The Wonderment of White

Before sunrise, I took my two

dogs out as is our routine each

day. And lo and behold, the

first snow of the season had

fallen in the night.

I cannot say whether it came

too early in the season, for

Nature always has her way.

The younger pup, who has seen

the blanket of white before,

appeared to have forgotten last

year’s weather as she cautiously

sniffed her way across the covered

ground. This was new, an event

she was not accustomed to.

And I, being set in my old age,

figured I know what I know—

snow is snow, and each day,

indeed each season is but a

replicate of another.

And so it is that I see through

the eyes of both pooches today—

The younger says, this is a strange

new place covered in the wonder-

ment of white, a one of kind new

life with a chance to begin all

over again.

The older dog remembers the

cold of snow in seasons past,

and backs away. And with a

measure of trepidation I say,

there are choices to be made.

Chris Hanch 10-31-19

Different Somehow

Every day something new reminds you

who and where you are. Your routine

may take you to seemingly the same

place as yesterday and the days before.

And there are times you are okay with

that. Some consider it a curse, but there

is a certain security in familiarity. It

doesn’t have to always breed contempt.

Sometimes I read the same poem over

and over again discovering something

new each time. My dog looks at me

waggingly faithful each waking day. We

are a day older, I try to explain. Speak

for yourself, white man, I imagine he

given a voice of his own would say.

That makes today, silly as it may seem,

different than yesterday. But I was a

day younger then, and just a bit more

serious than I am today. I think I’ll

move that armchair over there.

Chris Hanch 10-30-19

The Power of Memory

A thought came to me totally unexpectedly.

A name from more than fifty-years ago

popped into my head. I am relatively certain

that person is dead, for he must have been in

his late forties at the time I knew him. Strange,

that for all those years he has lain silently in

state in the graveyard confines of my mind.

No need in remembering him, for he had no

later influence or exposure to me for more

than 5-decades since that previous period of

my life. Nonetheless, without conscious provo-

cation there it was, a name and a face remem-

bered, fresh as a daisy, they say. And it gave

me pause to wonder—could it possibly be that

such a sudden revelation of a person who has

long passed away has been resurrected in spirit,

and brought back to life again? Should that be

the case, as long as I live, I shall try my damn

best to never forget your name. And oh, by the

way, Saunders is his name, Sergeant Major,

Gordon L. Saunders, 14^th Armored Cavalry,

US Army—imposing hulk of a man; impressive

handle bar mustache, I recall. They called him,

The Crunch (behind his back of course).

Chris Hanch 10-29-19

"Nuts!"

Now, It is not my responsibility nor is it within my purview

to spread the news today. I am neither MSNBC, Fox nor

CNN, not the New York Times, or the Washington Post,

not even a Chicken Little nor a Paul Revere to warn and

sound the alarm. For what it’s worth, I have a thought,

an opinion, a thing of modest value which carries

questionable weight, which may or may not affect you

as you go about your busy newsworthy day. What on

Earth could that be, you may ask of me? Well, during

World War II while defending Bastonge, Belgium at the

Battle of the Bulge, General Anthony McAullife, acting

commander of the 101^st Airborne Division was given an

ultimatum to surrender by the Germans who surrounded

his unit’s position. His vehement and defiant reply to the

Nazis was simply a thoughtful, “Nuts!” Even today, all those

years latter, and given the grievous condition of our nation’s

precarious state, I feel it appropriate and necessary to raise my

middle finger in opposition to the current president of these

United States and his cast of corrupt minions as I’ve got some

profound news to proclaim: The hell with you and your auto-

cratic, despicable ways! “Nuts!” You too shall have your day.

Chris Hanch 10-28-19

The Studio

I don’t need a dining room; I never entertain anymore.

I can eat my lunch standing most days; I can take my

dinner sitting in the living room watching TV. And

what’s more, I don’t partake of breakfast, so there

is no need for a table and a chair to support me in that

never indulged morning fair. A dining room would be a

waste of time and space for me. I find that a studio in-

stead accommodates me appropriately most days of

the week. Where else would a creative such as I prefer

to be? I find my work satisfies my appetite for life. No

bowls of oatmeal or flakes, sans a craving for beacon and

eggs to start my day (I do favor coffee over tea which brew

I can sip most anywhere). Paint, brushes and other para-

phernalia fill my studio table. All I need is a tripod easel

on the floor to support my work, and a sturdy stool or

chair to position and sit my artistic ass most anywhere.

Chris Hanch 10-27-19

Hello, World!

Hello, World! How are you today, filled with

madness and mayhem, joy and gratitude,

pleasure and pain?

Along with so many others, I am curious to

know—come rain or shine, how on Earth do

your winds blow?

There is much to do, yet I have chosen to leave

those things alone. I plan on another quiet and

reflective day at home.

Thus far, I have found a way to allow some peace

and tranquility to prevail in my day. A hearty laugh,

however, would be greatly appreciated.

I am left to wonder why a good sense of humor and

an occasional joke or two were never mentioned in

the Torah, Koran, the Old Testament or the New?

Did you hear the one about the Christian, the Muslim

and Jew attending a kosher, tailgate Bar-B-Q before

an Oakland Raiders game?

Call me. I’ll be home all day.

Chris Hanch 10-26-19

Cowboy Wanna Be

As a child, I always wanted to be

a cowboy like Roy Rogers and John

Wayne. All I needed was a horse to

ride, a wide-brimmed hat for my

head and a six-shooter holstered

to my side.

One year at Christmastime, Santa got

me a red cowboy hat and a cap pistol

to wear, which I did most every day.

Never could afford a horse, though,

and in the city where I lived, it was

not allowed to stable a horse anyway.

Turns out, when I grew old enough to

drive, I had a choice to buy a Pinto or a

Mustang. The Pinto was too small for

me, and the cost of a Mustang was be-

yond my means. It was then, I gave up

on my cowboy dreams, and bought a

Chevy Nova instead.

It was a stylistic and financial trade-off

for me, I agree. I wound up settling to be

(hypothetically speaking that is) Flash

Gordon instead. Never cared much for

Fords anyway.

Chris Hanch 10-25-19

Thoughts for Today

I had a poem I wrote today. I pressed the wrong

key on my computer and deleted the whole thing.

It was damned good poetry too. Unfortunately,

my foggy, old-age memory could not reconstitute

the piece word for word. What I can recall was

the first line—Thinking about you today, and what

you might be thinking, what you may have to say?

I spoke of revelations and situations profound and

profane. Then came the unfortunate delete key

stroke followed by ensuing brain drain. Oh, ’tis a

mighty shame. Could have been an eloquent verse

which may have brought me some litterary acclaim.

I made reference to our sharing slices of life’s

pie, your preference being blueberry, and apple

being mine. I mentioned forming a more perfect

union, you and I. And there was so much more

which escapes me in my current pissed-off state,

stuff about which I had hoped you could relate.

But then, I was wondering about you not so much

me today. What might you be thinking, what pro-

found or profane you may have to say? Who can say,

today possibly could have been monumental in the

history of you and me. Let me know…Sincerely, Me.

Chris Hanch 10-24-19

Mistakes are Made

I opened my eyes. It was then I realized,

I had ordered the wrong thing. Your order

has shipped, the e-mail notification said.

The tri-color ink cartridge is on its way.

No stopping it now—tri-color—magenta,

yellow and cyan. I love those colors; when

mixed together in proper measure they can

create any color imaginable. But my prin-

ter has enough of those. I need black in-

stead. Black, the absense of color required

to satisfy and complete the contrast my

printing projects need for proper reproduc-

tion. HP, Amazon and the Internet have made

it so easy for me to order, and I blew it by hit-

ting the wrong computer key. Paid a tidy sum

too with my debit card, and my mistake will

arrive by FedEx today. In this day and age, in

the techlogically advanced world in which we

live, it is so easy to order electronically. Black,

I need black toner, not the tri-color variety

which I was told will be delivered to my door

today. I suppose I will give it another shot, and

order again. Coincidently, the cost for the right

item is damn near the same. There are times,

however, I do miss doing my shopping the old

fashioned way—mano e’ mano, and being told

face-to-face that I’ve made a mistake. Exchanges

are much easier that way.

Chris Hanch 10-23-19

Genealogy

You are the son of a son, son of a father

who was also one. You are the daughter

of a daughter of a mother, and before her

yet another.

You may happen to be a brother, a sister,

a father, a mother formed as family. Could

be you are an aunt, an uncle, a cousin to

many or few.

More than likely you are related by blood

or marriage, by dint of adoption or legality

to someone who may or may not bear the

same surname as you.

Confused? The tree of genealogy has many

branches. It takes many leaves of color and

shape to make a family. Anyone ever tell you

that you have your grandmother’s eyes?

Chris Hanch 10-22-19

The Long Walk

It’s like one of those long walks

which leads nowhere. You’re

therapist recommended, no

presribed it to stimulate the

serotonin in your brain, suppos-

edly to help combat your current

episode of depression. So then,

this is a battle you’re fighting in a

hundred years war which was

handed down to you genetically

at birth. What in hell, you’ll not

live long enough for it to end after

the passing of a century anyway.

One foot ahead of another is the

only hope of relief you seek, and

the sidewalk, the grass and wind-

ing path through the trees lead

you around in a circle you have

traveled so many times before.

Near the creek, you find a log to

sit upon. You reach for the pack

of cigarettes in your pocket. There

should be a lighter in there too.

You fumble about in both pockets,

but no. Must have left it on the

dresser at home. You get up and

walk back the way you came. A

lot of damned good this walk did

you today. And why in hell am I

talking about myself in the second

person anyway? Suppose I’d rather

have this happening to you than me.

Chris Hanch 10-20-19

Everyday People

We humans are funny a lot indeed.

We tend to talk about the highlights

of our lives, and generally pay no

nevermind to the day-to-day routine.

Boring, you may say, no one wants

to hear about the hum-drum activities

most folks experience on any given

day. We crave the unusual and unique.

Adventure and excitement is what we

seek. Tell me about your trip abroad,

your Everest climb to the world’s high-

est peak. I’ve got this friend who’s a

marine biologist. Now, she sure has got

some fascinating stories to tell. What

do you do for a living? Oh, an accoun-

tant, eh? That’s nice. Working with num-

bers has never been my strong suit. I

prefer more physical activities. Oh, me?

You want to know something about me?

Well starting out in the morning, I like

my coffee black and my eggs over easy.

By the way, did you happen to catch the

Chief’s game on TV the other day? C’mon,

man, you can do better than that.

What a way to live life, on the sidelines

and vicariously. Dogs and cats have no

need to emulate humanity. Comfortably,

they relish the regularity of their routine.

Chris Hanch 10-19-19

Dead Reckoning

Dead reckoning

I’ve been where I have been, I reckon. And I

reckon I’m going to be where I need to be.

Something new, I reckon, I’ll see. Something

old, should I live long enough, I reckon I’ll be.

Birds and bees, planes, trains and automobiles—

some things are natural, some things man-made.

I reckon it is whatever it happens to be. I reckon you

and I is proper English, unless a preposition precedes,

changing you and I appropriately into you and me.

I reckon fewer is correct for countable nouns as

less applies to uncountable nouns (i.e. 15 or fewer

items; less freedom ). Now here’s a conundrum—

I never understand the term, dead reckoning even

when sufficiently defined for me. For you see, only

the living need directional positioning afforded by

dead reckoning to determine where they are presently

and where they need to be. Just another irony of life,

I reckon. I see that in order to explain what should

be plain to comprehend logically, seems that I have

wound up with one fewer line at the end here, and

could have probably tried better to express far less.

Chris Hanch 10-18-19

Each Day the Same, I Pray

Just as every single human alive,

I have grown to form my beliefs.

Those views, I am relatively sure,

may differ from yours in varying

degrees; some quite likely are the

same. Miracles come and go for

nearly everyone. For some, inclu-

ing me, miracles are not necessa-

rily a religious thing, but a random

fortuitous happening. Many of us,

believers or not, will admit, it’s a

bloody miracle that we are alive.

I contend, and both science and

religion will bear this out, that the

Universe is fair and square with

everyone and everything when it

comes to a beginning and an end.

We are born and so it shall be that

in time we shall eventually die. And

given those parameters, simply sta-

ted as they may be, I say a little pray-

er to the portion of universe which

each day dwells inside of me —a good

day, a safe day, a loving day, I pray.

And for the most part, given all the

miracles and mistakes, this has ser-

ved me well for some 72-years. Now

that I have reached my twilight years,

having been born and now facing the

rapidly approaching and inevitable end,

I add this simple request to my daily

prayer—One more miracle, I pray…

that today remains mostly the same

for me as it was yesterday. And I am

tickled pink to report to all of you who

remain—So far, so good.

Chris Hanch 10-17-19

Just Another Day

A discarded ticket stub doing

somersaults down the street.

An old man turns and hobbles

away on his aluminum cane.

The weather threatens rain today.

Yellow buses are filled with

children off to school again.

Bills on the kitchen table have

yet to be paid. A tick finds its

meal, and buries its head in the

thigh of a raccoon as the sun

rises over the swampy lagoon.

Shoe laces are tied in knots

which are damn near impossible

to remove. Odds are Starbucks

will serve lattes again today.

The barista calls out your name.

The old woman with clacking teeth

struggles with her bagel while mum-

bling profanities. All at once seems

everything is happening. You rose

this morning to a rude awakening.

There was a winner to last night’s

playoff game, and of course there

had to be a loser too. Always next

season, you tell yourself. And a

glimmer of hope runs through you,

that a change in team management

will be made. You’ve never been a

fan of lattes, and order a grande

dark roast instead. You chuckle as

the old woman’s false teeth fall out

onto her paper plate. You should

have had a V-8.

Chris Hanch 10-16-19

Classic for the Ages

The story has been written, dear reader.

And with so many volumes penned through-

out history, the hero and heroine escaped

in the nick of time. Everyone loves an ex-

citing tale which ends happily ever after.

Things didn’t work out so well for Captain

Ahab, as you know. Still, it remains a classic

to this day. I suppose then, it’s all about lessons

learned, and for those who can relate or see
themselves in the characters portrayed.

I for one was sympathetic, and took sides with

Moby Dick, The Great White Whale. As a child,

I had two friends named “Dick.” Of course there

were the stories about Dick and Jane. And every-

one of a certain age remembers the famous crime

fighter, Dick Tracy.

It has been my experience that if you call some-

onen “a Dick,” however, you’re liable to get your

block knocked off. Funny how a small indefinate

article like “a” can make such a profound differ-

ence. That’s a whole other story which doesn’t

end well either. I’ll save that one for another day.

Suppose using “Richard” is always a safer bet.

Chris Hanch 10-15-19

Knockings at My Door

At different times in our lives, we all

need some help. It’s only natural, you

may be thinking. Shit happens to the

best and worst of us occasionally.

On the verge of making or breaking,

we teeter at times on the jagged edge

between life and death. Yes, it can be

that serious, I tell you.

That’s what drugs and alcohol will

do to one when gripped in the jaws

of addiction. With nowhere else to

go, Luis knocked at my door one day

asking me for a place to stay.

Then one night he drank his chance

away. So, next day I made him a couple

of sandwiches, slipped him a couple of

bucks, and sent him packing. (Couldn’t

threaten my own sobriety again.)

Robert was another who staggered to

my door in the middle of the night

slurring his words, pleading, Can you

give me a place to stay for a few days?

The wife kicked him out. Said she

just couldn’t take it anymore.

I shook my head, reluctant to endure

his intoxicated crap, yet sympathetic to

his situation. That lasted all of two days

before he bought his next bottle, and I

had to sweep him out the door.

A time later, I did give Jimmy a chance

for he had a bad leg. And for a week or

so, I took him in until he could be treated

for his injury. Down on his luck, poor

Jimmy had nowhere else to go. Opioids

turned out to be his game—bought ‘em,

sold ‘em and took ‘em by the dozen every

day. Damn near burned down my apartment

when he passed out while cooking dinner in

a drug-induced stupor.

Goodbye, Jimmy! Farewell, good luck,

goodbye! I had to let him go. Two weeks

later word came from a mutual acquain-

tance that outside a fleebag motel on

the Lower Eastside, Jimmy overdosed

and died.

Three lost souls, the frequent knockings

at my door. I have become wise to the

failings in my own life. And now I realize,

with Death’s shadow lurking on the other

side, my own life is on the line. And cling-

ing to the fragile thread of my sobriety,

I refuse to answer.

Chris Hanch 10-14-19