One day these words will be gone.

So will the hands that sculpted them

and the eyes of mind that saw them

and the pulse of heart

that beat their shapes

on the anvil of vision.


The only echo of what is found here

will be found out there

in the rain

the wind

the tide pools of dawn

a quiet, crackling fire beneath the moon

the song of the surf coming in

the lilting morning talk on the Red Line heading to town

and...the sound of your own breathing.



Listen in every place that you are.


Hear the laughter of a child

an owl at night

the comforting, domestic clank

of dishes at your morning breakfast.

Hear them as the true poetry that they are.


Then you'll realize: there has only ever been one poem.

There has only ever been one poem

and all poems are but a mirror of that one.


Then you will understand the Great Poet

whose poem is still being sung into Being each day.


Then you will understand that your life

and even your death

is a line in that poem.

from The School of Soft-Attention: Poems (Homebound Publications, 2018)

Original poem: (c) 2011 / Frank LaRue Owen /

sound: Azimuth / Akupanga / Aglaia