Left Hand Creek

Trump, his bigotry and indignities, his rank stupidity…

Congress, their partisanship, ineptitude and deficiencies…

Threats on our Constitutional liberties…

Old age and waning mobility happening to me...

I shall not allow these to disrupt, disturb or distress

the tranquility and peace I remember so well

glowing gold and crimson in the Autumn of my years

growing and flowing along the banks of Left Hand Creek.

Chris Hanch 11-30-17

A Classic Revenge

Remember in Moby Dick when the Great White Whale

was peacefully grazing on krill and plankton? No, of

course you don’t. Melville never mentioned it, but one

could easily assumed that Moby, as with most whales,

spent a good deal of his time feeding. Luring Ahab into yet

another confrontation was only part of the story. Anyway,

the vengeful ending for the captain of the Pequad was

not pretty, at least if you consider Ishmael’s personal

accounting of the incident as factual. Face it, you couldn’t

care less about what your neighbor had for breakfast,

lunch or dinner, But as far as you’re concerned, a good

reckoning may be called for when he plays his music too

loud late at night. You strap on your wooden leg, grab the

harpoon sitting in the corner, and hobble unevenly toward

the front door…

Chris Hanch 11-28-17

Who's to Decide?

The crow never gives flight a second thought

as the field mouse carries the grain away without

suffering and pain. The baby is coochie-cooed

to illicit a smile. This may be the day you decide

to delight the neighbors with that pumpkin pie

you’ve thought of baking. Get over it, there’s no

convincing Caesar to turn around; the Rubicon

was crossed centuries ago. And yesterday has

long since been relegated to the trash-heap of

history. Why on Earth should I even bother to

write a poem which begins with a crow and a

mouse? Because when I sat down to write this

morning, those images were the first which

randomly came to mind. Likewise, you may

decide that apple pie would be preferred over

pumpkin. The die was cast for old Julius long

ago. You and I are still alive and left here to

decide. I for one prefer apple over pumpkin.

And you’re not the one writing this poem. So

go ahead, do as you wish, and leave me be.

Perhaps we can both agree, doesn’t tickling a

baby seems like a damn good and amusing idea?

And too, I find that a historical reference helps

to add some perspective. But pie?...

Chris Hanch 11-27-17   

Yet Another Day, I Pray

Today, ah today for safe passage I pray,

through time even though I have no place

in particular to go. No fires out of control,

I pray this day; no tornadic winds to level

these walls. May the plumbed pipes under

pressure remain contained. And from room

to room may I roam without fear of falls,

contusions or fractured bones. May my two

pups nap sans distress or upheavals as

well today. Ah, today, for safe passage

through time, I pray. And to sleep well

tonight, awakening on the morrow, fraught

more than likely with constipation and a

few more aches and pains; yet another day

advancing me once again into the rickety

confines of old age pretty much the same.

Chris Hanch 11-26-17

Child's Play

As a child I remember playing war with my battalions

of toy soldiers. There were some baby-boomers my age

who did the same. Most of our fathers had served in the

military during World War II and Korea. And what red

blooded American boy child didn’t want to grow up to

be just like dad?

Had I been native to Germany or Japan, I’m petty sure I

would have chosen a more passive profession to admire.

No child wants to be on the loosing side. And lets face it,

kids my age had not yet developed a more mature and

realistic outlook on the terrifying realities of war.

Anyway, with all my romanticized fantasies of life in the

military, I enlisted in the Army at the naive and tender age

of seventeen. I managed to make it through the intense rigors

of basic training at Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri. And after

advanced training in personnel management, I was shipped

overseas to Germany and my first permanent duty station.

It was early 1965, and as it turned out I was one lucky guy

having been assigned to a unit in Europe rather than to one in

Southeast Asia. As history now shows, by 1973 more than

50,000 American lives were to be lost in the Vietnam War.

Granted, my unit, the 14^th Armored Cavalry, was in a Cold

War stand-off with the Soviet Bloc. And while militarily

posted as a deterrent to Communist aggression, our duty

to God and Country, for most of us, turned out to be a far

less fatal game.

For me, and many other GIs stationed in the European theater

at that time, saluting passing officers, typing unit orders, sub-

mitting daily Morning Reports, drinking beer and dancing with

frauleins on the economy, and keeping one’s hands out of your

pockets while on duty, turned out to be a lot less perilous and

stressful than Vietnam or our father’s wars before us, more like

child’s play of my youthful days, only in uniform, I’d say.

Chris Hanch 11-25-17

A Simple Thanksgiving Thought.

Sometimes it’s a simple thought which

gets you through. Think of all the things

you do. Very few are recognized for

brushing their teeth or tying a shoe.

Mow the lawn a million times and still

the grass keeps growing. The world is

wild with ideas, many of which are

never revealed. This is your life and

you have learned to know only what

you know. Remember the time when

you did or almost did. Does it matter,

does it count? Who’s keeping a record

of the deeds? There is an imbalance on

this ledger of life we live. One day you’re

in the red; the next day in the black. Even

you tire of keeping track. You owe; you

have paid the debt. You give a small

portion of your earnings to UNICEF so

that a needy child in Africa gets a bowl

of rice and is inoculated against a dreaded

disease. You remain anonymous, yet a

nameless child in Malawi is fed. Such a

simple-seeming yet grand gesture. Tonight,

with a thought such as this you close your

eyes and fall asleep knowing, in an imbalanced

world such as this, in the most hidden and

unseen places, because of you there is a

Thanksgiving feast shared everyday.

Chris Hanch 11-23-17

A Bolt Out of the Blue

There is this spark of energy which runs

through you, not unlike a thunderstorm's

sudden bolt of lightning seen not directly,

but as a brilliant flash off to the side. We

are indeed electrically charged creatures

where turbulence stirs constantly in the

hinterlands of our existence. Ever had an

idea, a thought which came with such

a great and sudden strike of enlightenment

that the thunder of understanding didn’t

reach you until seconds later? And all this

came on a day when there was no forecast,

not even the slightest hint of rain.

Chris Hanch 11-22-17

A Plea of Guilty

Have you ever considered committing a crime

no one will ever solve? Could be that you

already have. Come to think of it, a stint in

prison may be too good for the likes of you

and me. I tend to use “me” in many of my

poems because I am guilty. And I hope you

understand that I am writing these lines so

that someone will find me. Next time slip a

file into the pie you bring on visitor’s day.

Chris Hanch 11-20-17

Questions?

The raccoon lives his life knowing nothing

but the truth. The sycamore has no reason

to doubt the wind. The earth whirls all around

us and we become believers. The son refuses

to tell his parents the whole story. Why is it

the butcher asked forgiveness on his death bed?

We take for granted that our lives had a plan to

begin with, and soon learn that answers to our

questions demand a price to be paid. I cannot

say for sure what attracted me to red roses in the

first place. As a child I recall my father handing

my mother a bouquet of American Beauties on

Valentine’s day. Days later she sat my brothers

and me down to tell us she had filed for a divorce.

In a week’s time those roses withered, losing their

luster, and were thrown in the trash. As a child

I wondered, why do so many of our prayers go

unanswered? Why do red roses tell us lies?

Chris Hanch 11-18-17 

The Way Things Are

It seems that it is the duty of each generation

to explain to each succeeding generation how

things have changed. It used to snow a hell of

a lot more back in the day. Why, when I was a

child, I had to walk miles to school and back

home every day. What’s more, it was up hill

both ways. My mother would wash my mouth

out with soap had I said some of the things you

kids say today. Nowadays it seems more likely

and appropriate that we encourage our children

to follow the example set by our elected officials:

Be a bully, defy the rules of common decency,

promote yourself and demean others who dis-

agree with you. Be disrespectful of women,

the disabled and the less fortunate. Grab all the

p***y, fame and fortune you can. Lie, cheat and

steal, divide. You too, my child, can become President
of the United States of America…

Go ahead, build that wall! Lock her up!—Only you
can Make America Great Again!

Chris Hanch 11-17-17

Something Unexpected Today

Should something unexpected happen today,

it would more than likely happen in this poem.

There, I’ve said it, and now I’m committed in

writing here to perform. Poetry for me is a

thought at first, perhaps just a single word,

and then popcorn kernels start popping, onions,

are peeled as layer upon layer is revealed, rose

buds yesterday bloom into fragrant blossoms

today. Something I sense is about to happen

today, a simple word to begin and a simple

word to end and in the middle, some magical,

abracadabra, rabbit pulled from the hat.

Who can say? See, there is nothing up my sleeves.

Chris Hanch 11-14-17

Knowing Only That Which You Know

The archer takes aim hoping the arrow hits its mark.

The general moves his battalion of tanks into position.

The 8^th grader refused to do the homework assigned

him the day before. We awaken each morning with

an unsolved problem lingering on the mind. The

left foot screams that the awkward shoe is meant to

be worn on the right. Your dog scoots his rear end

across the carpet in the living room. That action was

passed down to him instinctively through thousand

of years of canine history. You have managed to live

through seventy years of life. History tells you that

accuracy and repetition, even the best laid plans are

not guarantees that the species will survive. A steady

autumn rain continues to fall. You grab your umbrella

on the way out the door.

Chris Hanch      

Life's Recipe

My life includes some of the best recipes

as well as those which may be considered

less than choice or tasty. I am the chef of

cuisine, baking deliciously in the ovens of

my dreams. Over time, I have selected

scraps and pieces which were less than

prime, while artfully seasoning that which

by some standards may be considered not

so appetizing and savory. Along the way,

I have acquired a taste for the bitter and the

sweet, dabbing a dollop or two of butter or

cream to enrich most any fare. It doesn’t

take a lot to make this life of mine seem

more palatable. I carefully measure my

spices mostly by the teaspoon, you see,

while using a pinch of this and a dash of

that to season my dishes more appetizingly.

And often, I’ll pound repeatedly with fierce

intensity to tenderize life’s toughest cuts of

meat. Has anyone left room for dessert?

Chris Hanch 11-11-17    

Lifetime Mysteries

After a life not so kind, mostly brought on

by a deep depression of the mind, and having

to deal with three sons birthed one after one,

my mother died at age fifty-nine. (Adding to

her melancholia, The Great Depression and

World War Two turned out to be a few more

bitter bites for her to chew.) My father, her

knight in shinning armor at first, proved to be

a lot less stellar than she expected him to be.

This story has been re-told over and over again

in the post-war dreamworld of our society—

white picket-fenced houses in the suburbs, and

new cars parked in every garage. Leave it to

Beaver family lives being lived from sea-to-

shining-sea. I got to thinking about my own life,

befuddling and conflicted at times with that

insidious strain of depression my mother and

father passed along to me genetically. Today,

I am seventy-years of age, and my two brothers

are seventy-one and sixty nine respectively.

Were she alive today, our mother would be some-

where in the neighborhood of ninety-three. I am

sure she would be questioning how it is that her

three sons have thus far managed to survive. In

reality, it is I who has been doing that wondering

on her behalf. For several decades now, mother

has been far beyond questioning one of those

venial varieties of lifetime mysteries. At my age
and in my lifetime there is no end to the wondering.

Chris Hanch 11-10-17

Arguably, This or That?

If not this, it would have been that.

Had it not been the hip then more than likely

the knee. This could be a case of either or—

if not the bird than possibly the bee.

Arguably, if not Italian, it may then perhaps

have its origins in Greece.

If not up, then down. A turn to the left or to

the right will make the difference between

loose or tight. May have been planned, or on

the other hand, without any rhyme to the

reasoning. Consider the implausible, face the

reality, had it not been you, with a degree

of certainty, it may have been me. Then again,

could have been the other guy, the tall one

or the short, the lean one or the fat.

It is with this fundamental premise I state

my case, right or wrong, had it not been this,

then most assuredly, it had to be that.

I suppose, hypothetically, it could be neither,

but what are the odds of that?

Chris Hanch 11-9-17

My How Time Flies

This November my daughter will turn forty-eight.

And in the same month, fifty-three years ago, I will

have entered the Army at seventeen years of age. In

December my son will usher in his fifty-first year.

My kids are busy at work chasing me around the

calendars which are rapidly sailing by. For now,

at least, I shall remain in the lead of our lifetime

regatta. I can see them now astern on the horizon.

I shall trim the mainsail and tack starboard for

awhile. And when they get close enough to see

my face, I shall smile at them, and yell out in a

gravely voice, “Avast, Mateys!” Then, I’ll hoist

my sail full mast, and give ‘er all she’s got...”Arr!”

My kids will then remind me that we live in the

Midwest and are from a long line of landlubbers.

Besides, you were in the Army, Dad, not the Navy.”

“Okay then,” I’ll tell them, “Mount up! Last one to

the mess hall gets to spend a night in the brig...Arr!”

(I just love it when I get to mix my metaphors.)

Chris Hanch 1-8-17

A Case to be Made

Some will say it began with the index finger,

but it appears that this may be a bogus

assertion to claim. However, the feet we know,

did do what they were told as both of them

rested compliantly in place. At the time, the

appetite, it was said, arose from within and

demanded to be fed. Eventually, the rest of

the body submitted and laid down to rest.

The lone finger got all the others, the arms

and legs, instigated every moving part of the

body to comply in unison, lifting the blanket

up to cover the victim who then rolled over

and fell asleep. Now who is responsible, which

part of the anatomy is to blame? Although never

actually witnessed first hand by anyone, may it

please the court, we the prosecution find, while
scientifically plausible (albeit wholly circumstantial),

a natural act such as this, with a convincing

degree of certainty was not perpetrated by the
index finger, but points to the brain. It says, I
want, I need, and every able-bodied member
is sworn to obey.

Chris Hanch 11-7-17

This Life of Mine

With all

which has

been lost,

with all

which was

discarded

and left

behind,

with all

which was,

each and

everything

which is

no more,

is this life

of mine

not now,

but that

which was

before.

No more,

No more,

this life

of mine

not now,

but that

which was

before.

Chris Hanch 11-5-15

A Thought or Two for Today

A Thought or Two for Today

Got to thinking this somber gray 4^th day of November

in the year 2017—Had Mark Twain the technology 150

years ago that I have now, he may not have told us what

it was like Following the Equarter. We may have never

learned from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckle-

berry Finn. Had he the Internet, he may have been satisfied

staying at home, and never venturing out West to Nevada

and California. Then, Roughing It and The Celebrated Frog

of Calaveras County would have never leapt into our lives.

Had he a smart phone, instead of penning The Innocence

Abroad, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court

and Pudd’nhead Wilson, he may have decided to tell his

stories verbally and undocumented from the comfort of

his own home. Think of those and so much more he left

for future generations of readers to explore. Had he GPS,

he may have never navigated a wondrous Life on the

Mississippi, discovering fame and adopting the beloved

pen name, Mark Twain. Got to thinking, had he listened

with Bluetooth and watched cable TV incessantly, in his

day and age, what value would we place today on a name

like Samuel Clemens anyway? I do give kudos to the modest

amount of 21^st Century technology I possess today. That and

the writings of Mark Twain help to chase the overcast of this

gray November day away...Smiley-face emoji!

Chris Hanch 11-4-17 

Telephonic Technology Today

Today, I will call my son. With today’s

technological wizardry, I usually begin

with, “Where are you?” After all, with

all the telephonic mobility, he could be

almost anywhere. Even though I am

cellularly-equipped as well, he can

most assuredly assume that I am calling

him from my home, for I am unable

physically to roam very far from my usual

static and stationary place. And too, it costs

no more to call from a hundred miles away

than to communicate from next door. That’s

why I can afford to "ring" him up every day.

Oh, and by the way, that is to say, he has no

need for a phone which "rings" when a call

is made. There are programmable options

these days. You can respond to a lead-in

from your favorite tune, or some other

annoying, attention-getting noise which

alerts you to an incoming transmission.

Today, I will call my son as I do most every

day. I will begin our conversation pretty much

the same as always with, “Where are you?”

He may well tell me he’s in Timbuktu. And

what’s weird about that today, and the rapidly

advancing technology, I could possibly believe

what he’s telling me is true. One of these days

(and more than likely pretty damn soon), my

qualifying query will have to be: “Is that the

quaint bar and grill in Andover, Kansas or that

original ancient city in Mali, Africa?”

Chris Hanch 11-3-17

Imagining

Your very thoughts, sometimes it is

the words you choose to use, and

often your actions which create the

new worlds in which you live. You

are surrounded by the white noise

of happening. A simple thing such

as lifting a finger, putting the cup

to your lips, buttoning a blouse are

but a beginning. You remember the

horrors and joys, have retained all

the goodnesses and savageries in

the repository of the mind. And

it goes on, day after day, month

after month as the years pile on.

One day you awaken from the

dream you have already forgotten.

Kiss your loved one goodbye, and

repeat the same words you said

yesterday and the day before—

Let’s give this day another try.

It is a fool-hearty thing indeed to

imagine that nothing is happening.

On the way to work you listen to

Mendelssohn on the car radio;

Once in a while you wish you had

learned to play the violin as a child.

Chris Hanch 11-1-17