A Morning With My Muse Poem by Greg Davidson

Between unconsciousness and waking,
While night birds sing late lullabies,
Stars turn to sleeping in their beds
And morning summons greying skies.

She comes to me, my Calliope,
With crown of gold and champagne eyes.
She bids me come to Xanadu.
A dexter wink and off she flies.

'Neath clouds brushed by Dawn's golden hue,
Past gulls upon their morning chore,
Their calls rebuked by the breakers',
Hush and hush against the shore.

Across the sands of desolation,
Across the mountains of despair,
To a garden rich in wonder,
By the pleasure dome built there.

I walk through blooms of saffron yellow,
Past fruits on branches hanging low.
Streams beside of living water
Whisper comfort as I go.

I harvest from the fruit above me,
‘Neath a tree I pause to eat.
Down my chin runs tears of nectar,
Like memories, both bitter-sweet.

Then ancient fears return to haunt me,
Deep in the undergrowth they lie,
Invisible, silent, waiting.
Never real but always nigh.

I wake as words cascade about me,
Then tumble down onto the floor.
Random rhymes run intermingled,
And simile chase metaphor.

They gather in the hidden places,
In the dark behind the door.
There they pool in half-formed poems,
Staggered lines of three or four.

They scuttle along the skirting boards
In rhyming couplets, as a dare,
Or sit atop the window frame
Just to mock me from up there.

Calliope gathers up her words,
She winks and laughs then fades to grey.
My verse, unpenned, still incomplete,
'Til my muse returns to play.