Tag Archive: poem




Out of the ashes of the end


Arises the Phoenix.


Who is this Phoenix


Who flies through flashes


Of burning embers,


Who extends


Her black-enchanted wings


From the horizon


To the wind-streaked high plateau,


This one who ever dies,


Yet flies




With golden beak


And brown-laked eyes


That seek


Only those stories, spoken lore,


True and raven-wandering?


Mountain air gleams;


Glittering stars talk


And walk,


And wend their way


Among the hidden crannies of the skies


And know


Where eagles slip through time’s illusion,


Eagles who remember every eon


And recall the wisdom


Of the glad-winged Hamsa


Who hears,


Even now, the dawn-invoking, distant drums


Of long-gone dreams.


After the flames of desecrated towns


Leave strange, fossilized soils,


After the blanched wicks


Of all the candles have been snuffed,


And volcanic plumes fluffed


Aloft in sobering winds,


After the great ending,


The air clears


Of dim, smoke-laden whiffs.


Then Adi Sesha of the thousand, bright-singing,


Emerald crowns,


Older than all the many worlds before,


Older than the trees of time, ever ancient,


Floats again


On the timeless mist


Of eternity,


Lifting, on his linked coils,


The light form of Narayana,




Who slumbers,




Then the Phoenix


Rises through the amethyst




Over the land where lilies still grow


In the backwaters


Not far from the rainbowed sea,


In the rain,


In the truth where only


The innocent curlews, nesting,


Play by the rocky shore


On a gray, moon-bent day


There the waves crash, exuberant,


Against the granite cliffs.



©Sharon St Joan, 2018


Illustration: Phoenix detail from Aberdeen Bestiary, Public Domain, Wikipedia













To the one who lived among the hills,




Now your voice has become an echo


In the distant mist.


You have gone


to other worlds on star-bright


Wings of snow,


To that far mountain


You call home, where white-


Throated swifts soar


In the shifting clouds,


Where silver chimes




In the rain-cloaked ravine


And deer nibble


In the frost-green




Where crowds


Of petals




From the nagalingam tree


In ever-present peace,


And the wind brings


Gales of blessings from across the wandering sea,


Where geese


Climb the sunlit stairway of the morning,


And the langur monkey


Sings lullabies to her children


In the foothills


Of times beyond times,


Where the Gods of the forest




In the dawn


To leaf-told tales


Of nevermore


And long before.


© Sharon St Joan, April, 2017


Photo: © Ronnachai Limpakdeesavasd | Dreamstime.com





Did you ever wander


Among the winking


Cobwebbed nooks


Of times gone by,


Among the darkened, wind-shifting streets,


Or else leaf through


Broken backed and faded books


On the forgotten shelf?


Or peer at a copper plate


Of unremembered scripts


Of ancient deeds


And hero tales long left




Or drift among those lost stone gods,


Their noses knocked asunder


By mortar fire


In some unmentionable war,


Or, through rain that falls in opalescent sheets,


Seek out temples entrenched under


The thick jungled trunks of time, of seeding pods, and twilit weeds,


Or visit deep in crypts


Where rest the tales, in a lost urn,


Of eons flown,


Of higher, rainbowed hallways in the sky


Where gods and beings once had shone


When trees were worshipped,


As they ought to be,


When holy rocks


And elf


And giant


Roamed among the crowds


Of shimmering lilies in the mist,


Where deer run free


And hummingbirds hover


In the half-lit glimmer of the dancing dawn


On those wildflowered ilses – still untouched, radiant –


Or have you


Heard coursing hooves ringing


Through the starbright forest


Of a green-mossed eternity,


And did you ever gasp


To glance back


At the paltry present time that seemed


So suddenly all awry,


So shorn of grace?


Look now – a poor cut-out,


A false façade,


A parody concocted of every chemical,


Torn metal,


And toxic dust,


A humdrum bar-coded day,


Bereft of meaning,


Meant to squander,


And nights of mechanical terror


That grate


Against the soul,


Though all quite scientific and practical,


Of course.


Did you ever find the present world a little lacking?


Cars chrome-bright, junkyards of rust,


Oil wells bubbling


And spewing out the oddest orange river,


Computer graphics jingling a frantic caper,


Medical mirages, ill-inducing potion and pill?


War-cratered skeletons


Of cities loom at the edge of the shattered rim,


Lies and lies and weary doom


And here comes death – grim and dreary –


Tripping after.


A clanking alleyway


Where the faltering march


Of the bedraggled lout,


The troll,


Plunges on and on


Into the dank and danker


Cellars of caustic confusion


(Where now the shack


On the hill


That slipped


Into the mist


Where strangers from a far star


Sought shelter?)


Did you ever watch that oft-trod stairway


From the first magic light of stars, fall


Down, down into the iron pits of delusion,


Of nowhere at all,


Where darkness dwells and nothing more?


And did you ever wonder


When will the thunderclouds gather again


And the wind fiercely roar,


Dragon-winged in snow


And sleet,


Spilling rain


Across the open plain


Like the glad-running,






Of the wild horse


That once gleamed


In the sun,


Rain clouds like the enduring face


Of an early people


Brave, eagle-hearted,


Who will walk again


To the quickening drum of wisdom?


Now will the improbable one


Who speaks with unforked tongue




Followed by those who shake the sleep from their eyes


In the wan,




Light of a new






Will the wind blow


A wind to make way


For the gods of yesteryear


To unclasp


The hold


On the windowed arch,


On those most ancient rocks


That climb like towers


To the sky,


Who bring back the innocent ones,


The cottontail, the whimsical sage grouse, the fox,


The juniper stand,


The pinions,


The cry


Of the killdeer,


The wild flowers,


And the coyote who dances in the gentle moonlight,


Her song




So long


Yet ever remembered,




In the mystic night,


So old, and gone


And yet to rise again


When the winds call


Alone on the stone


And grass-blown land?



Written in October, 2015


© Sharon St Joan, 2017


Photo: © Dan Ross / Dreamstime.com




















When the great ones return


Carrying magic in their wings


Then only the white teeth


Of the concrete kings


Will glimmer


In the pool of death.


Nothing else will sleep


On the stone,


No one slain,


But only


The echo of lies,


The din of malice,


Shed and gone,


When the green waves rise,


Bearing the emerald throne,


The majesty of the deep


Will deliver


Those long forgotten


Hooves of the innocent


To ride


Again on the mountain height,


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,




The forests reawaken to reclaim the earth,


Nothing will be lost then,


Only the masks of terror,


Only the mirrors of untruth,


When wolves dance on the hillside,


And tigers growl


In the blue




With bright eyes that burn


Along the holy way


Of the night,


When spirits return


In the white magic of winter,




On the howl


Of the winds of joy, the songs of sunrise,


In the victory of the horses of fire and snow


That break


Unstoppable, across the broad plain.


A storm to leave in its wake


Only the stillness


Of the lily of eternity


Waving in the sunlit rain,


For the truly living do not die, they say,


But only the walking, dissonant




Only the soulless


Patterns of dismay.


Only the clouds ashen,


When the cosmic, winged mother


Gathers the wanderlings,


The flocks


Of garbled geese


And their errant goslings,


Among the trees of twisted juniper


And the radiant




Bundling all her children,


Into her many-storied home of peace


By the green-banked river


In the haunting bells of dawn.



© Sharon St Joan, 2017


Photo: © Elisa Bistocchi / Dreamstime








(To the people of Little Willow)


A poem by Raven Chiong


There’s something to be said…

Go, step into the long lost well of sacred silence. With courage, dive, free and deep into Oceans of open space, listen to your own Voice, follow your own drum.

There’s something to be said…

above the din of “progress”, above the cacophony of Other.

Dry Grasses beckon, Ancient Canyons echo with no syllable or rhyme:

Disconnect, unplug, return to Earth Mother, come Home, weary traveler, to your Self.





Attune to the Place where symphony of Cottonwoods meets sweet silence of Sage, where Rocks speak, Rivers sing, and Shooting Stars have Voices.

There’s something to be said…

Who’s resonating?

Who’s calling?

There’s something to be said…

Are you listening?

Can you hear?

There’s something to be said…

Only the Dreamer, Awake, can say.


 August 11, 2011


Photo:  Sharon St Joan / Young cottonwoods at Zion National Park




You who are the wisdom


And the treasure – on the hill where bells peal


Life and death,


Death and life,


Birth, rebirth,


Or freedom


From the ever-grinding wheel


Of strife.






It is you who stay,


Who live deep in the dens of the earth,


In the rain-dark soil,




Of all being,


You who stay


When all has left


Fled far on the crane-white wings that shimmer,


And you too who encircle the stars and the moon,


You who glimmer


Like the lily,


Soul bereft


That hisses of the ending soon.


You flow


Coil upon blue-hued coil,


Your hooded heads sway,


You know all


And yet nothing,


You sing the call


Of the lakes of eternity


On the silver wave


In the night of falling snow


And the peace of the dawn-pale petal.


Shanti. Shanti. Shanti.


© Sharon St Joan, 2016


Photo: © Mgkuijpers | Dreamstime.com / Arabian cobra







Magic bird


By Sharon St Joan


Magic bird of flames


And waterfalls,


Where now have you gone?




Into the mists


Of the night


Into the deep, green forests,


From where you first arose,




Among the kanchi trees


In the winds that only the starlight




The echo


Of your song calls


Among the leaves radiant




Even when the echo falls silent,


Your feathers green and red


Glimmer still


In the blueness


Of dawn,


Kamakshi, mystery known by many names,


Mother of the darkness,


And the light,


Where have you gone?


Into the farthest woods of being


Where none can ever follow.


Now only the graceful deer stand alone


In the meadow


Where their toes




Silver in the grass singing,





Written March 11, 2016


Photo: Sharon St Joan


© 2016, Sharon St Joan





Hamsa, magical one,


Mystic bird,


Eyes of gold fire,


You rode upon the wave,


The cosmic courses


Of ancient, shining times;


You walked amid the owl-sung light


Of the fairy tree,


By the tall, moon-shifting




You saw the walls of shimmering stone –


The sacred lamp-lit cave,


Where the ancient, bent ones still


Lingered ever on,


Their gods too old to be remembered,


Times of other worlds and climes,


When the air sang in a haze


Of sparkle flown


Like dragonfly wings that whirred,




You recall the bright winters of yore,


So long before


The ashen day when


The armies of the stalking skeleton


Broke onto the red field,


Sweeping all with their dire


Iron gaze,


Where now the star-cast


Bell that pealed


From the green mountain?


Hamsa, you are the swift-unfolding wings of light,


The tales softly-singing,


The warm face of the sun


Hamsa, where have you gone,


To what far, dawn-


Lit land?


And when will you return again,


Radiant, with fast,




Maned horses,




As the rose of spring,


On the glad-rushing winds of eternity?


© 2014, Sharon St Joan


Photo: Marek Szczepanek / Wikimedia Commons / This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.  





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 | Dreamstime.com

Bighorn_lamb_Alberta, resized


Within the rose

The mystic rose

Rises the fragrance of only the misted


Of wind and rainbows.

There, there is no death, blank-faced

And cold, but only the blue

Wings of the sky.

No songs of shadows

But only those

Lilting, cloud-laced

Songs the moon

Might hum

While walking, clad in her glad gown

Beside the riverbank.

No scarecrow of injustice, twisted


But only the iridescent


Of the mountain sheep

Dancing with her lamb

Among the high

Summer snows.

Within the rose

Happen only the going forth in flight

And the returning to

The Great Soul of the Night

Who will ever keep

Dream and event


And ending

In her shining circled hands of starlight

Within the mystic rose.


© Sharon St Joan

Written around 1993


Photo: Philipp Haupt from Zug, Switzerland / Wikimedia Commons / This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license. / Bighorn lamb in Alberta, Canada