A Woman in the Nursing Home

I shall never forget the look in her eyes,

the woman who suffered from Alzheimer’s

in the nursing home.

She was not all that old as I recall, early seven-

ties perhaps, but some diseases have no respect

for age.

She was white-headed with gentle yet puzzled

blue eyes. One could see that they were searching

for answers to some Great Dark Mystery.

All was gone, lost in a fog which would never lift

again. I was present one day when her husband of

forty-years came to visit.

Although he was caring and attentive, trying his

best to be reassuring, one could easily sense the

enormous weight of his grieving at her loss.

When their time together had ended, and it was

time for him to go, it would be as if they had met

for the first time and the last.

Over and again with each ensuing visit there had to

be another leaving, always a new beginning and

yet another end.

This time the woman in the nursing home turned to

me with the calm and joyful blue-eyed smile of having

fallen in love for the very first time. And shyly she

whispered to me, “He was a very nice man.”

Chris Hanch  6-30-15

What You Are

You are family and friends and more;

You are connectivity transmitted at light speed;

You are the world at my fingertips, feed me. 

Chris Hanch  6-29-15

It's All Elemental

I fall in there somewhere among the Periodic

Table of Elements. In fact my entire being is,

I am certain, represented in several places as

Elemental along those lines. It’s genetically

Hereditary; science tells me, I had no hand in

The matter concerning the matter of which, by

Chemical and biological designation, I happen

To be made. In this fundamental regard, I am

Who I am and you are who you are—all of us

Universally the same. Any fool with a little know-

ledge of biology, access to a microscope and la-

boratory can attest to that undeniable claim. For

This reason blacks can sit side-by-side with whites

At lunch counters today, and a marriage is a mar-

riage whether you’re hetero, bi, lesbian or gay.

There are some elements of life you may choose,

And other elements of life which choose you. Have

The elemental wisdom to know and respect the

Difference between the two. Ever heard the saying,

I was born this way, what’s your excuse?

Chris Hanch  6-28-15

95 in the Shade

At the grocery store this morning

While uncarting my goods at the

Checkout stand, I made a clichéd

Remark to the clerk as she scanned:

“It’s gonna be a hot one today, 95

In the shade the weather folks on

TV claimed.” (Whatever possessed

Me to comment on the weather? I

Usually never begin a conversation

With such trivial matters.) But I

Figured 95 was a safe and hot topic

Given that I didn’t know the woman

From Eve. And sure enough, the

Issue of weather didn’t impress her

Enough to illicit a remark in return.

That is until she got to the ½-gallon

Of Peanut Butter Panic Ice Cream I had

Selected. “Hmmm,” She sighed without

Looking up at me or interrupting the tan-

talizing  flow of that cool carton sliding

Satin smooth through her wanting finger

Tips, “Gotta get me some of that.”

Chris Hanch  6-20-15  

A Brief History

Rain, snow, blowing dust,

Searing heat, blustery cold—

I have come a long way

In all kinds of weather.

I’ve painted a few paintings

In my time, considered

Better than average,

But certainly not worthy of

Masterwork acclaim. I have

Written a few poems too

About people I’ve met,

Places I’ve been, revealing

Observations and attitudes

On any given day.

I have traveled internationally,

Lived in and visited many

Places in these United States.

No, I’m not rich or famous

And in my old age, I reside

With my two dogs alone.

I have said a few prayers

Along the way for strength

And guidance, but mostly

Something evolutionary

Has reminded me

To breathe in and out

Each day with consistency.

Rain, snow, blowing dust,

Searing heat, blustery cold—

I have weathered the years

Covering long distances

To finally settle down, 

Living in my own skin,

Stretched over the aging

Bones of where I belong.

Chris Hanch 6-27-15

Had I Stayed Put

Had I stayed married to the same woman for 50-years, had

I religiously mowed the yard every week of every summer

Which has come and gone since then, had I repaired each

Dripping faucet, fixed each screen door squeak, had I cyc-

lically painted every wall indoors and out, had I cleaned

The gutters and spouts, had I patched the cracks in plaster

And concrete, washed the car weekly, had I spent all that

Time sitting in the same place watching football and reality

Programs on cable TV, had I spent my summers drinking

Iced tea on the patio with the same old friends, gone to the

Lake on vacation, spent those bitter winters shoveling ice

And snow off sidewalk and porch, watching my children grow

Up and away from home, had I stayed put and in one place to

Age appropriately as a decent suburban neighbor, had I kept

The same phone number and address season after season, the

Postal worker would not have had to chase me all over the

Planet, day after day, month after month, for years on end in

Every kind of weather imaginable just to deliver junk mail to me.

Chris Hanch  6-23-15

These Streets

People have lived and died by these streets.

There, on the sidewalk, a pile of clothing

And no one in attendance.

There, that’s all the proof one needs. Sirens

Blare all hours, day and night, someone is dying,

Not dead yet, but soon perhaps.

See, what more proof does one need? These are

mean streets, dream streets, merely a roadway

to get one from here to there.

The young man on a skateboard, in and out,

dodging traffic, the hobbling old man fading

away on a hot summer’s day.

There is no real beginning here, and no defining

End here either. The living are ignored and they

Cart the dead away.

An Avenue is what it is, a chance but necessary

Passageway. And it’s the hope of getting through

Which paves these potholed streets with intention

On any given day.

Chris Hanch  6-25-15

The Anthology of Words, Words, Words

I have made it half-way through the anthology of

Poetry I have been reading, a lengthy collection of

Verse I bought through Amazon a week or so ago.

I have read all about fallow farm fields and crusty

Old farmers, about grazing heifers and flocking geese,

About the bygone days of the neighborhood hardware

Store with bin after bin of loose nuts and bolts, about

The hassles of coin-op laundromats and love affairs lost,

Rusty old cars rotting away in the graveyards of vacant

Lots, the haves and have-nots, about Kansas dust storms

In the 1930s, and childhood follies, about Los Angeles

And Pershing Square, old black men and jazz, about the

Hissing noises steam engines make and bridal showers,

The wafting perfumed fields of wild flowers. I’ve skipped

Over delirious soliloquies about New York and God’s will,

Have struggled through verse after verse bemoaning sin

And the extolling of mankind virtues. I now know what

The poet felt when first he saw snow, and the love she held

For her dearly departed mother. All those iron-weighted and

Satin-smooth pages I have turned, and that’s not even the

Half of it. If I weren’t so old and short on time, should my

Memory serve me better, had I not been struck with a pro-

found and sudden loss of words after having ingested so

Many, I could certainly go on.

Chris Hanch  6-26-15