The Conversation

If I were to make it personal, more than likely

I would bring you to tears. A lie from me would

more than likely make you snicker cynically.

So instead, I say lets talk about the weather—

more than likely it looks like rain today. The

rain in Spain, you know, falls mainly on the plain.

More than likely you will think I am a stupid

prick, and more than likely being sarcastic. More

than likely you are familiar with Broadway Shows

and identify My Fair Lady as the line I have chosen

to change the subject all together. Spain has not

a damn thing to do with it. And you would be right.

You know a lot, and more than likely, I am.

Chris Hanch 8-31-19

Tough Guys Eh?

We were young teens. Eddie Jackson, Ronnie Barker and

I rode our bikes several miles one day on our summer va-

cation to Kenrick Seminary. There on that property was a

a patch of woods—lots of overgrown brush, poison ivy

and trees, a cool place away from our neighborhood where

three hooligans such as we could freely cuss, spit and smoke

our Pall Mall, Camel and Lucky Strike cigarettes. Hidden from

sight, we could eat the Snickers and Three Musketeers candy

bars we had swiped earlier from the Rexall Drugs. We thought

of ourselves as pretty cool cats, hot shit one could say. In the

woods we came across what Eddie told us was a hobo camp.

The seminarians who lived and studied for the priesthood at

Kenrick often gave handouts of food and loose change to

the bums passing through. Those guys ride the rails to get

here from everywhere across the country, Eddie told us.

And like us, they occasionally like to get away and hide from

the rest of society. And we hoped they wouldn’t show up while

we were there. They can get pretty mean, Eddie warned us.

And they fight with knives. Most have scarred faces to prove

it. They get pissed off when it comes to strangers invading their

turf. They’re a bunch of weather-worn guys who live out their

lives in the open without a roof over their heads, night and day

in all kinds of weather. Look around, Eddie said pointing to the

extinguished ashes of a campfire. There were empty food cans

and broken wine and voda bottles scattered about. Ronnie and

I looked at one another awestruck and fearful that those hobos

might return at any time. Let’s get the hell out of here while we

can, Ronny said. And I was thinking to myself, we three aren’t

such tough guys after all. I’ve grown a lot older now, and have

been through some pretty rough times myself. That’s why I’ll

usually give some cash I can spare to those weather-worn,

and scar-faced panhandlers who approach me on the street.

Ever been to Kenrick Seminary, I'll ask?

Chris Hanch 8-30-19

And I in My Place

Just sitting around on Planet Earth

taking in what’s going on, liking

a few things I see and perceive,

disgusted with all the rest. I am

thinking about me here in my

place and how I got to this, trees

and grass, purple martins swooping

for insects below partly cloudy skies,

hurricanes, volcanoes and wild fires

elsewhere, interstates flowing to and

fro to wherever it is they go, vendors

opening their doors catering to the

demands of cash and credit card

customers, politicians making deals

behind the scenes, a doe and her

fawn hidden among the forest trees,

a preacher opens his bible looking

for the right verse to recite for his

Sunday sermon, soldiers in Afghan-

istain muster for reveille at dawn,

caged migrant parents separated

from their children at the border

with Mexico, Meerkat of the Kala-

hari perched on hind legs on the

lookout for danger, two Mormon

missionaries knocking on doors,

Bach’s Prelude and Fugue no. 21, ocean

waves, pauper’s graves, AA meetings

at noon, Greenland is not for sale; crystal

vases and birthday cakes are, genuine

originals will cost you, rip-offs and fakes

are cheaper…

and here I am after I wake, just sitting

around in my place on Planet Earth con-

templating the world for all it’s worth,

taking another drag off my cigarette,

sipping my last drop of coffee before

whatever happens to come next.

Cicadas calling for a mate (for some 
it's too late)…

The damn gas bill needs to be paid.

Chris Hanch 8-29-19

The Great Divide

Some forty-two years ago, I returned to the small

towns of Vacha, Germany to the East and Philipp-

stahl to the West, a contemptuous place with a high

wired and electrified separation between the two—

a Democratic Germany to one side and Communist

occupied on the other. I recall freely waiving to an

armed soldier stationed on his side. And in keeping

with basic human cordiality, he returned the well

wising pleasantry back at me. I figured it was the least

we could do to connect two people of good will, given the

otherwise uncompromising and conflicting philosophies

between our nations. That was back in 1977. Things

changed in 1989 when walls and fences between the

two Germanys were torn down, and a divided country

became united once again. I often wonder if I were to

return to that place today, and that soldier I signaled

my good will to at the time had survived, he too would

be an old man such as I. Perhaps we could approach

one and other, and shake hands this time across what

once was, and thank God is no more, the Great Divide.

It’s what old men do when they’re too old to fight, and

hopefully wise enough not to build barriers anymore.

Chris Hanch 8-28-19

What on Earth Could It Be?

Years ago when I started writing poems, I was

anxious to submit my work to certain prestigious

publications—The New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly

Poetry and such. And patiently, I awaited their

replies in hopes of being accepted. Instead,

I was notified by letter of one rejection after

another. Dear, Mr. Hanch, We are sorry to

inform you that at this time we are not able

to publish your work...Blah! Blah! Blah! So

that’s the way it was to be. See if you ever

again receive a submission from me. I was

sorely disappointed to put it mildly. I often

wondered, was my poetry not deemed good

enough by some academic editor? Were my

pieces considered not proper or fitting for their

publication? Could it be poor grammar or trite

and sophomoric imagery, I wondered? Perhaps

my last name didn’t ring out exotic or poetic

enough for them? Or could it be that I had simply

neglected to dot my “i” s and cross all my “t” s?

My second wife was once told by an acquaintance

that Hanch was not a very pretty name. With that,

my first wife may have certainly agreed.

Chris Hanch 8-26-19

Zorba's Dance

Listening to music from Zorba the Greek on my

Amazon Echo, I want so much to get up from

my recliner and dance, but these arthritic hips of

mine won’t allow me to make those moves anymore.

Ancestry, runs through me; it’s in my blood. My

Greek grandfather used to say that the secret to a

good life includes plenty of onions, garlic and

sunshine. Thank God I can still do those. For now,

I am satisfied pulling a hanky out of my pocket

and waiving it over my head…Opa! Grandpa

George passed away long before my Echo came

into play.

Chris Hanch 8-25-19

The Southern Cross at Night

Sitting on a park bench half a world away from

the USA, you’re thinking this may as well be

Mars. Yes, that far— Hyde Park, Sydney, Aus-

tralia and you’re thinking, this world you’re in

is upside down, all turned around. You know

what brought you to this, but how and when

to get back home? You don’t know. What the

hell, tonight, intoxicated on vodka and Aussie

beer, you scan the sky and look around for the

touted Southern Cross. A small group of people

pass by, and in German ask you for directions.

Having been stationed there with Army decades

ago, you understand, and point in the right direc-

tion, answering in their native tongue, “Ya, King’s

Cross, immer geradeaus,“ (always straight ahead).

Huh, you snicker, imagine the irony of a lost soul

such as you giving directions to the likes of foreign-
ers such as they. You take another swig of vodka
from the bottle, continuing your of sweep of the sky
in search of that illusive constellation. Your world is

upside down and all turned around. What brought

you here in the first place turned out to be a bust.

And the city lights of Sydney at night are way too

damned bright.

Chris Hanch 8-25-19

Looking Back

Sergeant Major Richardson told me, I’ll see that you’re

promoted to staff sergeant and given $3000 if you re-en-

list for six-years. I was nearly done with my three-year

term of service in the Army and about to rotate back to

the States for discharge. I had been stationed in Germany

at the time, and was married with a young son. I looked

forward to returning to civilian life. Sergeant Major’s offer

was certainly tempting, but half a world away in Vietnam

there was a terrible war going on. My ego would have loved

being awarded that extra stripe. And Lord knows, the lump

sum of money and increase in monthly income would have

gone a long way in supporting my family. But then, I figured

that six more years in the military with reassignments and

uncertainties would be a hefty price for me to pay. And of

course, there was that cursed war. Very kind of you, Sergeant

Major. I do appreciate the offer, but I have other plans for my

future, I told him—perhaps a house in the suburbs, a new

car and a steady job on the economy: Saturdays and Sundays

off, a secure and routine lifestyle I can count on. I had my

hopes and dreams, you see. And as it turned out years later,

even though divorced and having things not work out as I had

planned, at least I wasn’t a casualty of war. And fortunate too

that I was not to join the ranks of my GI brothers and sisters

who today have their names indelibly engraved into the cold,

dark marble of the Vietnam War Memorial. Still some fifty years

later, I think about those who were drafted, volunteered or re-

enlisted, willing or not, but in any event sent into battle to serve

and defend, those who would became casualties and return

home to hospitals and wheelchairs, to prosthetic limbs and to

the streets. And shall we never forget the more than 58,000 souls,

regardless of rank or pay, who were sent summarily along

with all their hopes and dreams to an early grave.

Chris Hanch 8-14-19

Here in This Place

Here in this place, where mountains ne’er climb.

Here in this place, where no ocean waves sweep

ashore. Here in this place, neither desert sands

spread wide nor jagged coastline defines. Here

in this place, set out far and away in the rolling

Heartland middle of it all, where fertile farmlands

grow green in summertime, where the two Kansas

Cities bustle on both sides of the Missouri-Kansas

State Line. Here in this place, where the apartment

complex lawn service has not shown up in nearly

two weeks to mow, where in this place and time the

nut grass crop has grown wild nearly two-feet tall.

Here in this place is where my two small dogs

damn near got lost this morning in the weed

when let outside to go pee.

Chris Hanch 8-23-19

Χριστόφορος
Christóforos

αυτό είναι το
This is my

όνομά μου

name in Greek

στα ελληνικά

and this is who I

και αυτό είναι

would be had my

που θα ήμουν είχε

grandfather not

μου ο παππούς

immigrated to
δεν μετανάστευσε

this country,
και όπως μπορείτε να δείτε,
and as you can see,
θα μου είχε πάρει πολύ
it would have taken

me considerably
περισσότερο χρόνο με

more time in

letters and words
γράμματα και

λόγια για να σας
to tell you my story.

πω την ιστορία μου.

Bless Lady Liberty.

Ευλογεί την κυρία Ελευθερία

Otherwise, you see, it would
all be Greek to me.

Διαφορετικά, βλέπετε, όλα θα είναι
ελληνικά για μένα.

Chris Hanch 8-22-19

Before and After

Before and after, words did not matter,

before you and I were born. There was

no math, when two plus two had no

answer, no geography either needed to

map, no history, year after year to guide

the way. In the beginning before, and in

the after, no matter. Either way, no Mozart,

no Picasso, no Edison, Ford or Chevrolet, no

tomorrow or yesterday, no smart phones or

xylophones, no laughter, no tears or moans

and groans. This is why we do not recall all

the possibilities, the hum of bees, the song

birds sing. That was all before leaves and

needles processed the trees, after the seas

receded, after mountains collapsed and were

buried summarily under nothing beneath.

No books to read before. No stories to be

told after, no one to look, listen and learn.

In the here and now, one might pause to

wonder where in hell to begin? In the here-

after, I suppose, only heaven knows. Go figure.

Before and after. In the blank space below,
add all the things for you which do and do
not matter.

Chris Hanch 8-21-19

Transformation

The snake and the toad shed their skins in

order to grow. Cicadas emerge after seven-

teen years buried in the Earth to discard

their shells and briefly sing their late summer

mating song. Everyone knows the caterpillar's

story transformed in the cocoon to a butterfly.

There are those who believe in reincarnation,

a new life, a different time and some other des-

tination. The wind changes direction one day,

and we become a different person than we

originally set out to be. I once met a young

man who at twenty-years was lost like me

when I was his age. I figured no matter from

which direction the wind was blowing on any

given day, he was bound to find another way.

Even though on the surface it appears to be

so, upon closer inspection, all snake skins

are not the same.

Chris Hanch 8-20-19

Something About Adventure

Should I think about what the badger

is doing, I may be following the wrong

trail today. Besides, there are no badgers

to track in my neck of the woods anyway.

Couldn’t keep up, don’t have the slightest

clue as what to do even if could or would

in any case. So then, why a badger? Why

not a lion or tiger? Because my passport

for exotic adventure has long ago expired.

Besides. I have grown tired, and am bound

by my inability to track the wild and un-

tamed. Today, as it was for me yesterday

and a considerable time before, I shall

have my adventures vicariously as I nod

off intermittently with my dogs while

watching the wild life on TV. Sad, one

might add. I say no, not so for me. I repeat,

not so, don’t pity me. Turns out, badgers

and the like are way too wily for me to follow

in their natural habitat, literally speaking.

Chris Hanch 8-19-19

In Thought and Deed

Without giving it so much as a

thought, I awoke today believing

in the sun, and there it was already

done. Same with the planet Earth

beneath my feet, an automatic

grounding for me, right on time

and in its rightful place. Faith in

reality, good or bad, I believe.

Coffee seems as air itself, my

precious morning functionality.

Oh good Lord yes, I do believe.

The pain which accompanied me

to bed last night greets me this

morning as the framework of my

reality...Hello arthritic hips and

knees. So then, humans along

with all other species still alive

and thriving are driven in thought

and deed by their own familiarity?

Yes, precisely! In this my re-awaken-

ing, I shall resist extinction. For today,

in form and concept, this is reality—

in and out I breathe, my unabashed

responsibility.

Chris Hanch 8-18-19

Buried Treasure

Some folks spend their time gathering

stones, hoping to discover silver and

gold. Most find lime stone and granite

instead. Still they keep digging for more.

My father followed that path faithfully

along the way. Got to have a positive

attitude, he would say. My ship is bound

to come in one day.

For years, he scoured the shore through

fair weather and storm. There was only

sand and sea shells to sift through. And

so he considered maybe pearls would do.

One day he pitched his shovel and spade

and walked away, figuring no ship worth

its weight could ever find safe harbor in

such shallow waters anyway.

He saved a fossil with an impression of

a trilobite he had found on one of his digs.

Why, it’s gotta be a couple of hundred mil-

lion years old, he would often claim.

Folks just don’t find stuff like this every day.

Chris Hanch 8-17-19

At the Nursing Home

At the nursing home, I see the ravages of not
remembering, Alzheimer, I am told. A shame
not remembering your own children, not know-
ing who you have become.

And the others, idle, lining the hallways in wheel
chairs, sent here in their last months and years for
aseptic caring even their own kin were no longer
willing or able to provide.

The listless bedridden are stowed away in rooms,
eyes glazed-over fixed on the empty, colorless walls.
As for me, a visitor in my early fifties, I pray this end
of days scenerio is not to be part of my destiny.

I close my eyes imagining, is this life-lost existence
a cursed foreshadowing? A shroud of darkness and
the deafening sound of silence settle over me. I take
a deep breath and smell the disinfectant of motality.

And I can see the depths of eternity.

Chris Hanch 8-16-19

For Better or For Worse

Turn to the left or right, the choice is ours

to make. The bear sniffs its way to the

right place. The eagle flies in the right

direction every time. I watch the ant,

he knows where to go. I should say, he

or she. To the ant it doesn’t matter. It

accepts every turn as the right one to

make. Autopilot is a term raccoons never

learn, but if one pays attention, they don’t

ever seem to lose their way. We humans

would not have come this far without

paying attention to the world around us.

A lion chases down the gazelle and mauls

it for its meal. Just because you shop at

the grocery store in a civilized manner

doesn’t mean you’re not capable of murder.

The choice is yours. I’m praying that both

of us know a better way.

Only we humans have the need to do that.

Chris Hanch 8-15-19