The Right half

The right-half of my brain
swerves too much into poetry.

The dew is a low hanging fruit
and instantly is in the cart.
Rain is always in touch.
Winter is around the corner.
Summer reaches out through the window.
Emotions run wild across the keyboard.
People in my head, crowd it with action.
Life and death have their boring tussle.
Often there are writes on writing.
Misplaced metaphors, on second thoughts
look teary eyed, while similes
break into mocking smiles.

But the calling itself stands a monolith.
I tie my talismans around it.
Continue a common superstition
and sharpen my wit
against the whetstone of a blank page.

The right-half of my brain
swerves too much into poetry.
And often after this thought
I sweat over a puzzle
to make a come back.



(This is my 400th poem. Self congratulatory in its style.)