poems for headphones

Age of strain.

Ashes in people’s faces.

Ashes at people’s feet.

Souls chasing faces;

faces on currency.

Skin starved for touch.

Weathered hands rest

on levers of time, memory, sweat.

Click of hours come and go.

Bone dust of sleeping birds reconstitute.

Trepidatious creatures within



stretch tendons —

move us all along

toward the augur of the curve.

Do you feel the road turning?

Do you feel time turning?

Do you feel your body


in slow motion

as if your spirit

had already left the scene?


beneath branches of prophecy,

the Hanging God

remembers the old language

reflected in the moonlit pool

all over again.

Within the orchard’s glow,

a child of the sun

hears the song of the sun.

A forgotten place

becomes a temple of the sun.

A child of the sun

through the song of the sun

becomes a priest of the sun.

A child of the sun

through the silent heat of the sun

becomes a priestess of the sun.

Someone remarks about familiar terrain;

how nice the breeze is tonight.

A lone traveler moves east along the strand.

Soft brown feet

leave tracks in cloud-white sand.


— the kind that happens

multiple times within a given life —

is always preceded by departure.

(c) 2019 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com

sound: phenakistoscope / A Novel Sense of Calm / Massergy

image: warm sunrise on beach / Rachel Cook