Green-winged sea

matabum-dreamstime_xs_58438808

 

Green-winged sight

 

Born of sea-

 

Water, boundless.

 

A sun’s ray,

 

True,

 

Wind of sands.

 

To see the graceful stone-lit lands

 

Beyond the grumbling darkness,

 

To find the moon who spoke

 

Beyond the black, billowing smoke,

 

To never turn away,

 

To ride,

 

Through the night

 

Until the geese call in the first light,

 

To dance

 

In the unsung mystery

 

Of juniper trees that bend

 

Atop the cliffs, harrowing,

 

By the wandering sea

 

Of green translucence,

 

To walk on through storms that whip,

 

That wend

 

Their way along the mountain tip,

 

To go

 

Straight into the wind’s breath

 

Of the tiger’s night,

 

Into the widening

 

Jaws of death,

 

Into the mist,

 

Of the blue

 

Dawn at the farthest

 

Edge of the forest,

 

Before time awoke

 

Is ever to follow

 

The son of the wind, unfaltering,

 

Into the brave beauty

 

Of his song, unending,

 

Swan-bright.

 

© Sharon St Joan, September 2016

 

Photo: © Matabum / dreamtime.com

Coyote

 

© Dhprophotog | Dreamstime.comdreamstime_s_40757480

 

Coyote, with mystical toes,

 

Silent as the footsteps of time,

 

Weaving through the mist-encircled forest,

 

Elusive she goes,

 

Shaman, angel, fey,

 

Spirit from the lands afar,

 

Outcaste, magic-bent,

 

Otherworldly guide,

 

You step from stone to stone,

 

Through the stream, moon-bright,

 

Where blue-singing

 

Fish glide

 

Through petals whispering in the night.

 

From milky way,

 

From star to star,

 

Among the clouds,

 

The shrouds,

 

Of worlds, broken.

 

You walk on,

 

Nose-intent,

 

From the darkness to the light.

 

You climb

 

The hillside

 

Where rocks ponder and raven-spoken

 

Rains ride

 

On moon-painted winds among the echoing

 

Songs of spring.

 

© Sharon St Joan, 2016

 

Photo: © Dhprophotog | Dreamstime.com

Wind beings

 

 

© Weblogiq | Dreamstime.com

 

Where do the wind beings live?

 

Beyond the noon-

 

Bright country,

 

Beyond the stars, glimmering,

 

Beyond the tired, trafficked city,

 

Unencumbered, they live in the mountains that give

 

Peace, among the lilies of eternity,

 

By the wandering white petals of the moon

 

In the forest of flowers where

 

Only the wild ones talk

 

And where the wind beings walk

 

By the shell-encrusted shore,

 

There the red-tailed hawk

 

And the northern harrier,

 

Gray as the sea,

 

Fly through the air,

 

To reclaim their destiny,

 

In lands swept clean of the paltry ploy

 

Of thought,

 

And the detritus of crumpled litter

 

Of the corrupted that crawl

 

In the grime

 

Of the sound-dinned

 

Corners of the mind, strangely-wrought.

 

Arise, Hanuman,

 

Son of the wind,

 

To toss

 

Aside all the devils of time,

 

To unseat the wicked, wailing,

 

To thunder

 

Across

 

The waves, ever-crashing

 

Of the sparkling, emerald sea

 

Of nevermore,

 

To lead all soon

 

Back to where the wind beings live

 

In joy,

 

Among the rain-blackened rocks where

 

Only ever call

 

The dark ravens of light, sea-echoing.

 

 

Written June 12, 2016, © Sharon St Joan

 

Photo: © Weblogiq | Dreamstime.com

 

 

 

 

The dragon’s wrath

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

 

Go into the mist

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Go into the mist

 

Where the great light falls

 

Where blue flowers gleam

 

In the winds of dawn,

 

And the owl calls

 

Softly, in her deep tone.

 

Go into the wild where

 

The one with no name tells a luminous tale

 

Of the star forest.

 

Out onto the green hills of peace,

 

Go where the mists of the mountain meet,

 

Where the unkempt stream

 

Grows out of the tall cliffs of stone,

 

Where the bright feet

 

Of the moon

 

Skip on the winged waves of the water, glimmering,

 

Where mystical geese sail

 

Along the snow-enchanted trail

 

Back to the beginning,

 

To before the great scattering —

 

Fragmented, broken,

 

Back to where only the silver song of the loon,

 

Clear in the white night,

 

Sings to the peace beyond the realms of being.

 

 

© 2015, Sharon St Joan, photo and poem

 

Narayana, child of the sea

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He who went upon the waves

 

Of the waters before the snows fell,

 

Markandeya, walking, saw him then,

 

Narayana, Creator of stars and the glimmering dew

 

Of dawn,

 

Long

 

Before the worlds were made,

 

Before the fish could glide,

 

Gold and blue,

 

Along the glade of coral reef,

 

Deep in the mists,

 

Narayana upon the green leaf,

 

Floated upon the sacred song,

 

Upon the buoyant pipal tree,

 

Where has he gone,

 

And when,

 

And how to tell?

 

Yet he is there even now, on the open sea,

 

Out past the rock-cut caves,

 

Beyond the bear-enchanted forests,

 

Of the farthest, hawk-lit hill,

 

Where the bell tolls still,

 

On the echoing tide,

 

Narayana, child of the sea,

 

He is there.

 

Poem: © Sharon St Joan, December 2014

 

Photo: © Catolla | Dreamstime.com 

After a while

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Tall,

To the sun

And the moon they rise,

Pillars

That hold up the land

Of the stars,

In the early morning

Of time.

 

Where the chime

Of butterflies

Rings in the mist

Of clouds,

Where the horses of the wind climb

Archaic hills, peace settles,

Free from the shrouds

Of thought bewildered.

 

When the grinding wheels

Of the rattling cars,

The careening cart,

Of the manic race of beings that never stops

Have stopped, unspinned,

And fallen down

From the lofty wall,

Their memory lies

Quiet,

Dimming,

In the cheerful company

Of ghosts,

In the sooted

Shambles of empires

Cast

Under the snapping heels

Of fate.

Then

The coyotes

And the ever-knowing raven

Will run again

In gladness,

Across the red rock sand.

 

 

The wild hills, free now,

As the lilies

Of eternity

Who bow

In the wandering wind

By the bright

And undiscovered

Sea.

 

 

After the horns

Of many winters

Have fallen silent,

The husk

Of time

Discarded,

The aspiring rose will lift

Her head again

Among the rocks, resilient,

In the ice-enchanted

Spring.

The wind will sing.

Stones

Will shine, blessed in the twinkling

Emptiness

Of night.

The crow

Hops

In black

Clouds that inhabit

A sky of joy;

Coyotes laugh last

In the dance of the dusk,

And the ancient,

Earlier folk

Walk

To take back

The sacred mountain

Stolen

So long ago,

Now that the age of the unholy

Will be ended and done,

Gone

On the smoke

Of the fleeing mist.

 

 

Under a delicate crown

Of forest

Leaves, mice play

Among their catch,

The silver

Trinkets of the dead,

And talk

A while of feats of yore.

Herons glimmer,

One-footed,

On the green, tree-

Shouldered river.

Such an ill wind

That blew

Into the bones

Of the soul

Of men,

And stayed, corroding

The core

Of history,

Such a grim, unseemly game,

Like thorns

Lodged in the heart,

But when the scales fall

Away,

One by one by one,

Then

In the end there are only

The plain, rain-lit,

And the rose that flowers anew,

The innocent petals

Of nevermore,

And the farmer’s boy

Who whistles

In the strawberry patch,

By the lop-sided shack,

Where the corn stalks grow,

His blue

Hat adrift

On his head,

In the town

With no name,

Where the raven rules, with the snow-

Winged geese.

 

 

The sun holds the empty bowl,

Blessed be his ashen fires.

Agni, the one

Who returns

All

Back to the beginning.

Set the burning

Lanterns

Out and wait

In peace,

From within the rock and mist

To hear a killdeer call,

To sail away

To a far and luminous shore,

Known so well from long before,

On the flaming ships of dawn.

 

© Sharon St Joan, 2014

 

Photo: © Colin Young | Dreamstime.com

 

 

The white moths of time

© Darius Baužysdreamstime     _xs_21909081

 

The white moths of time listen

To the silken threads of the moon.

Perhaps it is time, not the world,

That needs to end soon,

Where the mists of Scotland

Glisten

There is magic.

Where did Agni go when he left?

He fled far,

Across the hills,

Where, no one could tell,

And left the land bereft.

But he did not truly go,

And the moonlight

Falls

On the whole lake,

Dreamed in snow.

No one has gone, at all

Only the gray wraith of doom

Who cursed the morning

From the chill tomb.

No one has left.

The rain still

Drifts on the hill.

The eye

Of the seagull recalls

The face

Of sunshine, and the insistent roar

Of the seas that sing

On the shore,

Where the pipes of daybreak

Awaken

The sky.

Black cows stood

In the peace of the meadow,

While the calf trips gaily

Through the daffodils.

Plants grow  —

Green, archaic fern.

The calico cat leaps into the valley of tulips.

The frog calls

The rain.

The horse of white mane

Is the moon who wanders.

The raven is the night,

One

Of the daughters

Of Shani,

Born of the cosmic

Egg, the feathers of the yew,

The elbows of the eon.

Owls live in the stones too,

And Europe’s

Neanderthal;

The rags of clouds, of cloth unfurled,

Fly, to where who can tell?

The ship slips

A silver oar

Into the river where sails the incarnate trout

Of golden gill.

By what temple did you used to stand,

With your bowl of wood?

Who lit the lamps for you

When the moon went out

And time fell?

Would the rain come again?

Broken branches

On the Great War’s trenches,

The snow was too heavy.

The dancing of branches,

The singing of the star,

Time to go west,

Fleet deer of spring,

Gone with the white-crowned sparrow.

In whose soul does the lily dwell?

Is the deer the eternal grace

Of the forest?

 

© Sharon St Joan, February, 2014 

Photo: © Darius Baužys / Dreamstime.com

 

 

 

Become the stone

 

tree near sacred groveIMG_6582

 

To become the stone,

 

Of schist,

 

The rock,

 

The song

 

Sung,

 

Drifting in the emeralds of awakening,

 

The clattering bone,

 

The feet wandering

 

Upon the sand

 

Of the wave lost

 

In the band

 

Of rain rent,

 

Long on the desolate

 

Sand-pipered shore…

 

To become the fire,

 

The pyre,

 

The blessed burning

 

Of the ashen dead,

 

From their cindered bed,

 

Sent into skies unknown,

 

Is to become

 

The wind against the flaming gong

 

To go,

 

And going, to be gone,

 

Over the moon-haunted mountain of mist

 

Where the flock

 

Of white geese

 

Wait, innocent,

 

Watching,

 

And waiting and watching,

 

They become an unbound

 

Eternity of snow,

 

Flown

 

Far,

 

Where the one who can never be found,

 

Hidden still in the fine gold traces

 

Of the ancient knowing faces

 

Of the gods of Kailasanathar,

 

Is always and evermore

 

Mother of the delicate

 

Blue tattered rose strung

 

On the sun-templed tree

 

Near the climbing windlit towers of the dawn

 

Of peace.

 

 

 

© Sharon St Joan, photo and poem, 2013

 

 

 

 

Darkness

 

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Now is the darkness

 

When the black moon

 

Rests

 

On the waterway,

 

In the windless,

 

Silent shadows

 

Of the invincible heron.

 

There is no one

 

Else, nothing,

 

Only the emptiness

 

Of time gone into the lost

 

And gray-

 

Mossed

 

Forests,

 

And of eternity not yet risen.

 

In the morning

 

Light, soon

 

Ring

 

The echoes

 

Of stray

 

Mists.

 

©Sharon St Joan, October 18, 2013

 

Photo:  © Tony Wilson | Dreamstime.com