Tag Archive: mystical nature poem



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.




With the fleet


Ears of the listening hour,




Those black-robed ravens


(Who live,




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 clearly, 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




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,




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?




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:



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 | Dreamstime.com