Tag Archive: mystical nature poem


1024px-Corvus_corax_tibetanus

 

Where the essence of the rain echoes

 

The magic beyond time,

 

There, as anyone knows,

 

There is no time.

 

Only the bluebirds that flit quickly

 

From branch to beaded branch; only

 

The far, jasmine-flowered eyes

 

Of the deer that trails beyond the tree;

 

Only the elusive tower

 

In the clouds where that ancient spirit stays

 

To watch and then simply to remain.

 

Only the One who is all,

 

Only the breath of the boat of the moon,

 

In misted shawl,

 

Mother of the silver pathways,

 

That run along the creek-enchanted stones

 

Of greening moss and deepening mystery.

 

Soon,

 

With the fleet

 

Ears of the listening hour,

 

Ever-perceptive,

 

Those black-robed ravens

 

(Who live,

 

Long,

 

In joy, where we do not,

 

In the bitter knocking wind of winter’s bones)

 

Will hear the exultant wail of the coyote,

 

(Who has never been wrong

 

Yet always was held ever, in

 

The bright-leaved essence of the rain)

 

Will hear now, so clear, the tumbling power

 

Of the dawn over the rain-sung mountains,

 

Where the ringing song

 

Is heard to rise

 

Then wane,

 

Beyond the rock-encircled climb

 

To the fire-striking feet

 

Of Hamsa, the knowing swan

 

And then, anon,

 

Will chime

 

In peace the single mystic gong

 

That folds up the wandering wings of being.

 

© Sharon St Joan, 2019

 

Photo: Pkspks / “This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license.”/ Wikipedia

 

 

The Garden

© Vizafotodreamstime_xs_26706325

 

Before any of the worlds began,

 

Before the wind spoke,

 

Before thought or word came to be,

 

The first flowers awoke

 

And opened their lilac eyes to scan

 

The delicate drift of wandering mist

 

Lilies in the earliest light,

 

In the dewdrops shining before

 

The sun could ride

 

Across the wide

 

Sky,

 

Before the moon and the stars could sail

 

Over the mountain,

 

Only flowers were there then,

 

On the hillside,

 

With leaves of emerald,

 

Stems warm in the earthen soil,

 

Petals unfolding into jewels of amethyst

 

Rose, gold, and green,

 

The blue lotus opalescent in the rains of dawn,

 

Only flowers,

 

Not much more –

 

And also all and every living soul,

 

Unseen,

 

Who are the one eternal soul,

 

Now, after the eldest cities from the farthest lands

 

Are gone

 

The way of the deeps,

 

Where the scale of the fish gleams

 

In the indigo waters,

 

By the graves

 

Of artifacts unfound,

 

Lost by the daughters

 

Of the dark-gowned

 

Orb of the moon,

 

With so little culled

 

From toil

 

In the time-worn sands,

 

All the ages gone

 

In the shifting winds of samsara

 

In the end,

 

Do you wonder what might be or why?

 

Soon,

 

All will fold up again

 

Into the rain-winged mist,

 

Into the peace of the flowering bowers

 

Of Brahman –

 

Narayana, soul of the stars and the song-told tale

 

Of the sacred tree,

 

Narayana, the one who sleeps,

 

And sometimes dreams,

 

In the bright,

 

Blossoming waves,

 

On the folded coil

 

Of Adi Shesha,

 

By the rock-lit shoal

 

Of the ever-sounding sea.

 

 

©  2015, Sharon St Joan

 

Photo: © Vizafoto / dreamstime.com

 

 

ID 27389832 © Zuzana Randlova | Dreamstime.com

 

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:

Wait

Then,

And listen.

 

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

Treasures entrusted to the keep

Of the great

Dragon,

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

Tall

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.

Soon,

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 | Dreamstime.com