We in Need

What of the many congested in rush hour

traffic on the freeway, so many unrecognized

behind windshield and steering wheel?

What of the nonchalant and fidgety before

work standing in the Starbucks’ line? What of

the hurry and scurry world traveler types

streaming through the airport on their way in

and out? Who is it, I wonder, which one never

spoken to, who is he or she, the never known,

the rarely seen, the one who holds the precious

key to unlock life’s unresolved mystery? Given

the right place and time, given the optimal frame

of mind, could be the unnoticed man on the street,

could possibly be you. Why, hell knows, although

highly improbable, could even be me. More likely

it is the one standing alone over there with pen

in hand and at the ready from whom an autograph

has never been asked. And we, so dependent and

in need keep looking for a sign. Say, aren’t you

the one who…? Speak to me, I need some answers.

Is that you?

Chris Hanch 12-31-18

A Dream of You and Me

In my dream last night, I was me

and you were somebody familiar

to me, but not you. Dreams are

that way sometimes, an out of the

blue, all-of-a-sudden happening.

I had the deja vu feeling that I had

seen this one before. And were it a

movie, I would never pay to see it

over again. I didn’t ask for this the

first time. You know how I dislike

watching re-runs of ever kind. It

was, of course, commercial free.

So I must have paid for it some-

how initially. The theater lights

went down, I recall, and it was

definitely you sitting in the seat

next to me. I knew it was you even

though in the brightest of scenes,

I could not remember your name.

Those who analyze dreams pro-

fessionally claim that we are the

ones who play every role in the

dreams of our making. So, it was

I holding the cold hand of myself

sitting next to me. No wonder you

shall remain nameless yet familiar

seeming in my dream— Cold hand,

me holding my own. It’s kind of like

me telling this story to myself, as if

that really helps...Creepy!

Chris Hanch 12-30-18

Playing the Game

Ever consider the game of pinball?

It’s not unlike life, you know, the

helter-skelter side-to-side to side,

the frantic the ups and downs.

The next steel ball, so round and small,

the plunger shot up the chute and out

is mine, springing forward, swinging back

and forth, careening off one bumper, then

the next—bing! bing! bing! It’s a game

meant to be played, you know, that lone

steel ball left then right, up then down,

bouncing around out of control, fore-

fingers reflexively pressing the flippers,

batting it back for dear life, scoring point

after point—bing! bing! bing! This game

can be such a frustrating thing. Gravity,

my friend. It’s all about the incessant

schlepping around, trying to stay on the

field of play while on the inevitable slide

down. It’s your turn now. Remember,

keep your eye on the ball. Bat it back up

again, and again as long as you can—bing!

bing! bing! Down the chutes and another

steel ball pops up onto the ramp and out

of the gate onto mayhem’s obstacle course

again. Jostling the machine doesn’t help.

Tilt! Game over. I told you so. I did the same

damn thing myself. Oh no, but you wouldn’t

listen to me, would you? You’re not the first

one to play this game, you know.

Chris Hanch 12-29-18

auld lang syne

soothe the crying baby with an

extra hug. pick up that good

book you’ve been meaning

to read.

call the friend you haven’t

spoken to in years.

pull an extra blanket down

from the closet. it’s going to be

a long cold winter.

send the money you got for

your birthday to the charity

in need. good deeds need to

be done.

you have become the chosen one,

the doer who gets things done.

no time to waste, my friend.

don’t fritter the goodness of

your nature away.

there is still some comfort

left in that moth-eaten blanket.

a kindness is the worthiness

which warms the naked.

and remember, every day a

new year begins.

Chris Hanch 12-28-18

On Second Thought

On Second Thought

Sometimes we distract our minds. Humans are

uniquely adept at that. It is with this notion we

allay or ignore the unsavory or inevitable. No

other creature on the planet is able to distract

from the reality at hand. By nature, instinct,

science tells us, the dog and the cat go about

their day in perfectly predictable ways—eat,

sleep, play, face the intruder or prey with a

vengeance or wisely turn and run away. There

is no thought of tomorrow or the future and

what it may bring; today is their focus, the one

and only thing. As for me, my place surely could

use a good cleaning, and some rearranging would

be nice. I’ve got all these grandiose ideas saved

for another day. I’ll make a note to self, or better yet,

I’ll have Siri remind me later in the week. Today,

cloudy and gray, binging on episodes of Twilight Zone

and cat-napping in between the scenes seems a more

appealing way. Siri, turn to the Sci-fi channel, please.

What the hell, it’s New Year’s Day, and certainly

I deserve a break.

Chris Hanch 12-27-18

A Day in a Life

What to say, the passing of yet another

Christmas Day. I’m thinking about all

those I have known who passed before

me, some much younger than I. So then,

this is not about Christmas at all, but

another minute measure of a day in a

life, some joyful as a tree decked with

ornaments and lights, Others deep as

the ocean of memories which live on

as some of us are gifted to do. Surprise

again today, I open my eyes. We shall

see in a week if a New Year arrives.

Chris Hanch 12-25-18

As I Have Come to See It (for Consuella)

Here is the way I have come to see it: All

the riches in the world would have likely done

me no good anyway. In life, I have admired

the likes of Gandhi, Mandela, Martin Luther

King Jr., Bobby and Cesar as the decent

warriors for humanity they were. As I see it,

Jesus was an admirable man for his simplicity

and meager means. (One robe of a simple cloth

and sandal-strapped feet would have been good

enough for me.) And then there was Francis of

Assisi and Mother Teresa, of course, and many

more who remain nameless to history. As for me,

one of billions who shall pass unknown into

the unknown, I would just as soon die with a

modicum of grace and dignity. Then, I figure

I would have done what I could, and made my

point in life. And as far as I’m concerned, you

can roll the stone over my tomb, and skip the

Resurrection bit.

Chris Hanch 12-24-18

In Remembering

There are secrets old folks hold. Years ago,

I worked briefly at a nursing home. It was

enlightening and frightening at the same

time. Back then, I thought that to live out

my last days like this would certainly be a

sorrowful shame. Like being swallowed

by a black hole, you have been taken away

and confined to a netherworld, a limbo

of anonymity to live out your last days.

Some afflicted with dementia and Alzheimer

can’t even remember their names. A medical

professional who specialized in those dread -

ful conditions once told me that although

memories of their past have effectively been

wiped away, many can still sing the lyrics

from songs which played such an important

part in their lives. That is why we often have

group singalongs, she told me. I recall a woman

who had lost all memories of her past. She no

longer recognized her husband of some fifty

years; had no idea who her children were

when they so infrequent came to visit. One

day, after her husband, who had come to

spent an hour with her, left and went back

home. She smiled at me and said, “My what

a nice man.” Holding back the tears, I nodded

in agreement. Many younger folks don’t get it

when older folks spend time alone with their

fondest and worst lifetime memories. Being

of advanced age myself, I can now say I under-

stand. No longer is there a knocking at the door,

as your best friend, whose name escapes you,

asks if you can come out and play; no more

lover calling with a bouquet of flowers for

an anniversary or birthday you can’t remember.

Frustrated, you keep searching the library of

faded and forgotten memories for all those

names. ‘Tis the season, and without a mistake

or hesitation, you sing all the words to, White

Christmas instead.

Chris Hanch 12-23-18

Something About Eden

You can choose to use a garden as a metaphor

in life. The Old Testament did such a thing, as

it casts believers out before they even have a

chance. Thus in birth, we are forced to start all

over again. The Way is rocky and winding in

places, and many spend a lifetime trying to

locate Eden again. (Even GPS can’t give us

true and precise directions, for each must find

their own way.) Keep in mind, my friends,

Forbidden Fruit is still plentiful today. The

human condition demands we fashion and

mold serpents of our own making every day.

C’mon, man, give me a break! I’ve found

Paradise on Earth a thousand times, and was

motivated to move on. One perfect rose in the

garden has proven to be insufficient for me.

And thorny and prickly as that stem may have

been, I am compelled, as long as I live and breath,

to keep searching for another. You see, I know

Eden when I see it. As for me, Eden (metaphor-

ically speaking) must provide variety.

Chris Hanch 12-22-18

Best Wishes

It’s Christmas for me every morning.

I could say, perhaps, a birthday each day,

as I finger the keys of my laptop to see

what the world has in store for me,

to electronically unwrap gifted words

and images you have sent via cyberspace

from your place in time to mine. And

occasionally, I find some re-gifted repetition

which has taken place. That’s okay by me.

I realize, it is the thought that counts. I shall

in most cases act surprised at that which

is presented to me—Oh my, but you are

too kind. You shouldn’t have, I might say,

making you feel that you have made my day.

Should I, however, somehow feel offended

or dismayed by that which has been placed

in front of me, I shall smile anyway, and

with a swift pressing of a key, simply unfriend

or delete. The gifting of words and images in

the computer age has been made so easy…

no return lines to stand in; no receipt required.

Thank you in advance, and here’s wishing you

and yours a Merry Christmas (or Birthday) each

and every day. Hell, remember those days when

you had to sit face to face with family or friend

and pretend you loved the gift of a god-awful tie?

Chris Hanch 12-21-18

Something About Santorini

A few months ago on a Saturday, I watched an episode of

Rick Steves’ Europe on PBS. Featured was the famed Greek

Isle of Santorini, a place I had the pleasure of visiting back

in the late 1980s.

Several thousand years ago, Santorini, a volcanic island

in the Aegean Sea, had a thriving civilization until it erup-

ted and blew the hell out that Minoan utopia. Well, over

centuries new inhabitants rebuilt another society, rimmed

primarily along the steep cliffs of the volcanic caldera—

Truly a scenic and breathtaking place.

When I visited, some thirty years ago, there was still a

pervasive nostalgic feel of relaxed historic and earthy

simplicity; donkey drovers ferrying supplies and tourists

up and down perilous and winding trails; fishermen sail-

ing out daily into the deep cerulean sea; white-washed,

mom and pop shops, quaint and cosy cafes and modest

hotels stacked atop one another, dotting the perpendic-

ular, volcanic hillsides.

Back then, there were no Hiltons, Burger Kings or Starbucks,

not a single multi-national conglomerate was to be found. My,

how things have changed since then. In Steves’ travelogue, he

presented a far different scene where corporate conglomerates

and profiteers have exploited the once sleepy-eyed and charm-

ing society. Cable cars, modern buses, and all manner of com-

mercial enterprise now cater to a bustling international tourist

trade. What a shame.

My memories take me back to the day I disembarked the ferry

from Piraeus to Fira, Santorini. To ascend the 800-foot caldera

rim from sea-level to the top, the adventurous tourist could

either walk, hire a donkey drover or take a rickety old bus which

puffed, clanged, creaked, buckled and bumped as it struggled to

climb every meter of the way.

All of us on board that bus, tourist and native alike, braved that

white-knuckled ride as we crept higher and higher, negotiating

myriad hair-pin turns, all the while swaying precariously close

to the edge of oblivion. I am sure like me, every passenger was

hoping against hope that that well-worn rust-bucket of a bus

would eventually reach the top and safety.

I too was reminded that Santorini, although dormant at the

moment, sits atop an active volcano. I knew then, that my ad-

venture of a lifetime had only just begun. And the devastation

of another eruption would be far too great for even the

machine of modern development and wheels of commerce

to escape.

I  watched as the young woman pulled herself out of the blue

Aegean back onto the tour boad. She stood unabashedly naked above the

waist. And I thought to myself, thank god progress had not gone too far.

At least there was one mythological Greek godess left on the grand Isle

of Santorini.

Chris Hanch 12-20-18

The Proverbial Crack

Ever think about those silly-seeming proverbial

sayings, then getting these weird images trying

to explain what they mean? Something I was

reading today made reference to, “slipping through

the cracks.” Most of us know what that means—

someone or something of which we should have

been aware mysteriously disappears into thin air,

and escapes us somehow. The pertinent or relevant

goes unnoticed. I have known superstitious folks

who go out of their way to avoid stepping on sidewalk

cracks, fearful they will somehow break their mother’s

back. And for others it becomes a convenient excuse

who will insist that through no fault of their own they

have failed to attend to their responsibility. Don’t blame

me, they’ll claim, it must have inadvertently slipped

through the cracks. There are astrophysicists who

theorize that there are cracks in the universe which

lead to parallel dimensions beyond our understanding.

Over a lifetime, many claim to have lost possessions and

opportunities which most assuredly slipped through the

cracks. One thing is for certain, the elephant in the room

looms so large it’s hard to see how something that humon-

gous could possibly slip through the cracks. Yet still, there

are those who’ll refuse to acknowledge its presence.

Careful where you step, my friend, there’s a huge pile of

dung right in front of you. There isn’t a crack wide enough

to accommodate that.

Chris Hanch 12-19-18

Palpable

Here I sit, two hours into my day with

nothing much of import or relevance

to say. I pondered the new beginnings

approach again, but that sort of redundancy

has visited me so many times before. You

see, I happen to be in a race against time,

dear reader, and I find that mine’s a wastin’.

And my desperation is palpable. Palpable,

palpable, now there’s a word I have not

abused with overuse before. Can you feel

it? I could repeat and repeat it until the

redundancy of it is as palpable to you as it

seems to be with me. In fact, it is worth men-

tioning here that many of my days spent in

sedentary old age are plagued with redundancy.

But for now, if you will excuse me, please,

I’ve got to go pee again. Yes, the feeling is

urgent and annoyingly palpable.

Chris Hanch 12-18-18

The Somebody Me

I got to thinking about the world.

Then, of course, my thinking led

to me.

It is all about the world, of course,

which then leads one to one’s self

personally.

Lucky me, I got to thinking, and

perhaps not so lucky you. I have

never been bombed or shot.

I have never gone hungry or been

imprisoned rightfully or wrongfully

so.

I never was, but could have been one

who did not have, one of so many to

be thankful for a simple bowl of rice.

Chris Hanch 12-17-18

There is a Place

There is a place far flung from the galaxies,

a deep space beyond the stars, a birth place

from where a profusion of big bangs begin

and end. The Alpha and Omega, my friends,

where all time is dark, silent and still. Some

say death; some claim resurrection, a burial of

that which was and conception of that which is

to be. Science discloses that which is deduced

mathematically; poetry reveals the degradation

and elation of new imaginings. Together in light

of everything which seems to be, lies the violently

frightful and wondrously delightful netherworld

of our existence.

Chris Hanch 12-16-18

Something About Mars and Me

Today I’d liken my brain to the landscape

on Mars, a bit dusty and dry, a wind-driven

surface of iron oxide red, devoid of high-

ways and byways to facilitate getting about.

No folks meandering to and fro either, just

wind and dust blowing, and unusual atmos-

pherics wherever you go. No sea to shinning

sea, no purple mountain’s majesty, no star-

spangled banner waving, no anthem to be sung.

Just you and you alone with no one else around

to blame. No music or poetry to soothe a parched

and malnourished brain. You know, kind of like

Earth’s destiny in an up and coming epoch to be.

Ah, but don’t despair, that’s Olympus Mons over

there, largest volcano in the solar system. And,

ain’t she a beaut? Hasn’t shown any signs of

activity in quite a long time, kind of like this old

brain of mine, dusty and dry sometimes. I’m not

hung over or crazy, mind you, just showing signs

of personal planetary degeneration, I suppose.

Chris Hanch 12-15-18

Something about Love

Something about Love

It has taken some time,

but eventually I have

come to understand

what the true meaning

of love is in all actuality.

Have you ever loved

someone with every

fiber of your being as

a man loves a woman,

as a woman loves a man,

as a man has loved a-

nother man or a woman

has loved another wo-

man, as a mother or

father loves a child?

I am talking about a

deep and sincere love,

the unwavering, un-

conditional love, the

kind which spreads like

wildfire beyond you and

joyfully affects everyone

and everything which

comes in contact with

such a wondrous thing.

That kind of love affair

goes beyond you and

reaches out to every

living thing. I love you,

man, because of that

wonderful woman who

for reasons beyond my

comprehension happens

to love me. Funny how

that works, and I don’t

even know your name.

Hell, I’d even hug and

kiss an alligator if it would

let me. My but you look

so radiant today. This kind

of love is not silent, but a

drumbeat from the heart

heard around the world.

Chris Hanch

A Plan Today

Let us build something worthwhile today,

something of simple or complex config-

uration, an upside down tower, perhaps,

which leads us back to ground, a tunnel

which turns us inside out so that we arrive

back from where we began. Let us have a

plan so ridiculous it seems grand, a roller

coaster ride, could be, propelled backwards

on the flat track of eternity. I’ll bring a hod

of bricks, you shoulder buckets of mortar.

Let’s begin early, at the crack of dawn, and

work all day long until our idea is complete.

Here’s a blueprint plan in hand to ensure

we get it done right this time. See here, two

lines which intersect? That happens to be

you and me in the middle joining hands.

Lord knows, we’ve wasted enough precious

energy taking about all the possibilities.

I see a museum made out of mostly glass

where the art on display is that starving

children of the world come to get fed

every day. Impossible, you say...It’s about

time, roll up your sleeves, let’s get the

job done.

Chris Hanch 12-13-18