-winged, far-raining

Night of gossamer petals.

You fly,

On bright sandals,

Hanuman, son of the wind,

Soul of eternity,

Near the hawk, sharp-shinned,

Hovering to scan

The long, winding shore.

Where

Would you go, Hanuman?

There, in the great-souled trees of all-being,

Among the startling leaves – green in the spring.

Always, you are there.

Never far,

Always there,

Hanuman,

Son of the wind.

Always there.

In the sharp wind that runs by the circling sea.

© Sharon St Joan, June 2021

Hanuman, son the wind

shallow focus photography of monkey
Photo by Leonid Danilov on Pexels.com

Hanuman,

Son of the wind,

Forest-eyed,

Sent to free

Entangled innocence from rusted snares,

From the bitter clawhold of Ravana,

To guide the gold-winged butterfly,

The shy, dawn-eyed doe,

The nagalinga tree

Of skylit flower,

The brave host of bears

On the oak-hallowed hill,

The bright-songed messengers, in flight,

The belled, meandering cow,

The redwoods of ancient girth,

The moon-

Finned

Minnows

Of silver gill,

Out from the chasms of desolation

Of a world gone awry

Back to the far, far

Reaches of the beginning – before ever time arose

Back to the shining lake of the mountain height

Hidden unseen in the green land of the star

Where mists of joy run

Like horses on the white river, wide,

Where the spring cactus unfolds gold and red.

A day to bring the innocent out, away

In the boat of the canted bow

That fled

Across the storm-bent sea

In the gale-churned hour.

Do you remember your flaming brand

And the fire that went up to swallow

The iron-souled city of Lanka?

Hanuman,

Savior of the innocent, hero-son

Of earth and star,

There  –  hear the call of the raven chime

From the canyon of ill-kept time.

Soon

Hanuman,

Son of the wind,

Breath of the earth.

© Sharon St Joan

Interested in India? You might like to visit http://www.forestvoicesofindia.com and sign up for the free newsletter.

Winged One

shallow focus photo of swan on body of water
Photo by Dave Toro on Pexels.com

Ever ancient one,

Winged One

You who sail

Beyond the chime

Of the wind,

Who enfold

The rings

Of magic beings,

You who fly

Between the lands of the stars,

Who know

The heart within all things,

Even the patterns on the tossed jars,

Of years swept out to sea

By the glinting rush of rivers,

You who climb

With the innocent

Feet

Of the flock

Of goats on the worn hill,

Who shine as the whispering of pale

Gold

Flowers,

As the fleet

Dance of the sacred waters,

Among the holy stones at daybreak,

Pure being,

Winged soul of time

And eternity,

You are ever the light within

The gathered shawl

Of the deepening sky,

Ever the wind set loose on the lapping

Indigo

Lake,

Ever the echo

Of the silver swans whose call

Sings

Still

Within the lily

Of spring

Through the open

Window

In the rock.

© Sharon St Joan, 2021

A request: How to help India during Covid:

First: Go to forestvoicesofindia.com

and sign up for the newsletter – to stay in touch

and receive news.

Second: At forestvoicesofindia.com,

you can give to help. The donate button is

on the right.

Third: Please send this message to a friend

(or to all your friends).

Peace, many blessings, and thank you!

Forest Voices of India

The feet of Shiva, dancing

black metal round wall decor
Photo by Nishant Vyas on Pexels.com

In the far

Times

Of the winds forsaken,

Remains the now.

Nothing.  No one.

No time.

No space.

The ship’s bow

Cuts through the open water, choppy.

No crime

Of destiny.

No mistake.

Only

That golden-footed deer

Who leaps from the star

In the heavens

Into a bright meadow

Of sunset

Lilies,

In those more

Sacred gardens

By the crashing sea.

In leaving behind

The tapestries

Of maya,

The flames of un-becoming,

The fear

That lies

Like thin ice, narrow

On the fragile lake,

One may find

The Presence,

The paintings of Kailasanathar

Effaced by centuries – long slipped away,

Yet

More

Vibrant still than ever before

When their black orchid eyes

Gleam in the night of the soul,

In resonance,

Beyond all paths of being,

Beyond the impending end.

The sky-bright day

Of Brahma

Closes now.

The birds of light have fled,

Yet

Nonetheless

The worlds awaken

In gladness,

To rise

Anew

Once more.

That which cannot be

Will be.

The cloth spun

With no thread

Becomes the diaphanous gown of myriads of stars,

The one

Pausing in the mist

Becomes the tumbling Ganges

Falling on the forest

Floor.

The bells toll.

The undoing becomes the being

And the white-crowned sparrow

Hops from world to world, leaf-green

By the bough

Of the plum tree

Along the cliffs askew

In the deep river gorge below,

While far away,

There,

At Chidambaram, where

No one, it seems, is watching,

Only the enhancing magic screen,

All begins,

The beginning, the ending, and the beginning again,

Ever near

By the clear

Moon-winged grace

Of the feet of Shiva

Dancing.

© Sharon St Joan, 2021

A request: How to help India during Covid:

First: Go to forestvoicesofindia.com

and sign up for the newsletter – to stay in touch

and receive news.

Second: At forestvoicesofindia.com,

you can give to help. The donate button is

on the right.

Third: Please send this message to a friend

(or to all your friends).

Peace, many blessings, and thank you!

Forest Voices of India

Blue Nile

Photo by Ray Bilcliff on Pexels.com

The long-lapping waves of the blue Nile

Light

The far

Land where Anubis once stood

In the doorway open

To the skies

Beyond,

To the bright

Belt of Orion,

While

The rays of Ra were shining

Down from within the sacred wood.

Soon, the feet of blue jackals

Walk the way where flames and flowers sing,

And the kind, knowing eye

Of the cobra

Lies

Awake

Now on her nest of petals,

Wisdom snake,

The horses of the wind run by

On the river with fair flags flying,

While the desert lion

Gathers her strength,

Until she springs

From the song-shadow.

The tree, the deer, and the birch wand

Of bark

Sent within the patterns of the snow-

Gods are held up high

By

The Annunaki, by Shiva, by

The distant Celt,

And yet, always,

Dakshinamurthy will remain and be there walking,

To wend his way

Along

The length

Of the star-intended lane

Watching still,

Through the forest of mist

From the farthest

Hill,

Friend, in the night of ancient owls and petals fallen in the dark.

© Sharon St Joan, 2021

A request: How to help India during Covid:

First: Go to forestvoicesofindia.com

and sign up for the newsletter – to stay in touch

and receive news.

Second: At forestvoicesofindia.com,

you can give to help. The donate button is

on the right.

Third: Please send this message to a friend

(or to all your friends).

Peace, many blessings, and thank you!

Forest Voices of India

Swan of climbing wings

Photo by Simon Berger on Pexels.com

Swan of climbing wings,

Below

Slips by

The hour of the rhyme of time unraveling.

Raindrops.

Where now will the footsteps of the ancient ones tread?

On the moon – the dark side?

On the mountain height?

The unbecoming,

Unarranging,

Unimagining.

Aloft, Hamsa – you who ride

On the mist, undeterred

Through the red

Pillars of the sunset

Through the cliffs of darkened flight,

Do you see –

Or have you heard

Such a string of mis-imaginings?

And yet

The old one saw the donkeys

On the winding streets of Egypt

Among the catacombs and the crypt.

For a long time,

She rescued them.

Fly now to join the birds in the clouds,

Only the clouds,

Gray over the medieval rooftops

Of the crags above the lost towns.

Crowds

In dusted cities,

The mind gone

Astray,

In disarray,

Betrays

The darkness

And the quiet,

Until only the mighty wings of the sparrow

Understand

The patterns of the falling snow

And go on to a newer, older land,

Found by grace.

Become then the white-crowned sparrow,

Only the sparrow who flies

Toward the face

Of the dawn,

Only the gull who rises, who cries

In gladness,

Over the wintry bay,

Free,

Beyond the misted, ethereal rooftops

Crowned in pointed hats of snow.

© Sharon St Joan, 2021

Within the snow

Within the snow,

Eternity.

Within the tree-topped circles,

Flocks

Of red-winged blackbirds

Singing silver reeds of song.

Beyond the words,

The clear

Bright

Voice of the moon speaks,

The voice of all that is and might

Have been.

Above the long

Waves of the ever-turning, white-pounding sea,

Seagulls

Seek

Peace.

Rains

Run by the crease

In the page

Of the dusted year.

Beyond the clouds of storms, of bursting rifts of light,

The bitter winds of jagged rocks.

Beyond the thought forms, tumbled, broken,

Remains

The peace of the One

Who is only

There in the deepest mist

Of the great forest

Beyond the many worlds that come and go,

Within the heart of basalt rocks,

Within the soul

Of the jaguar and the tadpole,

The lily and the dandelion,

Within the black night

Of wonder

And the snow

Falling on the juniper

Branches and the flowering gold sage

Of eternity.

© Sharon St Joan, 2021

Swan of climbing wings

Swan of climbing wings,

Below

Slips by

The hour of the rhyme of time unraveling.

Raindrops.

Where now will

The footsteps of the ancient ones tread?

On the moon – the dark side?

On the mountain height?

Aloft, Hamsa – you who ride

On the mist, undeterred,

Through the red

Pillars of the sunset

Through the cliffs of darkened flight,

Do you see,

Or have you heard

Such a string of mis-imaginings?

And yet

The old one saw the donkeys

On the winding streets of Egypt

Among the catacombs and the crypt.

For a long time,

She rescued them.

Fly now to join the birds in the clouds,

Only the clouds,

Gray,

Over the medieval rooftops

Of the crags above the lost towns.

Crowds in dusted cities,

The mind gone

Astray,

In disarray,

Betrays

The darkness

And the quiet,

Until

Only the mighty wings of the sparrow

Understand

The patterns of the falling snow

And go on to a newer, older land,

Found by grace.

Become then the white crowned sparrow,

Only the sparrow

Who flies

Toward the face of the dawn,

Only the gull who rises, who cries

In gladness

Over the wintry bay,

Free,

Beyond the misted, ethereal rooftops

Crowned

In pointed hats of snow.

© Sharon St Joan, 2021

Beyond the gray doorway

snow covered mountain
Photo by Trace Hudson on Pexels.com

Beyond the gray doorway

The snow waits and listens,

While wolves tilt their ears,

Waiting too,

Till voices sing,

Voices of the angels,

Who, some say,

Do not exist,

But who – nonetheless –

Are more real than we, than me;

For they are Your beings,

Dragons of kindness,

Fierce winds of power,

That hold back the tumult of chaos

Til storms still and furies cease,

Til destiny shelves

The stealing shadow

Into the fading abyss

Of nevermore,

Thereby dispelling fear,

Then, while a silent, silver snow

Alights

And slips among the junipers,

Footsteps unseen

Lead the way

Along the jagged cliff face,

That winds on and on to the valley

Of peace,

To a far country,

To Your ever-sacred path,

To Your forest

Of the peepal tree,

Where the magic fawn

Awakens,

Child of enchanted herds,

There

Rise the flowering birds,

Beyond, in flight,

That call

In the dawn,

In the trailing mist

Of lace,

On wings of blue

And green,

With Your voice of light,

Beyond the star-ringed tower,

Clear,

Ascending,

While not so far away,

The waves fall

Against all

The rain-rift standing rocks of the immortal sea.

Written December 17, 2020

© Sharon St Joan, 2020

The bells of Shiva

rainforest during foggy day
Photo by David Riaño Cortés on Pexels.com

Beside the stones,

The rain

Intones 

The song of the evening star;

There lies the derailed car

Of arrogance

Fallen, still

In the hour of reckoning.

Mother of the Rising Light

Not far away,

As they were wont to say,

But near,

As the breath of moonbeams. On the horizon

Of unmarked time, the stray

And wayward galaxy,

By a kind fate,

Has escaped the dreary, dismal chain

Of bondage,

That lurks at the sharp edge

Of being.

Every light,

Every shining.

Here the beginning

And the ending

And the beginning anew;

Here the enduring flame,

The bells of Shiva

That ring long

In the never-ending 

Standing

In cool water where

The summer crane

Slowly goes,

At ease

Among the lilies,

And, on high, the hawk will view 

The Himalayan snows.

Abaya mudra,

Fear not.

Though the wraith

Of this current world feeds only

On lies,

Deception,

And distain,

Across the unwise

Plot

Of terror,

With no faith

And, seeking stolen redemption,

Finds bitter loss.

But look to the spring sleet

Shimmering on the raven’s wing.

See the unseeable, cloaked in mist;

Now how to remember to walk through

The fires 

Of truth and through

The spires

Of nevermore

On feet

Impelled by grace.

Atman

By the fence post of wood

By the boundary

By the old, unpainted gate,

Stood

Waiting.

No time, no space.

You know they covered over

Gobekli Tepe

To prevent a desecration

Of the Holy Light

That never dims,

That is known by no name.

Grace

Of the One,

The Green Heart of the forest, deepening,

The One who spoke earlier,

In the still air,

Or,

In clouds rent

By winds that toss

The tree limbs

Of the dawn that awoke — though not yet.

The silver-sailing moon knows

The primeval bones

That hid

An intent,

Unbidden, but not unwise,

Bones that slumber

In the rustling sighs under the leaves on the floor

Of the grove,

Buried, but not forgotten,

Silent,

Sacred.

And now – after a time, with the passing

Of the sunset

Beyond the darkened road,

Scarred and malevolent,

All is changed, rising,

When the geese 

Fly 

Anew,

Bright-

Winged, here

By the bent

Hill 

Of the green-toed

Mountain of peace,

Sent,

Just there

In the sparkle 

Of the dew

To awaken.

Listen

Hear only the bells of Shiva

In the silence

Beyond the dissonance

Of this world, only the bells of Shiva

Ringing in the ever-drifting rain,

Singing.

Written in the spring of 2020.

© Sharon St Joan, 2020