Over
the years I have told many a story with
my
poetry. These have not been presented
in
chronological order, rather randomly as one
might
select books on a shelf at the library.
In
one I am five or six years old talking about
my
very first best friend. In another, I am a teen-
ager
seeking a new adventure. Mostly though,
I
portray adult experiences, more recent happen-
ings
which I can relate with some experience
or
thoughtful questioning. And now, there is old
age
with all its losses and limitations. I write
about
time and pain, one I have a limited amount
which
remains, and the other which is bound to
plague
me till the end of my days. Oh, I go back
and
forth in my span of time. One day I am young
again,
the next contemplating the residual of days,
who
knows? The spine of the book in my mind
at
this moment reads, Here and Now. I’m sitting
in
my recliner relatively comfortable. A Liszt
piano
sonata plays on Music Choice TV. The
old
dog asleep at my feet; the young one waiting,
at
the ready to bark at the next noise outside. Lazy,
late,
February afternoon. Before and after no longer
matter.
No immediate expectations from me. I am
nearly seventy-three, and as the aforementioned
reads, Here and Now. I'm writing, and I’m just fine.
reads, Here and Now. I'm writing, and I’m just fine.
-30-
Chris
Hanch 2-18-2020
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