A Communique

I may fail to communicate. Once in a while, I might

even tell a deceptive untruth. My brain could be twisted

or so disposed to behave that way.

The words which pass on through my hands and onto the

page may seem obtuse or evasive, could on occasion

possibly be misinterpreted or misunderstood.

These things can happen on any given day. My transcribed

declarations are subject to scrutiny or review, especially

should they make a personal reference to you.

And in any way, shape or form should you take offense in my

often harum-scarum-use of vocabulary, respectfully, I do

beg your pardon.

I was merely trying to get through this somewhat rambling

communique in writing without the gross misspelling or

improper displacement of words.

All of this would have been unnecessary and proved to be a simple

exercise in social intercourse had I been able to relate my message

directly to you verbally, one-on-one and face-to-face.

Call me…

Chris Hanch 3-26-17

Last Laugh

I laugh at you, Old Age.
I curse, I snicker and sneer
at that which you have
odiously wrought upon me.

Failing parts unite in full
revolution to overthrow the
mighty Monarch of Youth and
Virility once perceived.

Take away the clarity of sight,
muffle finely-tuned notes
resounded to the ear, weaken
and pain every joint to the

pull of gravity’s dreadful
strain. I laugh at you, Old Age.
I curse, I snicker and sneer.
I spit at you toothless into

the wind, and drool the half
of it down my stubble chin.
Last laugh or not,
Damn you anyway, Old Age!

Chris Hanch 3-25-17

On the Topic of Beards

In a conversation once, a woman told me

she didn’t trust men with beards. They all

have something to hide, she insisted. Per-

sonally, I have been a bearded wonder for

some thirty-years. And not that I cared, she

may have implied that I too by association

was not to be trusted. I have never been an

operative of the CIA, the FBI or any other

intelligence agency, foreign or domestic. I

have nothing of significance to hide. Well,

there was this time in Saginaw...but that was

nothing really. There is nothing earth-shaking,

news-worthy or so insidious that you might

think any less of me. Why, Abraham Lincoln

had facial hair, and historically he was consi-

dered worthy of most people’s trust. Even

Ulysses S. Grant sported a beard most of his

adulthood days. And had I been in the ranks

he commanded, I would have indeed held a

great deal of trust in him on the battlefield.

Plato, for god's sake, had a beard.

I could go on and on with my commendations

and accolades for men who choose to sport

beards in their varying lengths and styles. I

can also understand those women who prefer

their men to be clean-shaven because facial

hair may tend to tickle or otherwise irritate

sensually. Should I choose to hide something

or be untrustworthy, a stocking mask would

be far easier to maintain. Needless to say,

that woman and I never achieved an intimate

relationship. We didn’t get close enough for

trust to become an issue, even though she

herself was clean shaven at least as far as I

could see.

Chris Hanch 3-24-17

Lost

Birds obey the time of day knowing instinctively

When to fly and when to light. Thursday dawns for

The rich and poor man all the same. From an early

Age we learn to obey the dictates of wind and rain.

Gravity pulls its weight keeping us securely grounded

In place. There are rules we are duty bound to follow,

Some are flexible, some meant to avoid or break.

I am most aware of my surroundings when I’m lost

And don’t know the way. Tomorrow arriving as Friday

Is of no consolation. Today matters, and for now I

Haven’t a clue which direction to take. Should I decide

To sit and wait, tomorrow is sure to find me, and more

Than likely I’ll see things differently. Nature has a way

Of reminding us how petty our worries can sometimes

Be. I see that there’s moss growing on this side of the

Tree leading me to believe that North is this way. Which

Tells me...well, I’m not really certain. I hope I turned off

The Mister Coffee before I left home. I guess I’d better

Get my lazy ass out of this chair and see.

Chris Hanch 3-23-17 

The Weather Out There

How cold is it out there? Well, it is March,

And the end of winter is at hand; Springtime

Is poised moderately in the wings. The temper-

Ature fluctuates, up one day and down the next.

I do not have a thermometer, so I have no

Reading in Fahrenheit, Celsius or centigrade.

In degrees of accuracy I cannot say. I would,

However, estimate the early morning air hovers

Somewhere between a light freeze and the thaw

To liquidity. It is by no means either a frigid

Alaskan day or sun-kissed Caribbean scene.

From where I reside, there is rather a prevailing

Midwestern air out there. (No polar bear sight-

Ing or mosquito swarming to report, no frozen

Arctic blast nor warm wafting of humidified

Gulf air either.) Then, just how cold is it out there,

You may be asking? In stepping out with the pups

For the first time this morning, and not being qual-

Ified to speak in terms meteorologically, I must

Report that the breeze in Kansas City today is from

The North, and modestly bracing. As a layman, I

Should liken it to a sudden splash in the face by

Tap water, slightly chilled—decidedly awakening,

Except without the wet.

Chris Hanch 3-22-17  

The Blame

The Blame

My mind is boggled. This happens without warning on occasion.

Perhaps the uninvited thought arose today, for in less than two

Weeks I’ll be faced disparagingly with my 70^th birthday.

What in hell happened, I ask myself? It all seems so sudden,

This unsettling situation. In drag strip terms of acceleration, this

Is comparable to achieving zero to sixty in 4-seconds.

Why, it was only yesterday when I was nineteen and in the Army

Stationed in Germany. The young women in the town where I

Lived had given me the nickname, Baby Face.

I considered it a term of endearment not a moniker based on

Ridicule or shame. Baby Face. A horrified glance into the mirror

Today and I must say that my face, indeed the head-to-toe

Physiological composition of me, has wrinkled and digressed

Considerably. There has to be a simple explanation for this

Insidious transformation. I figure that it must have been something

I had eaten along the way. Or worse case scenario, something for

Which I never acquired a taste, something of exceptional nutritional

Benefit I left sitting on my plate. Beets! That’s it, I knew it! This is all

Your damn fault. Now I have more reasons than ever for hating you.

The thought of your unsavory attitude makes me want to puke. So then,

It’s a matter of taste which in such a short time laced me with this age.

Chris Hanch 3-21-17

Something about Need

Ask me, what do I need? No, not a new car.
The expense would break me. I have no need
to rotate tires, schedule maintenance, nor to
pay taxes and licensing. I’ve conceded, speed
and mobility are no longer a priority for me.

My driving days are done. I have no need for
a sleek-footed pair of Nikes, running has never
been my style. These snail-paced days, I can
barely manage walking 50-yards. Well-worn
house shoes for me fit far more appropriately.

Go ahead, I don’t mind, ask of me, what is it that
I need? I am that guy for whom it is impossible
to buy on birthdays and at Christmastime, for I am
content with moth holes and snagged threads in
my sweaters.

Their fit is pleasingly cozy and fine. Besides, the
season is fast approaching summertime. No need
for shorts either, given my age, these boney pale
legs are no longer fit for public display. And being
retired, I have no need for any sort of time piece.

There’s nowhere I care to go nor have I the need
to be. I’m fine with daytime or night. I’ll nap any
damn time I please. Time is no longer considered
an ally of mine. Cable TV and the pups give me
all the company I need.

Oh, come to think of it, you might get me a bottle of
prune juice next time you’re at the store. Mind you,
just a week or two from now, before I reach the rippen-
ing of my 70th year, I do, on occasion, still find the
need to go.

Chris Hanch 3-20-17

Show more reac

Musings Today

Musings for Today

I have no set plans for today. Sky is blue, contrail streaming above

At 30,000 feet. Being seated in the middle of the county, I think

Randomly of San Francisco and New York. Where must those

high-flying passengers be going? I refocus on a poetry anthology

I am reading. Lines like, “two bodies mingling,” “nothing to wear,

Nothing wearable to a party,” and “these are the nights we dreamed

Of...” strike me momentarily. But of one thing I am certain, when

I’m finished, I will leave these words behind on their respective pages

Where I found them. More than likely, I will allow these image to slip

Away from my short-term memory, perhaps even before I’ve had my

Second cup of coffee. How quickly the dawning of ordinary thought

Passes from the mind. I am grateful for this human trait, for there is no

Conceivable way I want to maintain all the trivialities which parade

Before and pass through me each and every second of the day. When

My brain decides that I have read enough lines this morning, it will

Then command my hands to close the book and leave what is left to be

Visually consumed for some other day. But in doing so, I have noticed

The immediate need to trim my fingernails, a function that I had not

Previously made plans for today. Funny how one thing really can lead

Spontaneously to another. And so today, as with the many which have

Come before, I may again be truly amazed—fingernails next, and then

Who knows...perhaps thoughts of gray skies and Pittsburgh? Funny thing

Is, clear skies or cloudy, personally I don't know a single damn soul who
Lives there.

Chris Hanch 3-18-17

Pigeon-hole Me

You can pigeon-hole me in the white-male category. And

I’ll argue but explain—I had no choice in such matters,

I was born this way.

In past days you could pigeon-hole me as tall, a drink of

water or a bean pole for as a teenager I was thin, having no

heft to me at all.

In my time, I have traveled to many places, have seen a

world of faces, and I’ve held myriad jobs to get me through.

Pigeon-hole me as a worker on the move.

Pigeon-hole me as an artist for I’ve painted, drawn and

sculpted over the years. Others admit to me, they can’t draw

a straight line. My secret to them, I use a ruler to draw mine.

Pigeon-hole me, if you please, as a poet, and writer. I would

say, you evolve and hopefully become what you practice with

passion every day over time.

And when I’m done and have nothing more to claim, I’ll take

on most any name—son-of-a-bitch some may say. Pigeon-hole

me for eternity, I’ll have no more ruffled feathers to display.

Chris Hanch 3-16-17

Inertia

Inertia. If you were to stop me on the street

Today (which would be unusual, for I don’t

Plan to be on the street today) and you were

To ask me, what is the first thing which comes

To mind, I’d have to say, inertia. You would

Then certainly look at me inquisitively, likely

To say, a most unusual thought indeed. And

Should you be familiar with that word, inertia,

You may figure I had a physics problem mulling

Around in my brain. No, I am mathematically

And scientifically challenged, I would be compel-

Led to tell you. I happened to get out of bed this

Morning with that word, inertia, confronting me

First thing. Perhaps it sprang up suddenly in a

Dream. The dictionary explains: Inertia—

a property of matter by which it continues in

its existing state of rest or uniform motion in

a straight line, unless that state is changed

by an external force.

Now that definition shines a new light on my

Present condition. And by virtue of time, I was

Propelled to awaken even though my previous

State was still asleep. I opened my eyes as my

Brain remained languishing comfortably in

Peace. The external force at work here was the

Stunning daylight shining through my bedroom

Window which opened the eyes, leaving my state

Of mind behind in the deep repose of last night. It

Was a shock to my system to say the least when

I came to this abrupt landscape of dawning

Reality. Still confused? So was I, until I man-

Aged to awaken my sensibilities, to align eye

And mind in a sudden jolt of actual physicality

With copious slurps from my first cup of coffee.

In layman’s lingo, that’s inertia as I see it. And given

My alternate reality and confounding explanation,

Aren’t you relieved we didn’t meet me on the street

This morning?

Chris Hanch 3-12-17

The Meaning of Life

As hatchling turtles cross the sands of time,

safely reaching the eternity of the sea,

as the child swings higher, and is lowered by

the force of gravity, higher, lower, repeat,

as the car motors down the street,

its speed excels and slows with pressure to the

peddles applied by the feet,

as the tree grows, the wind blows, the rain

freezes turning into sleet,

one revolution of Earth, and the day ends replete,

as the drum synchronizes rhythmically to a

cadence of the heartbeat…

Heat...

Greet...

Treat…

Sheet...

As time passes, the monotony of this rhyming

is destined to retreat

as at last (and it was bound to happen inevitably),

the boy and girl finally meet,

and the application of this preposterous amalgamation,

thank God, is nearly complete.

This exercise of mine should have ended where

it began, when the hatchling turtles

made it safely to the eternity of the sea.

And, I trust you and I agree, that is truly

a story worth repeating, speaking existentially.

Chris Hanch 3-11-17 

The Sun-shower of Words

With the sun each morning comes a shower

Of words to fill the Earth. And those who

Choose to speak early have their pick of the

Crop. The tacit must wait and feed latter

On what remains. It’s sort of the “Early Bird”

Axiom only that words are more palatable to

Humans than are worms. Now here is some-

Thing odd and rarely considered by those of

Us who rise early—How does the sun know

Which language to correctly assign from all

Those words beamed down to us at the dawn-

Ing of each and every day? Swedes always

Get their Swedish, French receive “Parlez-vous

Francais?” appropriately, Italians get a heaping

Dose of “buongiorno” to greet their neighbors

Properly in the morning. The sun has been per-

Forming this sort of thing long enough to know

That English goes to Americans, Canadians, the

Brits, the Aussies, New Zealanders and such.

I am truly amazed with the profuse deluge of

Words which overwhelm my sensibilities each

Day. It’s a wonder I can select the proper text

To convey my message in the first place. I try,

But at times I fail. It makes perfect sense to me

That due to the meager pickings which remain

At the end of day, those who work through the

Night or they who cannot sleep have far fewer

Words left to say. Now, here’s the reasoning on

Which I predicate my theory of words which

Shower the Earth every day. I am baffled to

Have captured the word “baffled” today, for

Yesterday, whether in its past or present tense,

“Baffled” never even entered the vocabulary

Of words which currently permeate my brain.

Words, I bask in the sun-shower of their light
Each and every day.

Chris Hanch 3-10-17

This Morning

I awoke this morning

again, not as king, not president or general,

nor any other such thing.

I awoke this morning older, and as yesterday

and the day before, just as broke,

nothing more.

This morning I awoke to the news— a worldwide

disposition of

disquiet, unrest and disarray.

This morning I awoke much the same

as any other day, aching with arthritic hips

and monthly bills to pay.

I awoke this morning grateful again

with no bejeweled throne to sit upon, no esteemed oval

office to attend, nor any embattled fields to defend.

Coffee is a brew, the porcelain pot awaits its daily due.

And as for the rest of you—don’t bother to text, twitter,

Instagram, Facebook or call me until after 10AM.

I awoke this morning older, and as yesterday

and the day before, just as broke...

a world in disarray, and a few goddamn bills to pay.

Chris Hanch 3-8-17

About My Place in Tme

I haven’t kept count, but all the “Pleases” and

“Thank yous” probably made a difference. I

Know for sure that the times I turned and walked

Away led me to a different place. We never give a

Second thought to rubbing our eyes, tearful or dry.

For us, some things are lessons learned; some things

Come naturally. I’m watching the sycamore out

Back beyond the patio. It grew in appreciation

Of the sun and rain. I listen as a mourning dove

Perched on a branch calls out to its mate. Nearby,

Although I cannot see from where, a cooing call

Comes in return. Along with a measure of sunshine

And rain, those countless “Please and “Thank yous”

Of mine brought me to this place and time. I took

A certain path some years back, and here I sit today.

Sunshine this morning, last night, the rain. A dove

Calls out from the branches of a sycamore to its

Mate. With one more “Please” or one fewer “thank

You” along the way, possibly I’d be seeing an oak

Tree and listening to a blue jay screeching instead.

Chris Hanch 3-7-17

Believe It or Not

Look up into the nighttime sky.

That star configuration over there,

That’s the Big Dipper, and the light

From those stars, the light you see

Right now took many thousands of

Years to get here. And so it was for

Those who saw the same arrangement

Thousands of years ago—the light

Seen at that time was the light from

Thousands of years before them.

And so it goes on and on like that

All the way back to before...well,

Let’s just say to before all those

Stars fell into place, to this day

To become what we now know as

The Big Dipper. And I imagine

Before early man invented dippers,

Before his descendants saw the

Similarities of the dipper and those

Stars configured in a visually similar

Way, the light which took thousands

Of years to get here were perhaps known

By early man merely as pinholes in the

Nighttime Sky. No one way back then had

A clue as to how old those pinholes were,

Or for that matter, which came first, the

Pinholes or the dipper? It was a bit later

On in man’s history that astronomy

Was invented to come up with some

Answers. And, in light of that which

You are seeing now, it took thousands

Of years to get here.

Chris Hanch 3-6-17

On Any Given Day

My mountain climbing is over. I’ve seen the hidden

Valleys beyond. I never got to cross the plains of

Mongolia, but I did see Reykjavik from 30,000 feet.

Once a disheveled vagrant sat beside me on a park

Bench in Albuquerque and asked me for some change.

Any amount would be helpful, he begged.

I held my newborn grandson when he was barely

A week old. He turned twenty last Saturday, and now

He wears a size-15 shoe.

I’ve listened to all nine symphonies from Beethoven

A hundred times or more. Sitting down over coffee

At a cafe, I have some stories I could tell you.

See that young lady over there, I would suppose

(and rightly so) that she has a good many years of life
Ahead of her.

I’d be willing to bet she has a great deal to say. She

Looks like the outdoorsy type to me, a mountain climber

I’d guess. Let’s go over and ask.

Chris Hanch 3-6-17

Famous Last Words

Famous last words: “This is the last of Earth! I am content!”

John Quincy Adams; “Wait a minute...” Pope Alexander VI;

“Am I dying, or is this my birthday?” Lady Astor; “I want

Nothing but death” Jane Austen. Now, let’s consider these

And other pithy, witty or prophetic final pronouncements.

Why is it that generally only the rich and famous, indeed

Many of the infamous as well, are quoted for that which

Is said on their deathbeds? Most common folk, the rural

Mother of five or the blue collar worker in Bismark are rarely

Afforded the privileged of having their final utterance passed

Along to the masses. And then there are those, rich and poor

Alike, those who have the misfortune of leaving this life

Suddenly without warning. I can imagine looking up at the

Streaking asteroid fireball falling from the sky, or being fatally

Stricken by a massive cardiac infarction. Could be the oncoming

Bus aimed at me which happens to be the last thing I see. What

Then, with no final say on my headstone to be engraved? Perish

The thought (literally)! Lest we forget, Nature has erased myriad

Species from the face of this Earth numerous times in her 4.6

Billion year history. And it is only a matter of time before another

Devastating calamity of global proportions happens again. In

Preparation for the possibilities, whether indicated by fate or

Accident, I submit this, for recorded history, my last testament

For all to see. In advance, I leave the only world and life I have

Ever known with these finals words--”Oh my God, will you look

At that…!” To you, my friend, I suggest the same. Before the end

Appears naturally or man-made, is actuated by accidental mishap

Or physical malady, while you’re still alive, come up with some-

Thing simply profound to say (preferably short and to the point).

And by chance you should survive today, write something down

Anyway. Should you be pressed for time, take a selfie with your

Smart phone. Photos are still worth...Well, you know. Then by all

Means, carry on.

Chris Hanch 3-5-17

Consider This

There are days (and I would say most of our days) when

little or no attention is paid to things many of us may take for

granted. There is such a case to be made for the common

shoelace, that simple string so many of us bend over to tie

or untie in our routine comings and goings day after day.

Oh sure, when one breaks unexpectedly it frustrates and

angers us because that often happens when we’re in a rush

to get somewhere—to work or play, off to an important

appointment we’ve made. Now consider this—there are

those, a woman for instance, who slips into her clogs or

high heels, lace-less; the barefoot boy who walks all day

shoe-less across the sun-baked African plain, lace-free;

the old man who hobbles around the house in slippers

going nowhere in particular every day, sans-laces; that

casual guy who prefers loafers or cowboy boots as his

footwear style, lace-unbound. Indeed, day after day.

In our world of wonderment, of purpose and strife, we walk

with those of our own species who may explain away the ne-

cessity for laces. Those neatly-tied devices, securely bowed

or suddenly snapped in half when there are places to go, for

the trouble-free some among us, shoelaces mean absolutely
nothing.

Chris Hanch 3-4-17

A Plan to be Made

Here I go again. This happens to me

Each and every morning I sit cozy in

My recliner to breathe a sigh of relief.

There is so much I could do today had

I a rightful mind to, should my flabby

Will somehow propel me into meaning-

Ful and productive action, should I sud-

Denly choose to rise, to lift a finger and

Grab the bull of progress and change by

The horns. Sure, there is house cleaning

And laundry to be done. There are over-

Due bills to be paid, not to mention those

Proverbial best laid plans of mice and

Men to be made. As I sit here listlessly

In my easy chair with the early March

Morning furnace whirring, I find myself

In the 7 AM hour, waiting and wonder-

Ing what on Earth is to come, the next

Purposeful thing in my life which needs

To be done? Will this be that momentous

Day of the fateful asteroid strike which

Will negate any designs I have made, or

Is this merely another one of those irrita-

Ting Ground Hog Days which repeats itself

Over and over again? I have at this very

Moment decided to write about this perplex-

Ing situation I face each and every day. And

Should this bit of literature I write be read

By you at some point in time, you will surely

Understand that it all worked out for me. And

At least in the here and now, I am fine. But

For safety sake, let’s synchronize our watches,

And check in again with one another at 0800

Hours…tomorrow that is. For today at least,

Plans have already been made.

Chris Hanch 3-3-17