When
I painted and finished my piece,
I
always told myself, this one is good,
I
like just fine, but the next one could
likely
be my best.
I
continued to paint always telling myself,
I
see the promise in this one, but surely the
next
will be finer, maybe even the best one,
museum
quality, you know.
They
all turned out satisfyingly well, you
see,
for I would paint over the ones which
I
considered to be unsatisfactory. Sold and
gave
away the works which survived my
scrutiny.
Oh,
although I had my favorites, none of
my
paintings ever achieved the status of
A
number 1.
Well
as it turned out, later I was unable
to
paint anymore. Couldn’t hold the brush
with
my arthritic and shaky hands. So,
either
my best had already happened
or
was never meant to come.
Now
at age 73, I write poetry mostly. Have
been
plying that creative bent off and on
for
some forty years. Have produced perhaps
several
thousand verses over time. Still, the
old
idea is with me and my psyche--The
next
one will be the best one or has the best
already
been done?
Hard
or impossible for me to say. A lot of
words
and turns of phrase among so many.
Hell,
I can’t remember what I had for lunch
yesterday.
With
my passing, my works will be handed
down
to my grandchildren. It will be left for
them
to decide. I’m sure each one will
choose
their favorite, those among them,
that
is, who could give a healthy shit about
poetry
anyway.
-30-
Chris
Hanch 6-10-2020
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