from The Temple of Warm Harmony (release date: August 2019, Homebound Publications)

When did we stop hearing the songs from the inside of things?

The ones we heard at 3, 4, 6, and 9

collecting tadpoles, walking the fence line.

The ones that reached out through the haze of late morning

when the Great Mother’s warm hand

fell softly on our shoulders in the form of sunlight.

Oh, how we trusted our affinities then

and needed so much less.

We knew we were perfectly knit from some ancient flow

that wove together the light of stars

fireflies

the luminous glow in a grandmother’s eyes.

Like a growing mandala of memory,

some are being guided there again

and realizing there-is-here, then-is-now.

No time has passed.

The ghostly beat of an owl wing in the middle of the night.

The smell of autumn spices simmering on a stove at dawn.

The small tap of a teacup coming to rest on a table at 4 a.m.

The simplest of occurrences

become a switchback

to a doorway of communion.

I still hear the hiss of the heater

smell its strangely-comforting sulfur tones.

The tick-tick-tick of expanding metal

as if some unseen entity were tapping out a rhythm

from long-forgotten hearth songs.

A round table.

Stories.

Food.

The sudden pop of pine sap in the fireplace.

Laughter.

Space-time is an illusion.

So is the notion of finite bodies.

It’s why,

whenever I see you,

I ask:

How’s your world?

…because I know

we carry infinite worlds inside of us

and in one of them

a great spinning star-flung song

is trying to wake us up again

to the Great Alliance that binds us.


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

sound: Pathways / Echo of Small Things / Robert Rich


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