Poetry, You and I Sometimes

Think of yourself as a living poem of sorts

with words which sometimes rhyme. It is not

necessary that they do, mind you, but such a

condition can be quite appropriate on certain

occasions.

You are, however, a cleaver turn of phrase some

days even if you do say so yourself. You may

have the tendency to prattle on using vague or

obtuse imagery few will comprehend...Esoteric,

isn’t that the way poetry is meant to be perceived?

Let’s say you have a choice in being the kind of

poem you’d prefer to be—sonnet, limerick, elegy,

sestina, haiku—to name a few. “Free Verse” seems

suitable for me, as the lifestyle I have lived appears

to have been written without rhyme or reason.

Some might say, without defining a specific and

intentional direction, my life often wanders all over

the place. In any case, I would aptly title my piece

“Untitled” to achieve a modicum of uniformity,

hopefully lessening some of the chaos and confusion.

Chris Hanch 9-30-17

As for Me

I have never been one who has

been attracted to or thrilled by

high places or excessive speed.

You can have your cliff-hanging

and twisted roller-coaster rides

should you please.

I, myself, prefer a leisurely stroll

as I find my feet securely planted

on terra firma.

You can keep your salt-flat and drag-

strip breakneck speed. Descend if you

wish, diving into the briney deep.

I am content watching all these from

the sidelines of my scrutiny. No, no,

none of those daredevil stunts for me.

I am best suited listening to a calm

Beethoven sonata on the stereo or

reading aSteinbeck novel at home.

Carefully calculated low-impact

lethargy is is more my speed. In fact,

when it comes to mind, I find it a

stunning feat of bravery just standing

on my own two feet as I, with bold

intention, breathe in and out.

Chris Hanch 9-29-17

Who Knows?

Who knows, perhaps tomorrow

Shall be the tomorrow I no longer care.

Could be, you know…. Tomorrow.

Who knows? There will come a time,

And possibly could be later on today.

Chris Hanch 9-28-17

That Which is Done

Thinking about people who have something to do,

about early morning folks engaged in drive time,

about the busy bodies embroiled in the business

of earning their way, they who know the assigned

to get something done. Winners and losers too,

I consider you. There are markets to be shopped

and consumed. Movers, shakers, mindful deliber-

tors, procrastinators, innovators, those who dig,

scrape, shape and create. And let us not mimimize

the slick, sharp and wise who jiggle, juggle and

twist to facilitate a proper fit. There are the many

and the few who comprehend or haven’t got a clue.

You can include the likes of me in there somewhere.

I reside out of sight, thoughtfully planted in my chair

trying to pluck ripened thoughts of consequence out

of thin air. I can find a rhyme for this my place in

time, but there are no words, nothing I can either do

or say which will make the whisker-white of my old
age go away. That which is done is done.

Chris Hanch 9-26-17

Regrets

Oh, what a mistake we have made in turning

over the greatness of our Nation to the petty,

self-aggrandizing ideals of a man with small

hands and sniveling trifle of a mind to match.

Chris Hanch 9-25-17

Take a Knee

Take a knee, my son, take a knee for all

the inequities, for the improprieties in

our society.

Oppose the prejudices inflicted upon those

of another race, color or creed. Before God

and country for all to see, my son, take a knee.

Take a knee, my son, defy and decry the

discriminatory injustices done. Take a knee,

my son, take a knee.

Remain true and strong for human rights. Honor

liberty, justice and dignity for all…Take a knee,

my son, take a knee.

I too will take a stand kneeling beside you.

Chris Hanch 9-24-17

Statement of Unity

I applaud and stand by Stephen Curry, Labron James and Colin Kaepernick for their rebuke and criticism of Donald Trump for his blatant disrespect of the 1st Amendment, and divisive admonishment of citizens' right to speak and act out against prejudice and injustices in our American society today.

Chris Hanch 9-23-17 

Some Nerve

Something has struck a nerve with me today

“You certainly have your nerve,” some folks

will scowl and say. But which nerve is it? I

have so many cluttering my composition to

claim. Fortunately, for both you and me, in my

lifetime, the alcohol which I thus far consumed

has intoxicated and summarily flushed a good

deal of my nerves away. And each day as I age,

I am burdened with fewer and fewer of those

dadgum critters which to blame. One which strikes

my waning memory at this particular moment in

time is the one which had been previously assigned

to remember your name.

Chris Hanch 9-23-17

Do, Did, Done

I have done what I have done

and thus my world had begun.

I did that which I did, and what

I did is done.

Do, did, done.

I shall continue to do what is

meant for me to do. What on

Earth shall become of that

which has never been done?

Do, did, done.

What pray tell is left undone?

Sunshine, a thing of wonder,

I trust, as yet another new day
has begun.

Chris Hanch 9-22-17

In Defense of Photography

My first wife often wondered out loud,

“Why would you take photographs of people

you don’t know? And what’s with those

graveyard headstones? I’ve seen thousands

of sunsets on my own. They all look pretty

much the same as yours.” My second wife

would nonchalantly thumb through my album

and say, “That’s nice, but I could have found

far better things to do with all the time and

money you’ve spent.” The first wife and I

parted ways more than thirty-years ago; the

second wife passed away, I’m sad to say. I

never married again, figuring I wasn’t all that

agreeable at getting along in the first place.

Here’s a picture I took of a chimney sweep

on a trip to Germany in 1977. That was over

40-years ago. Captured on film in his prime

here, he remains unaffected by age, and still

continues to smile today. Hell, I’ve gone through

two wives and half a dozen automobiles since then.

Chris Hanch 9-18-17

True North

Those who believe are told if they wait long enough

a Second Coming will arrive. Many folks have been

disillusioned. I can name almost a thousand of them

I have known personally.

Our parents, with good intention, made promises which

were never kept. Many, even though wished upon a star,

remained dreams which never came true. One of a certain

age could rightfully blame Walt Disney for animating

such hopeful fantasies.

The needle on the moral compass I have relied upon most

of my life points toward Magnetic North. I can’t pinpoint

exactly where, but True North lies to the left or the right
somewhere over there.

Chris Hanch 9-17-17

Conformity

While swimming close to shore, a shark

bites off your right leg. He was hungry,

what else was he supposed to do? You

were the one who ventured out a bit

too far into the water. Your step is now

irregular, and what to do now with that

extra shoe? So you decide to swim into

the surf again. In order to even things

out, you offer up the other leg. The shark

didn’t much care for the taste of leg, and

he goes for your left arm instead. Great!

First there was a problem with a useless

extra right shoe, and now this, a left-hand

glove which no longer finds a fit. It does

explain, however, why you toppled over

onto your face at the starting blocks, coming

in dead last at three-thousand metres steeple

chase. It’s Saturday, and reluctantly you decide

to take up oil painting instead. At first it feels

awkward holding the brush in your right hand.

Chris Hanch 9-13-17

Game Played

Had my son become a professional

ball player, say a first baseman for

the Yankees or the Braves, he may

have had a lengthy career of, oh let’s

say 20-years. His lifetime batting

average could conceivably be .286

which is decent in any league for a

player of his stature and duration.

Who knows, had he had a hitting

streak of 57-consecutive games, he

may have held the record, and been

inducted into the Cooperstown Hall

of Fame. Had my son become a

ballplayer instead of a teacher which

he is today, At age 50-plus he would

have been retired for more than 10

years. While watching a game on TV

the other night this thought came to

me—Damn! How old does that make

me? By the way, the hometown Royals

lost embarrasingly to the White Sox

eleven to three. And even though my

son makes an old man out of me, I’m

grateful he chose teaching as a profes-

sion. He can easily play that game for

many more years to come. As for me,

a few more seasons, albeit benched on
the disabled list, would suit me just fine.

Chris Hanch 9-11-17

Silence in Blue

Such a simple-seeming thing

But rarely worth mentioning—

Deep blue sky in the morning,

September,

The hand I raise in front of my face.

A black crow gliding before my eyes.

For now, in this moment, not a sound.

Chris Hanch 9-11-17

A Matter of Degree

Had I better grades in my younger schooling days,

I may have become a physician or perhaps an

attorney. Had my GPA been of a higher grade, and

had I either the funding or a scholarship award, I

may rightfully boast of a prestigious graduate degree.

But alas, those lofty career and scholastic avenues were

not afforded me. However, in the Army during my late

teens, I did manage to pass a number of tests and earn

my high school GED. At the time, that and a natural

talent for art proved good enough to get me by. And,

to my surprise, I have thus far managed to survive the

roller coaster ride which (with all its ups and downs)

has formed the essence of my life. Of course, given the

hit and miss nature of making ones way along the span

of an unbroken 70-year life’s chain, today I can breathe

easily with a sigh of relief. At birth, had I instead been

endowed with wings and a protuberant beak, only as a

flightless Kakapo parrot could I have possibly lived as

long. But not in captivity, mind you, the stress of that

and some high-flung academic degree would have most

certainly proven to be a bit too much for me.

Chris Hanch 9-10-17

Evolution?

What if the telescope had preceded the wheel?

And what if Columbus stayed at home and

took up painting instead? Had Pangaea held

together in one piece, would you be harvesting

a rice paddy in your backyard today? Say we

humans retained a prehensile tail...would earth

have rooted enough trees from which we all

could swing unimpeded? Paleontologists tell

us that life as we have come to know it may

have developed differently had the dinosaurs

survived that Chicxulub asteroid thing. I don’t

know about you, but I have this feeling that

new hair growth from the ears and nose as we

age is a developmental sign of ominous things

to come.

I won’t even bother getting into the bullets, bombs

and climate change debacles.

Chris Hanch 9-9-17  

Four

Four. I rarely think about the number four.

When I was three, I’m pretty sure as my

next birthday approached, four may have

crossed my mind. But back then, four meant

as little to me as three. I have few memories

of being one or two. Those were not milestones

in my young life to even consider. At four, I

I’m sure I wanted more. I had a Roy Rogers’

hat, a Hopalong Cassidy cap gun, and most

likely I figured that a horse like Trigger would

complete me. I attended Ding Dong School

on weekdays with Miss Frances on TV. I had

no idea as to what being a Baby Boomer had

in store for me, let alone where I would be some

sixty-six years later. Drinking coffee and writing

Poetry in the morning? Why at four, I’d have to

wait four more years for Captain Kangaroo to

debut on TV. Hell, back then I hadn’t even the

slightest clue as to the meaning of “debut.” It

would still be a few years until I would discover

that saying “hell” would get me into trouble. At

seventy-years, after the life I have thus far survived,

a hell of a lot stronger language than that is to be

expected. At four, I certainly couldn’t have imagined

that this f***ing hip of mine would give out on me.

Chris Hanch 9-8-17

War and Peace

War and Peace

As a child, a friend of mine had an army of lead

soldiers. When he was tired of the same battles

over and over, he would melt them down and start

all over again. This was child’s play, and I believed

it would be cool if all wars could be fought this way.

More troops, he would say. Winning wars is pretty

much a numbers game.

Days after Christmas, after all the gifts had been

given, after the festive family gathering, when the

tree had been stripped of its lights and ornaments,

and set on the curbside to be hauled away, my friend

would remove all the tinsel, which back then was

made from lead.

Each new year for him began with legions of freshly

moulded soldiers made ready for battle from lead icicles

which had just a few days before hung sparkling from

fragrant spruce branches over a serene nativity scene.

And at the center of it all, a plaster baby Jesus with

welcoming arms outstretched to the world as a sign of

joy and peace.

Tinsel in this day and age is made from synthetic

material. War, however, real or imagined, remains

pretty much the same—Melt ‘em down, remould,

over and over again. A passive plaster Baby Jesus at

Christmastime is a nice touch should you happen to

be a person of faith.

Chris Hanch 9-7-17

Time Zone

Let’s say you live in Seattle

(a fine place considering all

the rain). There is a carpenter

in Taipei, half a world away.

It’s nighttime for you and

for him, sunrise and the

beginning of another day.

By hand, he, that industrious

carpenter in Taipei, is nailing

board after board into place.

Some nails bend when driven

in but halfway. He uses the

claw-end of his tool to pry

up the failed attempt, and

begins hammering again

and again. How in hell are

you, an accountant in Seattle,

supposed to get any sleep tonight?

A second look at the alarm clock

on your nightstand reminds you,

2:30 AM, Pacific Standard Time.

Come to think of it, perhaps it was
Mumbai?...2:31.

2:31

Chris Hanch 9-5-17 

This One's About You

Let’s say today we make this poem about you, about

something of substance you may have planned, about

something simple or outstanding which has occupied

your mind for quite some time.

You have always wanted to take a cruise overseas and

and see how far that Tower at Pisa can lean. You bought

those supplies some time ago, and now seems the perfect

time for that masterpiece you’ve been meaning to paint.

Mow the lawn, mend that fence. Stretch out on the ham-

mock by the lake and yawn. Remember, I have said just

about all I can about me. Today, this is about you. Call or

text me, post any activity on your Facebook wall when

you’re done. I need something of interest to write about,

even if it’s a lie: You can sing a song of sixpence, a pocket

full of rye...Tell me, how in hell could anyone in their right

mind possible bake four and twenty blackbirds in a pie?

Even to a kid, that just sounds silly.

Chris Hanch 9-4-17 

Mr. Nice Guy

Mr. Nice Guy

I have been accused once or twice in my life

of being a people-pleaser. Looking back on

that particular characteristic of my personality,

I should rightfully ask: would I have married

the women to whom I was attracted at the time

had I not, for the most part, been pleasant to them?

Could I have landed or maintained those jobs for

which I applied and performed capably had I not

in some way pleased those who held sway over

me? Would I have received those promotions in

the military and in business had I been obstinate

and harshly opinionated? I think not. I suppose

that there are worse things to be called. No one

as of yet has had the audacity to step too far over

the line of acceptability I have drawn. I do, how-

ever, give fair warning to those who mistakenly

misconstrue my often calm and affable demeanor

in an attempt to merely placate and appease. No

more Mr. Nice Guy—for rather than having your ass

kissed, you could be in for the painfully disturbing

prospect of a sound ass-whopping instead. (Being in

the aging and infirmed state I find myself, an obnoxious

tongue-lashing would have to suffice {if that's okay?}.) 

Chris Hanch 9-3-17

History in the Making

Ants have a history unwritten, they carry it

with them in every move they make. There

are not enough words to record all which

has come before, all that is in the making.

Words are but loosened feathers released on

the wind of a turning page. The flood of tears

which has rained down can never wash away

or drown the grief of loss we endure each day.

The pundits say, time is awasting; I say time

itself, every ticking second of it, is etched

indelibly into our faces. There are not enough

words to account for all which has happened.

No wonder we curse, trying our best to explain.

Every ants know this—their work, their illustrious

history continues silently and uninterrupted to this

very day.

Chris Hanch 9-1-17