The dragon’s wrath

ID 27389832 © Zuzana Randlova |


Robbers and thieves,

One and all,

Pirates and felons who lurk in the weeds,

Did you hear the howl and the growl,

The groan

Of the earth, underfoot:



And listen.


Gold, diamonds, granite, oil, the black and the shining,

Treasures entrusted to the keep

Of the great


Yet you come and you steal,

And you carry away,

Leaving death in your wake.

With a toxic brew

Of soot,

You have tainted the wells of the living.


But you’re not alone,

And we all, companions of evil,

Turn our heads in denial,

And glance

Out the corners of our eyes,

“All we wish to say

Is this, it’s not our fault, not at all,

Not us, — no, not us, we never did anything,”

We only bought the coin that was stolen,

We only drank from the cup of lies,

We only went along for the ride,

Nothing more,

Nothing more, as we’ve mentioned before.”

And our laugh rings hollow

Among the dry reeds

Crackling in the wind gust,

Empty, by the river bed of dust.


When, from her long, cloud-held sleep,

The dragon stirs in her den,

Her wings will unfold and shake,

Flashing green and blue,

In the fire of her wrath

She will stand


On the holy mountain.

She will tower

Among the black rocks

And glower,

Gushing flames and the waters of the grimy deep,

To pour

Forth the ending of the broken wheel.

Boulders slip and slide

Headlong into the steep

And narrow

Gorge below.


After a while,

In the quiet of the moon,

When the saw-whet owl cries

His silver note on the pine-dewed branch,

In the dawn of the delicate petal,

A new land will awaken,

Where flocks

Of red-winged blackbirds dance,

Among the cottonwood’s whistling leaves.


The swift-toed coyotes will sing,

Where the sage grows green after the storm,

Emerald lizards will trace

Elegant patterns in the sand,

And the awful dragon will curl up again,

Her crystal scales warm

In the sunlight, an endearing smile

On her dragonish face.


© Sharon St Joan, June 20, 2015


Photo: © Zuzana Randlova |


The Return


When the great ones return

Raining magic from their wings,

Then only the white teeth

Of the concrete kings

Will glimmer

In the pool of death,

By the cool urn.

Nothing else will fall on the stone,

No one slain,

But only

The bitter echo

Of lies,

And even

The pot

Of tattered tales

Of yore,

All misbegot,

Will be shred

And gone.

Towers overturn

When the green waves rise,

Bearing the emerald throne,

Then the majesty of the deep,

Will cast off the oppressor,

And deliver


From its gray-nodding sleep,

Long bewitched in the chronicles of error.

Now the nimble goat

Slips her tethers,

To skip again on the grass-enchanted height


The boundless skies,

At one with spirits of the living tide.

The throat

Of the lion of wisdom

Will rumble anew;

The rain

Of Indra will crash from

The chariot of thunder,

When the forests reawaken to reclaim the earth.

Nothing will be lost then,

Only the mirror of untruth

Will crack and shatter,

When wolves dance on the hillside,

There where tigers roam, growling

In the darkness;

Their bright



Along the holy way of the night,

When spirits return

In the white magic of winter,


On the howling

Winds of joy, in the songs of sunrise;

In victory, horses of snow


In stride,

Across the broad plain.

Leaving in their wake only the stillness

Of the lily of eternity

Waving in the sunlit rain,

For the truly living do not die,

But only the walking, dissonant dead,

What is will be

And what is not

Has never been;

The leaves are one with the eternal tree,

Where peacocks,


Watch intently in the blue


Beyond the rim of history,

The great winged mother

Shakes the dust of opals from

Her feathers,


Her wanderlings,

The garbling geese

And their errant


The trees of twisted juniper,

The moon-radiant


And all her children,

Into her many-storied home of peace

By the green-banked river

In the haunting bells of dawn.

© Sharon St Joan, August, 2013


Photo: © Conorwaldock /