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This click-clack click-clack stuttering of mind
’tween wake and sleep, this breathless oscillation,
Leaves little leisure for the mind to rest
And, like a sea anemone, unfurl
Its wispy tendrils of awareness—Ah!
To slip between the breathless press of day
And night’s beguiling enterprise of dreams;
A state of being separate from the two:
Awake, unshackled from the monkey mind,
Yet not unconscious, flailing on the plain
Of primal id. A fertile state between—
A realm of peak awareness, free of stress,
Where mind can spread its wings to soar unbound—
A state of bliss: imagination’s playground.

Tea and honey in the morning,
The cat impatiently follows me
From stove to cupboard and back
In need of companionship
And kitty treats.

It is six a.m. and
It is Sunday morning
And it is summer
And it is quiet.

In an hour, you will rise
I will make real coffee for you
Your whirlwind mind will start to spin
And the day will begin in earnest.

It was dusk
The bird settled
On the black wire
Perhaps watching the sunset
Like me perched on my deck

He enters the almost dawn
Book shadowed shelves
His city slumbers

For reasons known only to itself
This Sunday’s clouded light
Makes an effort to be morning

His furniture rustles awake
Welcomes him once again
At this diaphanous hour

More than a month since I've written a poem
While Old Man Clayton just keeps on rolling them out.
You and me, we sweat and strain,
While metaphors flow from the mouth of Old Man Clayton
Into the great sea of...
Of...
Something.

I grow weary and tired of trying
I resort to stealing lines from show tunes
But Old Man Clayton, he just keeps rolling,
He keeps on rolling out poems.