Alluding to awareness

Frost bites
like a rabid dog
on green grass
& leaf carcases,
white froth freezing
to the edges of
everything before
the sun stops
it cold.

Juncos dance
atop our fence,
hopping post
to post,
pecking
seed we
piled high,
before a
scrub jay
swoops in
& steals the
show.

A few
finches
flitter & hop
over leaf litter
looking
for undercover
earthworms
to devour.

The upside
to the down low,
the hop, skip
& jump after a fall,
the sky to the limit,
fight to flight,
wings to a Dodo.

Chimneys
curl their
gray plumes
thru naked trees,
exhaling nests
of snakes
skyward,
warming
winter’s
cold blood.

Dreams
fly at
warp speed
thru the
wormhole
of my mind,
I’m in bed
but out of
body on
the other
side,
a two
timing
traveler.

I wake
from
dreams
which
elude
me
after
the first
blink–
my
brain
lives
alluding
to awareness.

Soulfulness
behind each
heartbeat,
musical notes
throbbing
between
my temples,
rhymes
on repeat,
lyrics for life,
certainty of
a sound mind.

I found my
old ipod
the other
day,
dusty
& dead
at the
bottom
of a bag,
I charged
its battery
& rediscovered
a lifetime of
music.

My mind
is a broken
record stuck
on the same
old soundtrack,
living to repeat
past memories,
grinding down
the needle at
both ends.

Who
do I
equal?
Will I
ever be
whole?
Is life
always
this
irrational?
Pi on
my face,
sighs
wearing
run on
decimals…..

I am the
sum total
of what
doesn’t
add up–
the product
of life x’s
before me–
the uncommon
denominator–
the oddest
number.

A
clock’s
clock
cleaned,
time beat
down like
sand
sucked
fast thru an
hourglass
by a vacuum.

Light
the wick
& watch
the flame
slowly
melt
down
its waxy
frame
until
your eyes
bow to
darkness.

Each breath
of air chilled
by a distant sun
slipping away
on the black
ice of space.

About tyler4turtles

I am an avid photographer, poet, ecologist, bookworm, blogger, art enthusiast and runner who calls Montana home but lives in Oregon.
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2 Responses to Alluding to awareness

  1. Excellent stuff! 😉

    Your “broken record” section reminded me of one of Emily Dickinson’s superb poems:

    The Brain, within its Groove
    Runs evenly—and true—
    But let a Splinter swerve—
    ‘Twere easier for You—

    To put a Current back—
    When Floods have slit the Hills—
    And scooped a Turnpike for Themselves—
    And trodden out the Mills—

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