Time . . . Left & Right

Left Handed

Those introspective summer days,
blue skies to dive into
call out tempting, as a blank canvas,
to be fitted with
the rambling scribbles
of the poet's dreams. . .
some,
long dead glory
evaporated through years of neglect
on an ancient dusty tomb. . .
as dry as left over autumn leaves,
whispers of skeleton
dreams best forgotten,
and new ones build
like shiny clouds
reaching fullness
over the mountain peaks,
flashing electric white
against the vacant blue . . .

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Right Handed

I try to stand against the
slipstream of time as
it flows around me like a river,
a torrent of wishes and regrets
push against my un-dam-like
existence. . .
I am more like a sieve
swishing through the waters and capturing
the odd bits that cling to me
amoeba like
and meaningful, flotsam,
memorable. . . while life rushes by I fold these
treasures over and over in my hands,
reflecting the light off the dampness
like gold reflects

the warmth of the yellow sun and

from the water
drops an inverted image of
what is to come . .  . I see brightly through
each crystal drop
the roaring flow of the cataract
which is like the beginning of time,
each moment new
and impressionable like a raw birth. . .
a thread that ravels
and follows its warp
if flows with ease in
 the slipstream of time.

##

I am still following the experiment of writing two poems a day, one left-handed (my non-dominant hand) and one using my right.  Both poems follow on the heels of the other.  I did these two just before I went to sleep last night . . . and the quality is not good  . . . but again I find that they follow a theme . . . right-left brain cross-over, maybe,  or is it just something on my mind?