Legacy

A meaningful or harmful thing some-

one special or inconsiderate said which

stuck in the memory all these years.

A good or bad deed done which is

considered worthy of praise or admon-

ishment.

A red rose given with love which remains

pressed to this day between the pages of a

favorite book.

A museum or library, a highway, street

or bridge named after a hero or philan-

throper. The annuls of history written.

A legacy, could be a bronze or marble

statue, a monument to honor the vener-

ated who contributed or served.

Or could be a child who carries on the

family name as the lifeline of light sacri-

fice, kindness and consideration.

Look around you, we are the only species

to honor and defame. And by choice or ran-

dom chance, our legacy, which to claim?

Chris Hanch 5-30-19

Mind Over Matter

Mind over matter. Should you live to be a certain

age, this happens to be the way of things most days.

Oh, I can still pick up the fork to eat and place the

food where it needs to be. Some maneuvers still

come automatically. Mind over matter, you know.

When the call comes all of a sudden, I tell myself

hurry! And nine times out of ten I still manage to

make it to the bathroom on time. Oh, how fortu-

nate am I. Strong will, I tell you—mind over matter.

Climb that hill, that’s the obstacle in the way of get-

ting where you need to be today. Mind reconsiders

at the begging indulgence of aching hips and weak-

ening legs. On second thought, mind says don’t be

so damned ambitious, legs are in pain. Reconsider,

we’ll go the flat and steady way instead. Don’t forget

your cane. Better yet, sit and wait a spell, a mindful

thought entertains. You’ve far exceeded your energy

level for the day. No more promises of tomorrow

comes another day, mind is smart enough to say.

You’re lucky you can still feed yourself adequately,

and are able to make it to the toilet mostly on time.

Even Sir Edmond Hillary was wise enough of mind

to know when to give up the climb.

And, in these my aging days, insofar as mind over

matter is concerned, mind sternly conveys words

of widom to me, don’t press your luck, Buddy!

Chris Hanch 5-29-19

Whiskers

My wife, rest her soul, had a friend who was cynically of a

mind that bearded men had secrets to hide. Couldn’t trust

‘em far as you could throw ‘em, she often swore. I was one

of those who wore and supported facial hair as part of my

life, and vehemently disagreed. If women can wear makeup,

surely a man can sport what comes naturally. And to her un-

just supposition, I replied, facial hair on a man is as natural

as whiskers on a walrus. And, dear lady, they are not predis-

posed to fake it or tell a lie. So, not willing to see eye to eye,

and in order to retain her friendship with my wife and me, we

both respectfully agreed to disagree. Now most fittingly, my

beard was red with fire like me when I was a younger man.

And now with the onset of old age, it has turned gracefully

gray. Something to hide? I have a secret storage bin tucked

safely away in the recesses of my brain for that, but my beard

exposed out in the open for all to see holds no secrets. It says

just about anything you’d want to know about me, past, present

and future. And I plan on taking this hairy face of mine as a fuzzy

badge of manhood to the grave with me. And to women I say,

no need to shave your underarms or legs. I am way past my prime,

and have no plans on remarrying anyway. Any questions?

Chris Hanch 5-28-19

Something About Submissions and The New Yorker Magazine

A few weeks ago I submitted six of

my oldest poems (written some time

ago in the early 80s) to the prestigious

New Yorker Magazine. Why so late,

the curious and thoughtful reader may

ask? Back then, when I was a novice

at submitting my works, I along with

millions of other hopeful writers,

became discouraged by publisher’s

customary rejections of the unknown.

Thank you for your submission, the

letter of response starts out, and then

continues ...but at this time...Oh, I get it.

Not of the Walt Whitman, Robert Frost or

Emily Dickinson caliber, eh? Well, forget

it then; I’ll post my works on line. ( I did

have to wait a few years even then until

the Internet was a capable venue for my

work to be displayed.) Alas, I eventually

reached a ripe old age in my lifetime I

had never intended to reach. Recently,

I decided to dig up some of my earlier

works because the more current stuff

has already been published on an Inter-

net poetry site which The New Yorker

will then not accept for submission. I

figure after all these years of reading,

writing and reciting poetry, it was time

for one last shot at submitting my work

to The New Yorker. And, Dear Editor,

should you happen to find one of my

poems worthy of publication, this old

man would be grateful if you would

send me a free copy of that issue, for I

do not now nor have I ever paid for or

subscribed to your magazine.

Besides, I don’t have much more time

to waste submitting to your fine pub-

lication. Sincerely…

Chris Hanch 5-27-19

Who Am I?

Who am I? What am I?

And, what do I claim?

A poet of sorts, an artist

of neither fortune nor fame.

After seeing a program about the

renown collections contained at

the Louvre in Paris, my talent

and works are minimal, I must

say. Comparatively, I consider

myself one short step ahead

of those who, for all it’s worth, have

accomplished absolutely nothing.

That being said, with this razor

sharp introspection in mind,

I am merely inclined to whittling

my sometimes inflated ego

down to size. No worries, my

friends, I find it far easier to

appreciate my humbled insigni-

ficance that way. Granted, it

would be far easier for me to

watch fewer programs on TV.

Chris Hanch 5-26-19

What's in a Name?

In the early 1980s when I was in

Australia and down on my luck,

I had the occasion to stay a week

or so in a boarding house for men.

Rent was cheap and it came with

one meal a day thrown in for free.

Met some pretty rough and tumble

characters back then. One Mid-

Eastern fellow whom I never heard

speak was given the nickname, Snake.

There’s a natural born killer in him

the others warned. Just look at the

cold darkness of death in his eyes.

Another, who spoke of his illicit

exploits around the world was

known as Red for the fiery tempre-

ment which matched the color of

his hair. No one knew my name.

In fact, I was so common no one

bothered to ask mine or give me

one either. When I was with the

Army in Germany in the mid-1960s,

the girls who came to dance and

drink at the Enlisted Man’s Club

gave me the nickname, Baby Face,

for I was fair of feature and barely

eighteen. A few years ago, two

young thugs approached me on

the street in Kansas City and called

out, Hey, Old Man..! And, as we

stood toe-to-toe, I offered to slap

the crap out of them for their dis-

respect. Lucky, I suppose, for them

and for me, I had thought about

murder briefly a time or two in my

life, but I never did. Come to think

of it, Baby Face wasn’t such a bad

nickname in its place and time. Seems

it was so long ago now since this Old

Man had left him behind.

Chris Hanch 5-26-19

Advertising Ease

Back in the good old days, I worked as an art director for

a small mom-and-pop advertising shop. And occasionally

I would deliver a storyboard or another piece of artwork

to the boss of that esteemed establishment who would

scrutinize it carefully, rub his chin and smile. Hanch, he

would say, you have done it again. You’ve made a silk

purse out of a sow’s ear. That seemed a funny thing to

say for my offering was to be included in a client pre-

sentation which was coined in the business as, “a dog

and pony show.” That was a widely-used, circusy cliche

in the advertising business which relied heavily upon

the glitzy show and tell aspects of the game. (P.T. Bar-

num was a master of that type of promotional hype.)

Anyway, my boss being exceedingly complimentary of

my work, invited me to join him at his members only,

private club for lunch that day. And, being a strapping

young professional endowed with a substantial appetite,

I was more than happy to accommodate. Seated by the

maitre ď, and followed post haste by our waiter with

specials of the day, it was time to place our order. And

after considering the hoity-toity culinary selections, I

was tantalized by the simplicity of the smoked boneless

ham with cheese scones. I figured, if the chef could make

something outstanding from a sow’s hind end as I had

done earlier with her ear, I would more than likely be

pleasantly satisfied with my meal as my boss happened

to be that day with me.

Chris Hanch 5-25-19

-

Remembering Sandia

The other day without provocation an

image popped into my mind. This hap-

pens, you know, to both young and old.

Only, the older you are, I have noticed,

names of images of which you are some-

times reminded may tend to escape you.

Give me a moment, I tell myself, and even-

tually it will come back to me. It has to,

because the vision, although more than

thirty years old, had a profound impact

on me at that point in my life. And I was

right, the name arrived. It was a mountain

I admired which towered over the landscape

of Albuquerque, New Mexico where I lived

at the time—Sandia Peak was her name.

There were days back then I could sit and

and reflect upon that massive mound for

hours, watching golden shafts of sunlight

pierce the steely clouds as light and dark

danced and commingled on and around its

steep vertical climbs. Wondrously magnifi-

cent, the workings of nature’s ever-changing

panorama spread out before my eyes. Now,

here is why that scene had such a profound

effect on me—It was because of The City of

Albuquerque: A place of stark contrasting

social standings, a place where wealth and

poverty reside, where both charity and ne-

glect thrive side-by-side, where the home-

less, the alcohol and drug addicted, the prosti-

tutes and thugs permeate street life day and

night, where cops patrol in numbers, and per-

petually give chase in what seem a futile at-

tempt to retain a semblance of law and order.

Seems to me, the Beauty of what life could be

was towering over the Beast of Albuquerque

streets. Was anybody paying attention, I would

often wonder? Stop and look up. Hope rises

before you, a bit of heaven on Earth, I’d say.

And, standing from the dawn of time, she shall

remain long after mankind’s reign—solid and

majestic in her standing. Today, as was the case

with me back then, I pay homage in remem-

brance…Sandia Peak is her name.

Chris Hanch 5-24-19

Something About Talent

I look at my thirteen-year old granddaughter

and wonder if one day the world will be as

amazed with her talents as I am. She draws,

she paints, she plays the clarinet, the man-

dolin, the piano and guitar. From an early age

I was told of my talent for the visual arts. I

too found a diversity in expression with the

pencil, the pen and brush. I could actually

take a clump of clay and mold it into some-

thing people would recognize. In art class I

got A s every year while failing or barely pas-

sing my math, history and English. At that

stage in life, I believed in God the Father,

The Son and Holy Ghost, but could barely

manage to pass religion for my then fervent

beliefs. You do have a gift with art I was told,

but you’ll never make a living drawing Micky

Mouse and Popeye. There are already other

artists doing that. Well, damn it anyway. I’m

going to continue doing what I love to do.

Screw my chances at getting paid. (I was

stubborn that way.) At this time it’s hard to

say which direction my granddaughter might

take. She will certainly have many options

finding a suitable career when the time comes.

Oh, and by the way, I sometimes proudly claim

that she may have gotten some of her artistic ten-

dencies handed down from me genetically. Unlike

me, however, her academic endeavors in school

are rewarded with straight A s. (As a rule, girls

generally excel more than boys that way.) As

a young man, musically I used to play the har-

monica some. I could manage getting through

Oh, Susanna, being off-key a bit here and there.

Only folks who were old enough and familiar

with that tune could tell what I was trying to

play. Problem was, I’ve smoked way too many

cigarettes in my time and didn’t have the breath

needed for a decent rendition. My granddaughter

is indeed blessed with loads of talent, I am

pleased to say. What’s more, she doesn’t smoke

and happens to be a hell of a lot smarter than I.

Chris Hanch 5-22-19

Enough is Enough

Could be a string of bad luck.

I’m fairly sure it was not striking

gold for the first time. When is

enough enough? Some will take

all the love they can find. But

another visit to the dentist and

more work on the dreaded root

canal becomes too much. The

other day my son told me that

unfortunate things come in a

string of three, and he happens

to be working on his second

string in a row. Enough is enough

already. The big league batter

fouls off the perfect pitch, and

hopes the pitcher makes the same

mistake twice. Strike three and

he’s out. For the masochist just

one more strike is never enough.

I have experienced a mixed bag

in life—You know, weathering

both the good and the bad. I

can make comparisons with

the circumstances and chances

others may have had, and so

with many experiences I can

certainly relate. I have taken

photographs of many folks

I have met in a flash along

the way. And for all it’s worth,

for better and for worse, I am

glad I did. I never stopped what I

like in life, never backed down or

turned around to hightail it out of

town. Never seemed to get enough.

Let me take your picture just as

you are. No need to smile if you’re

not of a mind to. I understand, at

this time for you, enough is quite

enough. As I see it, and as for me,

enough is never enough, at least

not until I’m done.

Chris Hanch 5-21-19

Morning Report

Eyes open and although no promises

were made the night before, dawn

breaks on another day anyway.

A good day, a loving day, a safe day,

I pray.

Might as well choose words to begin

with, words which have worked adequately

for me so many days before.

I carry no rabbit’s foot, no horseshoe

is hung above my door. I have no lucky

T-shirt or pair of socks to wear.

God is overloaded with mankind requests

and has his hands full elsewhere. Besides,

miracles are needed by those far more

desperate than you and I happen to be.

Today, I am predisposed to write about

something which has entered my mind—

Something, anything, and at the moment

what that might be, I am at times hard

pressed to find.

Oh well, not to worry, I tell myself. No one

but I shall give a damn anyway.

And, as for tomorrow, who can rightly say?

Again, another eye-opener for you and me?

Perhaps tomorrow once again…we’ll see.

It’s almost guaranteed, some of those birds

chirping today will remain. But then again, I am

certain, many of them won’t be the same.

Perhaps tomorrow once again...Wait for it...

perhaps the prospect of horseshoes, we’ll see.

Chris Hanch 5-20-19

Battlefield Reckoning

After my 3-year term of service in the Army, I

came home all in one piece, and better off, I

I would add, than my comrades in arms who

had been deployed to Vietnam at the time.

I asked my brother, who had remained at

home caring for our chronically ill mother:

By the way, what ever happened to my box

of toy soldiers, the ones with which I used

to play? I had quite the collection of plastic

fighting forces from the Revolutionary through

Civil War days. As a child I would pit the cavalry

against Indians, as the WWII G I s battled the

Germans. On rainy days, I would stay inside

and spend hours at play, jousting Richard the

Lionhearted’s knights against the armor-clad

forces of his evil brother, King John. I felt

empowered and often arranged history to suit

my fickle and fictitious needs at the time. Mom,

while on a housecleaning tear one day, ordered

me to get rid of them, my brother said, to throw

all our childhood toys away. You boys are young

men now, and need to act that way, she told him.

I had no choice but to behave, my brother con-

fessed apologetically. A seemingly insignificant act

such as this changed my world forever. All those

toy soldiers got thrown away never again to be

sent off to rainy-day wars of my making, never

again to be swept away from the floor at bedtime.

And, I had grown to realize that the realities of

war torn battles as an adult are far more harsh

and deadly to face. Mothers have a better sense

about them then do boys and grown men, I’d

have to say. Mostly, they can see the absolute

futility of all wars, real or imagined.

Chris Hanch 5-19-19

Recurring Theme

The planet was already in place when I arrived.

Most everything dead or alive already knew

what it was meant to be. Oh sure, there were

still lessons to be learned, and mistakes to be

made. I was told later on that the War to End

All Wars had already been won, and our side

came away the winner. But that turned out

to be narrow-minded misconception, for some

twenty years latter another world war came

along all the same. I was lead to believe by

parents and clergy that we were in this fix,

having lost Paradise, due to the first humans,

Adam and Eve (something having to do with

a serpent and the disobedient tasting of for-

bidden fruit.) Why, what the..? We folks who

came after have done a hell of a lot worse

than that. Now, I won’t bother you with the

protracted case of mankind’s disgraceful be-

havior here on Earth. And I must add, there

have been some bright spots mixed in here

and there. By the way, have you noticed that

the fruit bought at the super markets today

doesn’t have the succulent sweet taste it used

to in years past. I’m sure Eve today would have

an easier time denying the serpent’s deceitful

claim. No thanks, she might tell him, I’ve tasted

that crap before, and see where it got me. I’m

wise to you and where that leads today. I’m not

buying what you’re selling. Say, you look a lot

like that Trump guy. And that stupid MAGA cap

is a dead give-away. As for me, I wish Eve had

been wise to the lies and deception before I

arrived. Be that as it may, I suppose there is a

lot more left to be learned. It seems apparently

clear to me, however, something is ominously

wrong with this damned recurring serpent theme.

Chris Hanch 5-18-19