Revival

As a young teen I recall an 8^th grade snow-

day off from school. And with shovel in

hand, bundled up from head to toe against

the cold, I went knocking on neighborhood

doors.

Mrs. Cox, would you like your sidewalk

and driveway shoveled? Sixty-years later,

and to this day, I have these vivid memories

of what my life was like back then.

Today, I am of an age where I have come to

realize that for the dead, winter never ends.

All memories of what was lie frozen numb

for all time in the endless abyss of eternity.

How is it then, so much closer to the end, the

essence of my being continues on? Memories

serve me well. They help keep the spirit alive.

It may seem inconsequential or even silly to

some, but it is with the simple-seeming in

remembering, I cherish the conscious and

tactile signs of life.

And as I approach the desensitized wasteland of

my enevitable demise, I can still feel the warmth

of those two quarters which Mrs. Cox so long ago

carefully pressed into the frigid cold of my glove-

less hands. And once again, I am revived.

Chris Hanch 6-30-19

Something About Clarity

As with most days, I may have some-

thing to write, something I need to say.

It could be something obtuse or another

as clear as day.

Clear as day, now there could be a contra-

dictory phrase…What happens on foggy or

cloudy days drenched with rain? Certainly

there are obstructions which impede the way.

So then, drawing a blank as far as something

substantive to say, I find I must excuse myself

form continuing this ludicrous and winding

meandering of mine.

Besides, at the moment there are other

things which demand my attention. Isn’t

there another place you’d rather or need

to be as well?

Let’s be perfectly clear, we could always

use a little more vision in our day. And

should our minds be set a bit loftier, we

could likely see a whole lot farther.

Come rain or shine, as far as I can see today,

there’s a great wide world out there where

some possitive changes need to be made.

Chris Hanch 6-29-19

Hand Me Down

And for me, a question comes to mind

today, can I, should I even try to write

a poem today, a poem about a poem I

wrote some thirty-seven years ago?

Why not, I figure, let’s give it a try.

I feel it is important for me not to

forget the memory. Not that you or

most folks will care, but I find the

need to revisit a special time again

and to share.

Some memorable moments are well

worth recounting because, although

seeming somewhat inconsequential,

they aptly portray the essence of life

in a simply profound way.

Such was a day, an hour or so spent

with my Aunt Jo and her aging mother

in Park Ridge, a moderately affluent

middle class suburban Neighborhood

outside of Chicago, Illinois.

I sat and listened to them in a conver-

sation recounting past years of their

family life. And like a fortunate and

respectful “fly-on-the-wall” I did not

interrupt for it was their story to tell.

Stories such as this have been and often

are retold by many families in years past,

to this day, and shall be handed down for

eons to come as long as mankind exists on

Earth with something worthwhile to say.

Question for me is how to end a poem

about a poem and do justice to writing it

in the first place? Read on, dear friends

and family members. Read on, and listen

to those who have something of value to

say. All of us came from some place...

CH, 2019

Over Morning Coffee

Over morning coffee, Mrs. Troy talks about

her life, her times, and the beautiful children

with flowing curls as if they were still there

buzzing around the neighborhood. “A wonder-

ful place to live,” she says, “where Father Louis

took good care of his flock...and fresh-baked

bread was a part of every meal.

“We had a new car every few years, even during

The Depression. Dad always bought his cars new.

Said he wasn’t going to fuss with someone else’s

trouble.”

Mrs. Troy talks about her life, her times as if they

still roamed around Logan Square. And her daughter,

grown away as well, fills in some fond recollections

of ‘who’ and ‘when’ people and times like them are

no longer there except in resurrected conversations

such as these.

“We should have put the recorder on,” her daughter

laments once and again as she and her mother walk

arm and arm out the door on their way to the grocery

store, talking about shopping now, and frozen vegeta-

bles, and a good price on chicken breasts, and how

much food was left in the refrigerator when Dad died

a year ago in May.

“How Dad loved to eat,” Mrs. Troy says. “He would eat

most anything. But I don’t need much myself anymore.

Maybe just some apples will do.

Chris Hanch, 1982

Something About Magic

It is the magician’s job to distract and

deceive. As long as man has been con-

sciously alive, an illusionist’s slight of

hand has held us in suspense and awe.

How in the world did that rabbit appear?

Can a bouquet of roses actually materialize

from thin air? Everyone will attest, they

saw it all with their own eyes. Houdini

escapes from a straight jacket and chains,

and the audience is amazed. How in hell…?

Some believe chicanery or witchcraft has

come into play. Pick a card, any card, and

the ace of spades you chose randomly is

picked out by the dealer from the deck of

fifty-two. And then, of course, there is the

shell game where in plain sight a pea is

situated under one of three shells on the

table, then shuffled around. You place a ten

spot on the shell where you reckon the pea

should be. Wrong, sucker, you lose! It was

then you realized that the man running this

scheme is likely a politician after your money,

not a magician at all. At first, you were suspi-

cious when you heard money was involved…

And, hocus pocus, just like that, your cash

vanishes in the blink of an eye.

Chris Hanch 6-27-19

The Journey

Consider this, we are all like Dorothy in the 

Wizard of Oz where in our lives we are swept
away by tornadic winds of change. We didn’t
ask for or expect it, but were taken away unwit-
tingly from our homes with all its familiarity

by circumstances beyond our control. We were
sent out on strange adventures to exciting and
ofttimes foreboding places to discover who we
are and how to deal with new and challenging
situations at hand. Good witches and bad,

Munchkins and flying monkeys, promising Yellow
Brick Roads leading us to who knows where? And
friends along the way who lack strength, courage
and ability, but who offer companionship, longing
and hope up and down the arduous trail. As with

manyof us through it all, we persevered and kept
going to grow and continue on. Even that Wizard
behind the curtain, when revealed to be not at all
who he was purported to be, aroused in us the for-
titude to push on to our rightful place of belonging.

Magical inspiration of our Ruby-slipper Imaginings,
and the comforting unconditional love from our
shaggy dog gave us the courage to never give up
and eventually find our way home. Alice made a
similar journey years before. This may not be Oz,

Wonderland or Kansas anymore, my friends, but
we all have stories of our own to tell.

Chris Hanch 6-26-19

Food for Thought

Ever pass by the same place every day,

day after day on your way to work each

day, except on Saturdays and Sundays,

your days off when you travel different

ways? That’s the route city folks take go-

ing to and fro. The farmer tends to acres

of his crops. Let’s say he’s growing corn

this year. And he knows it’s there, but

never notices one stalk is down or missing

out of the thousands standing upright in

a row. A single stalk has no reason to go

missing while all the rest continue to grow

neatly in their rows. There have been no

swarms of locusts, no storms with high

winds and hail. 99.99% of the crop still

stands tall. No reason for worry or con-

cern. Harvest will come soon, and the

land will be harvested bare. The city guy

or gal on their commute to work one day

notices an old red brick building missing,

one familiar in among rows of other plain

structures constructed in a more modern

day. Sometimes change comes suddenly

that way. The corn on the cob you enjoyed

at the cook-out yesterday was from the mis-

sing stalk in the farmer’s field which I spoke

to earlier in this piece. Each brick in that old

building torn down while your head was turn-

ed has been salvaged for use in another place.

Changes, dear reader, we’re talking about in-

evitable changes here. Whether you notice

each and every one which takes place may

or may not affect you directly. An old woman

in a nursing home, no acquaintance or rela-

tion of yours died yesterday. Who but a finite

few would know for as I speak, a new crop

of women grow old to take her place? Only

this poem I write today shall remain. That is

of course, barring fire, flood, tornado or be-

ing buried in a pile of paper which is recycled

or inadvertently thrown away. So it is, every

day we go our way seemingly the same. Be

that as it may, most folks see it that way.

It should then come as no surprise that

several copies of this piece I have written

today have been made just in case.

Chris Hanch 6-25-19

A Topic for Today

Today I could try to explain how sausage is made.

Or scientifically, we could cover all the elements

which compose the Periodic Table of Elements.

Today could be packed with the equations which

are contained in Isaac Newton’s Principia revealing

the mathematical principals by which we all live.

We could explore the Spanish influence on archi-

tecture in Ecuador, could ruminate on the when,

where and why and how Van Gogh painted The

Starry Night. The font of knowledge is endless, my

friends. The real question lies in where to begin?

Sausage would be the easiest, I figure. I have per-

sonally watched it being made. It has a long and

rich history, I can tell you. Skip the slaughtering

of the animal it takes to make. That’s gross! Pick

up the process as the ingredients are being stuffed

into the casing. That part shouldn't ruin your appetite.

I can say that most assuredly Sir Isaac, old Vincent and

the natives of Ecuador have all enjoyed a good sausage

in their time. Personally, I prefer Bratwurst with a good

yellow mustard slathered over mine. And where that

falls exactly on The Periodic Table of Elements, I’m not

quite sure. That just about covers it all.

Chris Hanch 6-24-19

The Rail Yard

An old man once told me about the

danger of rail yards. They’re designed

on an incline so when them brake’s

released, the box cars and flat cars will

roll down the track into the place they

are supposed to go all on their own.

Gravity, you know. Got to be damned

careful working in them rail yards, keep

a watchful eye out all the time. Them

rail cars don’t make no sound when they

come a rollin’ down, mind you, not a

whisper of a sound.

Many a man has lost limbs or met his

maker workin’ round the rail yard, yes

sir. I can surely attest to that. Got to

have eyes in the back of your head,

you want to stay in one piece alive.

Ain’t no lie. And I believed that old guy.

All those years working the rail yards,

he managed to make it out alive, arms

and legs still attached and where they

ought to be. I, myself, never walked the

rail yards, but on occasion cross the tracks

while driving on the street.

And to this day, even when the gates are

up with no signal lights flashing, I’ll still

stop and look both ways. You just never

know when a box or flat car from the rail

yard has found a way to escape. Last thing I

want anyone to say about me is, poor fella,

he never heard it coming.

Chris Hanch 6-23-19

The Pin and Naiveté

There was a girl back home, I went out with casually

once or twice. Nothing heavier than a mild attraction

and a curious infatuation; never even a petting, an

innocent kiss or hug between us. Bunny was her name.

I enlisted in the Army at age seventeen, and barely

eighteen, I was shipped to my duty station in Germany.

My newly assigned unit was the 3^rd Reconnaissance

Squadron of the 14^th Armored Cavalry. We wore a

patch and an enameled medallion. It depicted a shield

with a snake and sword on a field of gold with a blue

diagonal stripe from top to bottom separating the two.

Symbolically, the images stood for earlier campaigns in

which the unit had been involved—the 1847 War with

Mexico for the snake, and a Moro Kris Tribal Sword for

the 1899 Philippine Insurrection. Way cool, I thought.

And even though both actions were way before my time,

I felt a pride in now belonging to the military history of

it all.

I was young and impressionable back then, and never

even considered the injustices committed, the wounding

or killing on both sides of those conflicts. Anyway, I thought

it would be really neat if I would send my friend, Bunny, a

medallion as kind of a boastful gift from me.

Well, about a month or so later my gift was returned to

me with a note from Bunny saying regretably she could

not accept my unit pin. What the hell, I thought, it didn’t

cost me very much? It wasn’t like gold or a diamond or

anything like that. I was hurt in any case that she didn’t

appreciate the thoughtfulness of my virtuous intentions.

Anyway, I told one of my buddies what had happened.

He shook his head in disbelief at me. Don’t you know why

she refused that medal? It was like a college fraternity pin

to her, meaning that you two were going steady, a warn-

ing to other guys—hands off, no dating, smooching or

hanky-panky—this girl is spoken for. I was crushed. But

I...but I...I didn’t mean to imply that we were an item,

I told my friend.

I have never been to college, nor have I ever even had

a girlfriend before. I’m overseas alone in a foreign land,

and a long way from home. How in hell was I supposed

to know? Well, you do now, he laughed at me.

As for the stupid unit pin, after that, it lost most its luster

and grandeur for me, and I never gave one away again.

Besides, “Bunny,” that’s kind of dumb name for a girl anyway.

Chris Hanch 6-22-19

A Tought Today

I think what I want to think, say what I want to

say. Sometimes life pays no attention to me.

Oh, and in what I have to say there is sometimes

joy and sometimes pain.

Life it seems is just that way. Few care about

yesterday anymore, tomorrow is yet another day.

But today, a thought comes to mind, pleasing or

profound, ridiculous or profane, I alone can say.

I speak my mind sometimes; at times silence is

golden they say, but only then, I think.

Outside this morning, lightning, thunder and

torrential rain, but then you knew that anyway.

Chris Hanch 6-21-19

The Science of Evolution

Last night rather than watching the infuriating and

depressing national politics on MSNBC, I opted for

science on PBS. The program offered various pa-
leontology studies of the evolution of four different

species of animals—the crocodile/alligator, the bird,

the whale and the elephant. Very enlightening, espe-

cially tracing the origins of those species going back

millions of years. Many of you may know that after

many of Nature’s trials and errors, birds evolved from

the dinosaurs. Prehistorically, the modern day crock

and gator are not as old as their time-worn appearance

would lead us to believe. Whales began as land animals.

And had it not been for the elephant’s ancestors clearing

dense vegetation from Earth’s prolific jungles and forests,

hominids, the precursor of modern day man, may have

never been forced down from the trees to walk upright on

land. Along the way, there were five mass extinction

disasters on Earth which wiped out thousands of species.

Survivors of those have evolved into many creatures we

have come to know terrestrially today. Educational pro-

grams such as the one I watched on PBS last night got me

to thinking how mankind has evolved to negatively alter

the natural progression of things here on Planet Earth. And

what a pity that an asteroid strike like the one at Chixulub

which excelled the extinction of the dinosaurs, even a

massive volcanic eruption or a frozen global Ice Age

didn’t eliminate the ancestral lines of Donald Trump and

Mitch McConnell. I can only imagine that here and now,

today in the Good Old USA, and on the face of our sustain-

ing Mother Earth, this would certainly be a far finer place.

I can’t help but thinking we’d be better off had Neanderthal

prevailed.

Chris Hanch 6-20-19

May Have, Could Have, Should Have Been, Lord Knows

I may have climbed Everest, but for my innate fright

of frigid cold and towering heights.

Could have been a weatherman on TV, but for the

Highs and Lows which affected me. And too there’s

always a fifty-fifty chance between right and wrong.

Should have been a race car driver, but high speed

collisions, pit stops and round-and-round on oval

tracks scare the living piss out of me.

I enlisted in the military, which at the time in my life

was best for me. But still, killing was a thing I never wished

to see, and thank God I never had to. Yet every day, I pray

for what my brothers and sisters went through.

May have, could have, should have been...Lord knows what

then was to be in store for me? Certainly no lap of luxury,

growing up in a society fraught with strife and disunity, grate-

ful nonetheless that Copeland’s Fanfare for the Common Man

was composed for the likes of you and me.

And to this day, I am elevated by the idea that my Common

Man positioning puts me in league with the rest of humanity—

no better or worse off than I needed or turned out to be.

What good would it do to complain, anyway? Besides,

fortunate am I that only one thing in my bucket list remains—

Who can say? Let’s see what tomorrow brings. Surprise,

You and I may be tied, both awarded blue ribbons for

best in show.

Chris Hanch 6-19-19

Hans, His Place in Time

It was a factory job, my first job after the Army.

I was still a young man, only twenty-years old.

It was my first job, one of many in the years to

come. But how was I to know at the time. I pun-

ched in at the time clock every morning, 7:30 AM.

I stood in line with my co-workers to begin the day.

And one of the guys, the one in front of me was an

older man, Hans was his name. Hans, a foreign name.

He came from Germany years ago during the Second

World War. He was a young man too when he immi-

grated to the States. His accent was familiar to me for

I was stationed in Germany for two-and-a-half years

when I served. Years, we all tend to look at our lives

measured in years. We never start out saying, I’m

going to be married for fifty-years; I’m going to play

baseball for twenty; I’m going to keep this job for

15-years. No, it just sometimes seems to turn out that

way. Time, only convicts who are sentenced to so many

years in prison have some idea about the stretch of it in

front of them to serve. That is, unless they die or are

paroled along the way. Anyhow, one day, I asked the

guy behind me in the clock-out line how long Hans

had been working here at the factory?. Thirty-five

years, he told me. Damn, I said, that’s a hell of a long

time! I can’t see doing the same thing over and over

every day for that many years. Why, I haven’t even

been alive that long. Just imagine factory work, grind-

ing out parts day after day the same. And no recogni-

tion for all those parts out there in the world he must

have made. Hans was his name. I say that in honor of

him today more than fifty-years after my factory job

and the dozens which have followed. All I can claim is

that I have somehow manage to breathe in and out

with a measure of consistently. Who knows, Hans may

have set some kind of world-record for endurance or

production in his time. Of this I am sure, fifty-some years

later, and in my mind, Hans will remain at the head of the

line. And all the rest of us in our place and time continue

to follow way behind.

Chris Hanch 6-18-19