Tag Archive: wolf poem


The Return

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When the great ones return

Raining magic from their wings,

Then only the white teeth

Of the concrete kings

Will glimmer

In the pool of death,

By the cool urn.

Nothing else will fall on the stone,

No one slain,

But only

The bitter echo

Of lies,

And even

The pot

Of tattered tales

Of yore,

All misbegot,

Will be shred

And gone.

Towers overturn

When the green waves rise,

Bearing the emerald throne,

Then the majesty of the deep,

Will cast off the oppressor,

And deliver

Creation

From its gray-nodding sleep,

Long bewitched in the chronicles of error.

Now the nimble goat

Slips her tethers,

To skip again on the grass-enchanted height

Beneath

The boundless skies,

At one with 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,

When the forests reawaken to reclaim the earth.

Nothing will be lost then,

Only the mirror of untruth

Will crack and shatter,

When wolves dance on the hillside,

There where tigers roam, growling

In the darkness;

Their bright

Eyes

Burn

Along the holy way of the night,

When spirits return

In the white magic of winter,

Triumphant,

On the howling

Winds of joy, in the songs of sunrise;

In victory, horses of snow

Sweep,

In stride,

Across the broad plain.

Leaving in their wake only the stillness

Of the lily of eternity

Waving in the sunlit rain,

For the truly living do not die,

But only the walking, dissonant dead,

What is will be

And what is not

Has never been;

The leaves are one with the eternal tree,

Where peacocks,

Two,

Watch intently in the blue

Mornings.

Beyond the rim of history,

The great winged mother

Shakes the dust of opals from

Her feathers,

Gathers

Her wanderlings,

The garbling geese

And their errant

Goslings,

The trees of twisted juniper,

The moon-radiant

Rocks,

And all her children,

Into her many-storied home of peace

By the green-banked river

In the haunting bells of dawn.

© Sharon St Joan, August, 2013

 

Photo: © Conorwaldock / Dreamstime.com

 

 

 

From within

 

The immortal

 

Light

 

Of the lily

 

Arise the mists in

 

Which the cathedral

 

Of bright

 

Stone

 

Stands

 

Through

 

All the winters

 

Of destiny,

 

Though the tall firs

 

List against the bone-

 

White hill,

 

Until

 

The call of the moon invite

 

The wind-footed wolves to

 

Return across the night

 

Over the hinterlands

 

Of circled ice

 

Across the crevasse

 

And the mountain

 

To the peace of the timeless dawn.

 

 

Written in 2008

 

Photo: © Alexfiodorov | Dreamstime.com

 

 

 

 

Eye of the Wolf

In the scarred land

 

Under the wind-haunted skies

 

By the village that is marked on no map,

 

With no history, no tribe, no country.

 

Where the wind wails,

 

Through the worn

 

Windows of mud brick,

 

Past the edge

 

Of the gap

 

In the barrier

 

Wall,

 

Shining paws

 

Fall

 

In the shadowed circle.

 

Silver tails

 

Flick, flick.

 

Let us go quickly

 

Now, to follow

 

The call

 

Of the black plateau

 

Where the rocks stand

 

Tall

 

In the billowing

 

Grass.  It is better to go

 

To see the wide, white jaws

 

Of the wolf than to sit, sipping

 

Bitter stones in this village

 

Of empty

 

Eyes,

 

Than to sit by the torn

 

Stumps of corn

 

That crackle

 

Like pale scales

 

In the dry-finned wind.

 

Let us go quickly

 

Now, and gladly

 

Into the courage

 

Of the eye

 

Of the wolf, into

 

The brave-riven flame

 

Of the night with no name.

 

Where only the lone

 

Call

 

Of the owl-hooded harrier

 

Echoes

 

From rock to rough-rued rock

 

In the soul of the dawn,

 

In the song of the stone,

 

In the winged wind

 

That will fly through the open sky

 

And forever be gone.

 

Written around 2003

 

Photo: © Thomas Barrat / dreamstime.com