Category: Poems

earth, Poems, sacred earth, Wild birds

Only the white owl

by sharonstjoan1 Comment on Only the white owl
bird white owl feather
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

It is only the white owl

From her tall

Pine

Spire

Who

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

Falls.

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.

Soon,

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

Gone

By.

Now hills swept with snow

Travel farther back to

The land of mists and magic, flown.

There

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

Transcendent

Through the living fire of the distant dark.

© Copyright Sharon St Joan, 2023

Animals and the earth, Poems, Wild birds

When the raven danced

by sharonstjoanLeave a Comment on When the raven danced
black bird on green grass
Photo by Daniil Komov on Pexels.com

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

Shadows,

There, the ancient fire glows.

Soon,

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

Portray

A distant memory,

A clatter of bones,

Round and round the strings

Of former days

Strung together

Like ringed stones

That still

Sing

Among the dark, foreboding, rocky pillars

Of the night.

Always

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

Dancing

By the fish-finned

Stream,

In the raindrops

Of glistening showers,

Fallen from the silver mountain,

Bright

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

Poems

A conversation by the sea

by sharonstjoan2 Comments on A conversation by the sea
green grass on sand overlooking body of water
Photo by Nathan Cowley on Pexels.com

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

Pearled,

Furled in winds,

Curled in mist,

White-frothed,

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

Animals and the earth, Poems

Caught

by sharonstjoan2 Comments on Caught
white goat in shallow focus shot
Photo by Jeswin Thomas on Pexels.com

Caught,

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

Flown

By,

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,

Unknown,

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

Nearby,

Where the seasongs

Float on the seaweed

Of the ever-turning tide.

© Copyright, Sharon St Joan, 2022

Poems, sacred earth, Visions

Mists of stone

by sharonstjoan3 Comments on Mists of stone

Mists of stone

Clear in the arc

Of light,

Artic light, enduring

Mystery

Through the dark,

Years of dark.

Buried, the lost bones

Of a bleak history,

Along with the ghostly groans

Of the dragon.

Dark.

A snowflake

Falls.

The wind calls,

Yet

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,

Gone

Awry from the start,

Let it leave soon,

Quickly,

To betray

The song of the mountain roses

That the stones may rise to an echoing drum,

Stones of mist.

Quiet,

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

Spires,

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

Poems, Tales of India

Kamakshi’s Light

by sharonstjoanLeave a Comment on Kamakshi’s Light
forest during dawn
Photo by Anton Atanasov on Pexels.com

In a meandering land of mystic moons,

At the waystation

Between the worlds – unremembered, translucent,

Walking, not yet understanding,

Beyond the shifting sand dunes.

At the crossroads by the river

Of fish glimmering, shimmering,

In a sliver of moonlight

Waits a boat of mist,

In a time that is no

Time,

In a place that is no place,

We walk before the dawn

In a land of gentle grace,

In a land of mist and stars.

As we climb a tilted rise,

There ahead a mountain looms alone,

Home of fir trees, of summer’s moss,

And winter’s cold,

Of crystal stone,

Eclipsed in silver wings of snow

Of thrice-weathered rocks,

Of beings old

Older than the earth – from long before,

Of grandfathers that go along on a bent cane,

In the time that never was – sure-footed, wise,

Beyond a fog-inducing year

Of history

Come unpinned,

In a land that will wait,

Just past the wooden post of the gate,

There, where an angel’s footstep shone

On the dark

Valley floor – benevolent,

And be waiting, for the dawn that breaks,

Transcendent,

For the golden eagles to lift into the clear sun,

Once more,

Into the deep blue,

To fly,

To cry,

To lift their sky-

Engulfing intent

In awakening days

Of lakes

And the white, waving wildflowers,

The rose-enchanted nettles,

That sing songs of ancient power

In the cool wind

Anew

Where Kamakshi,

The black, opalescent one, ringed in every mystery,

She who is mother of the forest,

Of springing deer

And sparkling fawn,

Of flocks of horned lark,

Of the long-billed curlew

Who tiptoes across

The water’s edge then turns to glance

Again at the light-calling pinion jays,

While Kamakshi gathers up her winged petals

Of joy

Anew,

Now to dance

In the bright-

Singing rain.

© Copyright, Sharon St Joan, 2022

****

Please visit the website Forest Voices of India:

https://forestvoicesofindia.com

Animals and the earth, Poems, sacred earth

A long story

by sharonstjoan4 Comments on A long story
body of water and green field under blue sky photo
Photo by Matthew Montrone on Pexels.com

So, as they used to say,

The sons of the Early One

Made the sea and the sky –

Why

No one knew,

And, with the hint of a smile,

By the night’s melody,

They made even all the winds that ran, playing,

Along the shore.

But after a long while,

Things needed a shuffle – a toss or a turn,

So, they brought about a long churn

Of the sea – and the rain

Fell, then all curled up

Like the crinkles of a leaf in the fall,

And the Wakeful One closed both His eyes

And slept and will waken again one day

To a whippoorwill’s call,

Or the pinyon jays’ cries,

But the most ancient Holy One, beyond the beginning,

Is always, in the sleeping and the awakening,

Within and beyond the day and the night

Of Evermore.

After a while though, when no one was looking

The dragon of yore

Crept

Up onto the earth and arose again,

He who believed in nothing at all,

And stalked the whole land –

Shredding

And tearing,

Causing hurt and howling too

With a horrible hiss,

Over the smoking sea,

Scattering the sand,

Until he tumbled into the dark Abyss,

And fell down, down

And then soon

After, there was peace

For the startled curlew,

So, all the big ones and the little ones and the long sea, rolling

All closed their eyes and slept

In the comfort, deep blue,

Of the dark for a while,

Till stars sailed adrift in the ever-wandering skies,

Over the lake of the softly singing, glad-winged geese,

In their feathered gown,

While the gold cup

Of the moon

Went sailing on in her cloud-ringed light

Along the bright rim of the brave sky.

**

By Sharon St Joan

© Copyright, Sharon St Joan, 2022

Animals and the earth, Poems, sacred earth, the natural world, Trees

The gift of forest Gods

by sharonstjoan2 Comments on The gift of forest Gods
green trees
Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com

Mist-ringed towers drifting

And the snow petal

Remember the forest Gods

From long before

Who ruled all lands then.

It was exactly

Very, very long ago

When

The rains buffeted

The clouds in the sky

And much has happened since –

Betrayal,

Forgetting,

Diminishing,

Lessening.

The bitter knife of the wind prods

The memory;

Only the great-horned owl recalls,

And his friends.

Those Gods have gone to far worlds – away

And often hid,

To universes little known –

And yet they are not far,

Still here, alone,

While winds obey,

Because there are no moments now,

No distance,

No separation,

No illusion,

Only the reality,

Only the howl, laughing,

Of the coyote

Whose fur shines white in the moonlight,

Whose awareness is keen,

Like the eyes of the star.

Perceptions of snow –

Past worlds, wooded, green

The one true past is here now –

In the pinecone

That whistles in the January

Wind and in the juncos and white-crowned sparrows,

Who hop within the whiffs

Of the snow flurry,

In the winds of gold that fly

From the setting sun that falls

Behind the cliffs.

Gone now, the noble cow,

Wandering home in the mists,

Eternal mists of snow,

Of times that were and are

And are again to be

When the Gods guard the way,

To protect the sacred, snow-enchanted day

In the deep forests,

Now and yet again and evermore.

***

By Sharon St Joan

© Copyright, Sharon St Joan, 2022

Please visit the website, https://forestvoicesofindia.com. You can sign up for the newsletter too!

Animals and the earth, earth, Oceans, Poems

Within the clouds

by sharonstjoan1 Comment on Within the clouds
flock of penguins near sea
Photo by David Dibert on Pexels.com

Within the clouds

Within the mountains

Within the universe,

All things are living and alive.

The universe, a friend.

There is no death,

No shrouds

No hearse.

Only the pale shadows

That flit, mothlike

Between the standing centuries

Of drifting snow.

Only the lost call

Of the raven

Who will find his mate again nearby

In the green sheltering cottonwood tree

Only the young giants, wandering

On a dim, mistaken world

While overhead

Calling in the mist,

The Great Winged Beings

Are there

Still – soaring upward,

Friends of the night,

The sun,

And the dragons of old

Yet the fires of kindness

Burn in the night of gleaming intent,

In the eyes of Heaven

In the soul of the mountains

In the heart of the eternal world.

In the night,

In the day

That is to be,

Always here,

Always near,

While the penguins dive

Into the white-tipped waves of the Antarctic sea –

Jubilant

And ever-free.

© Copyright, Sharon St Joan, 2021

If you like this poem, you might also like this website, Forest Voices of India https://forestvoicesofindia.com

Animals and the earth, Poems, Tales of India

Within the rain

by sharonstjoan6 Comments on Within the rain
gray owl on tree branch
Photo by Erik Karits on Pexels.com

Within the mystic rain

An echo

Calls toward the distant gateway

To a deer-enchanted meadow,

While the white-

Crowned sparrow

Finds her intended way

In the bobbing boat of cottonwood leaves

Along the weaving river of one day,

One

Afternoon.

Then, soon,

When the windows rush on by

From the train

That goes,

Where

No one knows,

In the evening

Of a lost spring,

In the foothills of the Western Ghats

Where the young Ganesha

Plays,

Picking lots

Of blueberries

For his mother, Parvati,

Eating a few –

Just one or two —

Trusting in the bright winds

Of eternity that growl,

That run past the rain,

Past the lumbering bears that prowl

Over the green hills of the forest of mist,

Of ashwagandha

Trees.

(Where does the rishi Agastya live now? Where

Does he walk long before the dawn

By the riverbanks of rain-washed song?)

And, way out beyond the moon

The deepening darkness – punctuated

Like the islands of the oceans,

With the star-winged flight

Of legions

Of strange-patterned flocks

Of owls, all though the night,

(Though owls do not really fly in flocks)

Now the hours of dark have hesitated,

So the spirit, Ayanar, patrols

The village outskirts, his course

Goes round and round,

Brave on his tall horse,

Who, now and then, drops his head to drink,

While reflections glint within the bowls

Of the pool by the stream,

There pings

The lilting sound

Of tadpoles

Who play among the rocks,

All waiting to grow into frogs that will sing

Deep songs

Within the dream,

To bless the mystery of the being of all souls

Who are the One Soul – Brahman,

While the rain falls

Within the silver calls

Of the long-eared owl,

Awake, in the ever-misted night.

© Copyrght, Sharon St Joan, 2021

If you like this poem, you might also like this website, Forest Voices of India https://forestvoicesofindia.com