Tag Archive: mystical poem


 

 

 

ID 4545510 © Dbpetersen | Dreamstime

 

Listen, and hear

 

Within the moon the silent flight

 

Of white

 

Crane

 

Feathers,

 

While stars ring like bells in a sky of snow.

 

Did you know

 

That the moon is hollow

 

And it chimes?

 

Now, past clouds of bitter rain,

 

Of weathers

 

Sullen in the jagged wind,

 

At a sharp bend in the long road,

 

Shines the light of butterfilies beyond the shards of the dark,

 

The spark

 

Of grace, as yet unimagined,

 

A hand of tree bark

 

Offers peace, abhaya mudra: “Fear

 

Not,” a message,

 

Seek and ye

 

Shall find

 

All truth

 

Within the call

 

Of the star, cloaked in a misted shawl.

 

Soon, between the bones of yesteryear

 

Rise the rushing waters to the ridge

 

Of ending times.

 

There at the top of the narrow stair

 

Opens the rock-enchanted desert that will echo eternity,

 

Shimmering stones,

 

Who

 

Sing that the shadow

 

Has gone, though it is not that the shadow

 

Has gone, but just that the sun is real and the shadow not, after all,

 

And so

 

The holy one, unknown, will walk again on the straight path,

 

Will hold the innocent deer high in his hand

 

(In the land

 

Of the gold dragon who gnashes

 

Her emerald jaw,

 

Extending her five-toed

 

Paw)

 

There the brave one walks, placing the sun anew,

 

Engulfing the burning cities of the mind,

 

And – casting death at last behind,

 

Cleanses the earth of ashes.

 

 

Poem: © Sharon St Joan, 2017

Photo: © Dbpetersen | Dreamstime

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

Moon of many lilies

 

When, in her mystical barque,

 

The moon of many lilies

 

Glides across the dream-clad dark,

 

Her owls in her wake,

 

Their wings silent as eternity’s

 

Footsteps,

 

(Though nearby

 

Clouds of crystal geese

 

Chime on their snow-spun way)

 

Then

 

Out of the rocks

 

Misted lands

 

Will rise again

 

Now that the white-toothed one

 

Who sat on the throne

 

Has let slip his staff

 

Of silver bone

 

And his recipies

 

Of gloom

 

And dread

 

From his grime-

 

Grimmed hands

 

And has slid

 

Down into the deep

 

Depths

 

Of the smokened tomb

 

Of time.

 

Soon flocks

 

Of dawn-eyed does will

 

Drink from the blue spring

 

As before in the day

 

When the heron was the rain

 

And the lion the sun.

 

Then  on the hill

 

The coyote will laugh

 

His translucent laugh;

 

In the valley

 

The butterfly

 

Will flit

 

To the petal

 

Of the water lily

 

To shake

 

Her orange head

 

And settle

 

Into sleep,

 

Her rainbowed eyelid

 

Shut in a ring

 

Of peace

 

While the moon slips by

 

On wind-lit

 

Paths

 

Over the lake

 

Of the wide sky.

 

Written around 2002

 

Photo: Boris Ryaposov / Dreamstime.com