Green-winged sea



Green-winged sight


Born of sea-


Water, boundless.


A sun’s ray,




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,




© Sharon St Joan, September 2016


Photo: © Matabum /



© 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,




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 |

Wind beings



© Weblogiq |


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




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 |





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 |


Go into the mist

cliffsIMG_7111 2


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



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,




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 | 

After a while




To the sun

And the moon they rise,


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



In the cheerful company

Of ghosts,

In the sooted

Shambles of empires


Under the snapping heels

Of fate.


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




After the horns

Of many winters

Have fallen silent,

The husk

Of time


The aspiring rose will lift

Her head again

Among the rocks, resilient,

In the ice-enchanted


The wind will sing.


Will shine, blessed in the twinkling


Of night.

The crow


In black

Clouds that inhabit

A sky of joy;

Coyotes laugh last

In the dance of the dusk,

And the ancient,

Earlier folk


To take back

The sacred mountain


So long ago,

Now that the age of the unholy

Will be ended and done,


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,


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


One by one by one,


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


Back to the beginning.

Set the burning


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 |



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


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


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


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,


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


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 /




Become the stone


tree near sacred groveIMG_6582


To become the stone,


Of schist,


The rock,


The song




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,




And waiting and watching,


They become an unbound


Eternity of snow,






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









Now is the darkness


When the black moon




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-






And of eternity not yet risen.


In the morning


Light, soon




The echoes


Of stray




©Sharon St Joan, October 18, 2013


Photo:  © Tony Wilson |