Why Me?

Is it because I am not of sound mind

or solid body? Could it be that I’m

grubby and haven’t bathed in weeks?

Why, I ask, would you want to take a

picture of me? Is it because I am so

obnoxiously different from others on

this street, not having a job, a wife or

a decent place to sleep? Why me,

because I’m cold, hungry and alone,

staggering on my feet? Do the scars

on my face freighten you, make you

nauseous, make you wonder how this

embittered life of mine came to be?

Why in God’s name or hellfire’s

eternal damnation would you want to

take a picture of me? Could it be because

I’m a little white, a little black, part Hispanic,

a Native American half breed, unfit to fit

suitably into respectable society? Por favor,

Man, think you might spare some change

so’s I can get me something to eat?

Yes!

Chris Hanch 10-31-17

Had I Been

Had I been a machinist who retired from

the factory after forty years, had I been

married to the same woman for fifty, had

the home and neighborhood in which

I live been the only place in adulthood I

have ever known, had I grown from a young

man to old mowing the grass on Saturdays

and attending church services on Sundays,

I would, in all likelihood, be a far different

person than he who has been described in

the aforementioned above. You can call

me Bob or Fred, Sam or Jim. I am neither

nor any of them. I have never ever in this

hodgepodge lifetime of mine, or in any other

I can recall, worn a name tag embroidered

with my name.

Chris Hanch 10-30-17 

Vessel of Life

I sit and watch, I wait.

The Vessel of Life, once so filled

with longing and hope

rests on the shelf of time,

tenuously suspended at the edge.

I sit and watch, I wait.

Time has escaped, evaporated,

leaving the residue of memories

behind. Alas, the wellspring of youth

and all its possibilities has run dry.

I sit and watch, I wait,

mindful of the cracking of age

and fading which has taken place.

Woefully, there is this fateful mortality

one is forced to face.

The once vital and vibrant Vessel of Life

teeters precariously on the enevitable

edge of eternity. Bound by time and

gravity, its destiny is to fall and break.

And with a last gasp of helplessness…

I sit and watch, I wait.

Chris Hanch 10-29-17

Praise Be

Bob Marley is responsible for the reggae

I hear playing in my head. If it weren’t for

Newton and Einstein, I would not understand

the gravity of my situation. Could be that

Salk kept me walking polio-free through his

vaccine discovery. Ford and Firestone, given

their ingenuity, propel me along the paved

highways and byways of life. Beethoven

revolutionized my concept of symphonic melodies

as Picasso allowed me to envision life a bit more

cubistically. (Not every line is flat, and I’ve found

that not every circle is perfectly round.) Credit is

due to Maya Angelou for arranging her literary lines,

creating poetic imagery without the need to rhyme.

And praise be to Greenwich Mean Time which with

accuracy has kept me on course with punctuality.

Indeed, where on Earth would I be after seventy

some years had my mother and father not survived

The Great Depression and World War Two? I could

go on and on citing countless examples, and naming

name after name. But I must say, the glowing luminosity

of stars is far too bright for answerability in my whirling

hometown Galaxy—The Milky Way. Looking up into the

brilliant nighttime sky, it gives one pause to wonder…

are things in Andromeda’s neck of the woods pretty

much the same?

Chris Hanch 10-28-17

Sound Advice

To write a lot, you must be left

alone a lot, or become

a journalist who is confronted a lot

by deadlines every day.

If you choose to be left alone a lot

such as I, having a cat or dog helps.

Had I not been left alone a lot, perhaps I

would write about what you have to say.

Day after day, month after month,

I write a lot. My dog lies around a lot

and looks up at me occasionally with

not a word to say. With a lot of time,

neither of us have deadlines to be met,

not a lot anyway, not now or any other day.

Sometimes a lot; sometimes not; mostly, at

times, I would say.

Chris Hanch 10-26-17

The Mantle of Discovery

What has happened with me has more than likely

happened to you. Even should you have lived your life

in a far away and different place. Our language of

learning may differ, and given the loss of some defining

in translation, the substance of our realities would

certainly bear some distinct similarities.

You have struggled with understanding how things

happen and why they turn out the way they do.

The thread of life weaves in and out of the complex

tapestry of humanity. And we all wear the mantle of

our experiences, the fabric of fantasies and realities,

as remarkable as it seems. Talk to me, tell me your

story and I’ll tell you mine. Here, right above the heart is

where I dropped a stitch or two and moved on. I see you

have made the same mistake, only in a different place.

Chris Hanch 10-26-17

The Morning News

The morning news fills me with

information I will not need, that

is unless the names I hear include

me. And that, my friends, is highly

unlikely.

Oh, it has happened once or twice

in my 70-plus years of life. There

was an apartment fire several months

ago, and the TV interview on the local

news which ensued.

I did get to talk about the inferno

which burned most of my possessions.

But, as fortune would have it, I did

manage to escape with my two dogs

and my life.

Then there was another time years

ago when I was featured on an expose’

about artists and their work. One might

say that that was my slice-of-life fifteen

minutes of fame.

But today, a late October, Midwestern

day, I am content that the morning TV

news does not include mention of me

in any way. As far as the print media

is concerned, I hereby humbly submit...

the absense of my name in the obituaries

is my last best claim to fame.

Chris Hanch 10-24-17

Here's to Those Who...

Here’s to that which is and that which is

not. Here’s to those lines never written,

to all the places never been. Here’s to the

failed, to those games lost or never played.

Here’s to colleges never attended, to the

fractured and the broken never repaired.

Here’s to myriad awards never received,

to books never read.

Here’s to that new car or split-ranch home

never owned, to that vegetable garden never

grown. Here’s to mountains never climbed,

to uncrossed oceans and untraveled roads.

Here’s to the chance of a lifetime blown. It’s

about what is or is not, the never had nor ever

done. Sans a nom de guerre, guilty or not,

refusing to point the finger of blame or make

a braggadocios claim. This poem is dedicated

to the haves and have not. Here’s to those who

decry accepting shame or acclaim (a skunk or a

rose by any other name). You shall ever remain…

Anonymous 

You Tell Me

Whaddaboutit...the emperor with no clothes?

Whaddaboutit...the elephant in the room?

Whaddaboutit...the outright profusion of lies,

...the rancor and bigotry,

...the narcissism and vitriolic rhetoric?

Whaddabout the racism and misogyny?

Whaddaboutit...the divisions diabolically sown in society?

Oh the travesty, the dishonoring of our Constitution

and degrading of the Presidency—a slap in the face,

the unconscionable disrespect aimed wittingly at all humanity?

Whaddaboutit, all the tweeted misspellings and sheer stupidity?

Whaddaboutit, everydisgustingandinflamatorybitofit?

You tell me.

Chris Hanch 10-22-17

Hand-Me-Down

This hand I inherited came from my mother’s gene pool,

I am sure. My fingers were more than likely given to me

by my father’s side of the family. The index finger on my

left hand is a tell-tale indicator of that for me. I used it on

my own son many times, much as my father had on me—

pointing and waving it as a baton of admonishment to

the threatening chorus of, “You’d best behave, young man,

or else...”

Fortunately, my son was blessed with two daughters, and

was spared from the affliction my father handed down to me.

Chris Hanch 10-21-17

Something to Say about Today

Today...I could begin today like so many others.

I shall again brew coffee and make my bed today.

I may bring to life thoughts of mine with what

I say as I have in days past. Today...Shall I fall

back and reflect on the past or move forward

with my words and deeds? I am of an age and

in such a place where no matter what I choose

to say or do, nothing will affect the size and

shape of the world at large. I can advance or delay

today. There are things of little or no consequence

for me and for you I could do. I am open to scrutiny

and review. It’s true that many physical and emotional

activities available to me have become more limited

by virtue of disposition, age and conditioning. Today...

For this I can either be discouraged, ambivalent or

give praise. In any case, the rising sun today has forced

me into making a decision with each and every move I

take. Stand upright, sit, stumble or crawl, bite off more

than I can chew, or mull over the wisdom of doing

absolutely nothing at all. Whatever I choose to do, I

shall try to restrain any ambitious endeavor from taking

control over my day. For a moment, I considered going

to the Walgreen's and getting a flu shot today, but more

wisely decided to pet the waggilly-tailed puppy looking

up at me so loyaly instead.

Chris Hanch 10-19-17

Confession

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…”

That’s how I was taught to begin.

Confession in the Catholic Church

on Saturdays before Mass on Sunday

was the curse I was forced to learn.

And kneeling in the confinement of

a wooden box (much like a coffin to

the dead might seem), hands folded

in reverence and praise to a God I could

not see, I would spill the beans of my

transgressions to a priest who was to

be my judge and jury. And although I

was pronounced guilty as charged of sins,

mortal and venial, I would be given abso-

lution provided that I say the requisite

penance of three Hail Marys, an Our Father,

a Glory Be, and make a sincere Act of

Contrition, begging God to forgive me.

All this superficial bunk because I had

disobeyed my parents and fought with

my brothers once or twice during the

week. I neglected to tell my confessor

priest the serious crap of which I was

guilty. I knew that he couldn’t see the

sweat pouring down my forehead

through the opaque screen positioned

between him and me. It was dark and

foreboding in that sacrificial tomb of

gloom and doom. I was fearful, however,

that with all of His power and might, God

was able to see right through me. Later,

for my newly acquired sins of omission,

I would add an extra Hail Mary to my

assigned repentance, figuring that if

anyone, surely the Blessed Mother of

God would understand.

Chris Hanch 10-18-17

Beg to Question

What happens, my friends, when there is

no longer a story to tell? And what happens

when you no longer care where I have been?

Or, should I turn my back on you when you

are near? What if we both refuse to listen,

what will happen then? Will China and

Cleveland disappear? Shall the sizzle leave

the steak? Will everything we have done

in this lifetime of ours have been judged a

mistake? Do you believe in magic? Is all of

this merely a shell game or a prestidigitator's

slight of hand? Did you awaken this morning

with the feeling that something has been left

undone? Let us end here without question—

I am sure of it. Well, pretty much.

Chris Hanch 10-15-17

On the Trail

The other day my adult son, Andy, told me of a misadventure

he had just experienced. Seems that he was bike riding several

miles away from his home. Now this nature trail was not situated

in the remote wilds of Montana’s mountainous terrain nor was

it spread out in the vast expanse of Utah’s Canyon Lands. No,

he somehow managed get turned around in a hilly and wooded

area in the suburban outskirts of Blue Springs, Missouri just a few

miles outside of Kansas City.

Before he could navigate his way back to where he began his trek,

the sun had set, and he found himself trapped and lost in total

darkness. Due to the dropoffs and undetectable ravines, my son

had to ditch his bike in the thicket, and grope cautiously along

the uncertain trail for a hour or two until he finally reached the

safety of a paved road . He flagged down a passing motorist who

graciously gave him a ride back to the reserve’s parking lot and the

safe surroundings of his own car.

My son was fearful for a time that he may have had to spend the

night alone in the woods without food, water and shelter until

daybreak came to show him the way. I couldn’t see a search party

being sent out for someone who had lost their way in a metropolitan

area. After all, it was a fair and mild autumn night, and to the best of

my reckoning, there hadn’t been a bear or cougar sighting in the area

for better than a hundred years.

I was reminded, however, that I could definitely relate to my son’s

dubious situation as I myself have been there—In the dark of night,

no matter where you are, the deep forest of uncertainty appears to

go on forever, where no trail seems to show the way home. I had to

breathe a sigh of relief as his phone call to me a few hours later told

me that he made it back to the apocryphal environs of society.

Chris Hanch 10-14-17

Leaders

This just in: Handicapped man in Akron discovers gold in

his back yard.

This just in: Hull of The Edmund Fitzgerald resurfaces in

the middle of Lake Superior—Three crewmen rescued.

This just in: Bull market collapses after reeking havoc in

Charlotte china shop.

This just in: A fifty-year old mime in Sioux Falls breaks

silence and reveals details of a worldwide conspiracy.

This just in: Woman in Kenya claims to have been born

with three fully-functioning left hands.

This just in: Missing child in Jakarta turns up unharmed,

but confused in Philadelphia school room.

This just in: Cow jumps over the moon as the dish runs

away with the spoon.

Stay tuned: Details on the Eyewitness News at 10 o’clock.

(This is what happens when you have nothing better to do.)

Chris Hanch 10-12-17

The First Day and the Last

Let’s say each day is the first day

and the last. Yesterday’s mail has

been disposed of in the trash.

The desk has been cleared and all

the chores have been done. One war

is lost, another is won.

That old barn leaned a bit too far,

and overcome by a weight too great,

it finally collapsed.

Ever wonder why some rebuild only

to wait for the next hurricane? (The

inevitable is always pending.)

You check the mail again today, and

another damn bill to pay. Yesterday

you were all caught up.

You had that old barn hauled away. It

shall always remain the first day and

the last. If not you, then who?

Always, someone will have to pay.

Chris Hanch 10-11-17

Some Praise Today

Even before I begin

I have a feeling,

just an inkling of thought

that the poem I write

today

will not reach the end

of this page,

not for lack of

wanting length

to dedicate,

but merely as

terseness comes to mind,

I realize,

word for word,

line for line

on this cool

and cloudy autumn day,

struggling as I have,

searching as I may

simply air is there,

air enough to breathe

in and out

sufficiently,

yet so few words

have made

even less to say.

This poem then is in praise

of brevity today.

Chris Hanch 10-10-17

Manipulation

Manipulate. Monet did it with paint and brush

getting scenic landscapes of France to behave

a certain way. Rodin took chisel to stone and

The Thinker was created. Manipulate. Bach

had his way with musical notes as have Paul

McCartney and Stevie Wonder. Manipulate.

Hitler evoked a genocide on the Jews in order

to perpetuate his demented views. Politicians

deceive their constituents with artfully deceptive

words they choose. Manipulate. Something we

we humans have the proclivity to do in hopes

of achieving the results we desire. You have

unwittingly become putty in my hands says the

metaphor. Manipulate. Threaten, flatter or abuse,

give me one good reason I should listen to you?

The pliers you have gripping my fingernails help.

Chris Hanch 10-9-17  

That Which Remains

I have amassed a lifetime of words,

   this library of vocabulary, a legacy of

linguistics I have saved for my old age.

   Nothing profound, nothing revelatory

left for me to say. So 70-years has

   brought me to this, reclining with mem-

ories of all these pronouns, adjectives

   and verbs swirling around—(He and She

come after You and Me.) I used to think

   I knew what I was talking about, however

now, as my Lexicon of Livelihood continues

   to recede, I have but this which remains—

Remember me, if you please.

   Turn out the lights, and don't slam the door

when you leave.

Chris Hanch 10-8-17