Discovery II

Anthropologists locate and identify bones,

hominid definitely. And petroglyphs etched

into the cave walls, according to the period

of time and place of discovery, Neanderthal

it appears to be they hypothesize.

And lying beside the excavated digs, a foil

gum wrapper. Wrigley’s it appears to be. Had

poor old Neanderthal and his kind managed

to survive, it may have been them. There was

not a convenience store within a hundred miles.

Ah science, it never ceases to amaze. Bet you

and the anthropologists were certainly surprised

to uncover the find.

Chris Hanch 11-29-19

Something About Life

What gives us life

is life all around.

Our inside grows

out and surrounds

the grounds on

which we are planted.

We sometimes take

this life for granted,

my friends. Our en-

entitlement to all this

is not guaranteed.

We follow the plan

where it takes us.

One unnoticed blade

of grass withers

away from the

path and poof, we

are gone. Not even

a footprint left

to show where

we have been.

What gives us life

is life all around.

Step lively;

move along.

Chris Hanch 11-28-19

Ritual

It was the custom of her people

passed down from her mother

and eons of generations past.

A vacant dwelling to be

occupied once again. But first

a petition to the Great Spirit,

in adoration this smoldering

sage she held prayerfully in

her hands.

And too, chants in her native

tongue meant to cleanse and

protect all who would dwell

in this place—wispy white trails

of smoke streaming, a sacred

offering, and bountiful blessings

for those yet to come.

Chris Hanch 11-27-19

Strange as It May Seem

Strange the way things are sometimes.

Things happen and need to be explained.

Some things, we soon discover, never are.

Upon returning home after a lifetime away,

my son-in-law, having not seen me in years,

yells out to me, “George!” which happens

to be my deceased father’s name. There

was a distinct resemblance he saw between

my father and me. Of course, having been

away and living in places where my father

had never been, no one else ever made that

connection. But upon returning home and

hearing what my son-in-law saw in me,

I was taken aback with the revelation, and

was struck with the thought, Oh my God,

Dad, look what you’ve done to me. It was

not a bad thought, mind you. After all, I

had always considered my dad as being a

pretty good looking man. Carry on, Genes,

carry on.

Chris Hanch 11-26-19

On a Good Day

On a good day, my computer does what I

tell it to do. My two pups listen to my every

command and obey. On a good day, I keep

my balance and prevent stumbles and falls.

On a good day, I manage to minimize my

pain and allay troubles which may otherwise

complain. On a good day, my coffee is hot

and black, and its blend soothes and stimu-

lates. On a good day, all the bills are paid and

my bank account still has enough cash just in

case. On a good day, I can read and write, nap

and relax at will without fear of recrimination

or reprisals for my state. On a good day, nega-

tive influence will not supersede or invade. I

can accept the old and gray, the stuff of which

I have come to be made. And you, given your

narrow-minded and pathetic views on religion,

politics and shape of the nation, as I see it, shall

carry no weight. Please note, I have saved the

best and worst for last. You know who you are.

This is a good day, and there is no need for you

to call unless you have something pleasant to say.

Chris Hanch 11-25-19

Poetry and Prayer

When does a poem become a prayer?

Each day I write and I pray, hopeful

tomorrow will shine a better day. For

today in my poetry I say what I need

to say. My prayer longs for tomorrow.

Rhyme or reason to be answered? I’ll

wait and see. There is, I have come to

know, a fifty-fifty chance of snow. (It

is that time of year after all.) And al-

though there may be a prayer invoked,

a wise man should always bet on the

odds. Good or bad, poetry is a sure thing.

Either way, there surely must be a god of

sorts involved in there somewhere. I figure

a prayer now and again certainly can’t hurt.

Chris Hanch 11-24-19

Sometimes You and I

Day breaks and sunset inevitably arrives.

Events come and go; time passes rapidly

and slow. Through thick and thin, you

and I have thrived and survived. What

have you seen and where on Earth have

you been? So much water has passed

silently under the bridge. Each drop of

rain is rarely acclaimed. We tend to talk

in terms of inundation and flood. No

news is good news, they say. And so it

goes, day after day seemingly the same.

There are those times we live our lives

incognito, camouflaged and disguised.

What have you to say? I’d love to know.

Where have you been; what have you

done? Figuratvely speaking, how does

your garden grow? We may share com-

monalites, you know. You and I are not

alone. Paint me a picture; write me a

poem. I’d sing a song for you, but I

never could carry a tune. Can you?

Chris Hanch 11-23-19

Fair is Fair

It’s not fair. When those lowly feelings come over me

which seem to occur with old age more frequently, I

begin my day on the toilet struggling with constipation.

And in order to relieve life’s inequities, and lighten my

load, I merely grunt with a sense of glee, imagining Bill

Gates doing the same.

Chris Hanch 11-22-19

A Haunting Reverie

Here is where the downfall of thought resides:

You have come so far in life, have traveled near

and wide, and yet still hold memories and secrets

inside. There are the lighthearted and heavy

weights you have accumulated. The baggage is

a drag sometimes; thoughts of the finer times

still illuminate and inspire. The agrieved tides of

loss in remembering rise with frequency. At mid-

night alone and in the dark, a haunting sentiment

arrives—perhaps somewhere along the way, I

have misplaced or left the best of myself behind.

We are all on our individual journeys, and over

time I have come to realize that the reflective

traveler will eveitably share in this concern. Much

the same as the hundred year old oak tree displays

strength and endurance, providing beauty and com-

fort with its shade, it shall be missed when removed.

And so it is, sometimes, I recall that once stately oak

tree of my standing, summarily cleared from the field

of play by time, still looms lively in my state of mind.

Chris Hanch 11-21-29

A Random Revelation

A thought, a random revelation, geyser

like, a wellspring of wisdom perhaps.

Then again, a distraction happens, and

the train pulls out of the station. I failed

to hear the conductor call, all aboard. I

shall not reach my desired destination

today. Old Faithful is a thousand miles

away; my memory fades. Nature, I sup-

pose, is sometimes that way. Tomorrow

is bound to reveal yet another day. In the

meantime, I’ve got some time to waste.

Chris Hanch 11-19-19

Have You Heard the News?

Reality rules, even if you don’t know

the truth. The fact that it has yet to

affect you doesn’t mean it is not hap-

pening. You may be waiting for it to

reach your eyes and ears before being

willing to recognize. But it is out there

permeating anyway. The pot of stew is

brewing, my friends, all the ingredients

are simmering in a slow boil. Have you

heard the news? The leaves are changing,

squirrels are burying seeds and nuts in

preparation. Cold and snow is leaving

the Arctic Circle today. Check the exten-

ded forecast, winter is on its way. Some

may regret the change. Screw it—bad

news for some, good news for others.

Dig your boots and parka out of the closet.

Inclement weather isn’t the worst news

which could be descending upon you. I for

one have got nowhere else to go, let's play.

Chris Hanch 11-18-19

She

She shakes, she bakes,

she freezes, she thaws,

hestitant at times,

she hems and haws.

She buds and blossoms,

She blows, grows,

blazes and floods.

She rises and falls.

Loud and clear,

both seen and unseen,

and yet without malace

of forethought,

she gives and she takes.

Be mindful and aware,

my friends,

Mother Earth gives her all

and makes no mistakes.

Chris Hanch 11-17-19

On the Other Side

All of us have forgotten the moment we arrived,

and thus the story begins with the recording of

our lives. I tell my tale, some of which some of

you can relate. Others, well they see their history

completely differently. There, I have strung together

three words in a row which end in “y.” Which begs

to question, why? Each are assigned to answer the

question individually. And I wish you well and success

with this ofttime indomitable lifetime exercise. Simply

we are here to envision, to try, to succeed and fail, to

do and die. All of us, regardless of stature or place are

eventually bound to resign. Personally, my belief for

the future of me is that I shall be bound inextricably,

wound around the inescapable vine of the everlasting,

steeped in peace and harmony with the perpetual Chorus

of Eternity from which there is no end, no return. And

still, the Question for the Ages shall remain—Why? Call

it heaven or hell if you wish.

Chris Hanch 11-16-19

Something About Uncle Ray

For the most part, Uncle Ray was a quiet

man, a thoughtful man who would speak

his mind when he had something of value

to say. He was an economical man in his

own way, wasting no time on the frivolous

or mundane. He had seen war and death in

his day, fought with the Army’s Second In-

fantry Division at the Battle of the Bulge

in World War II. He never spoke of the

carnage he had seen and survived. He did,

however, tell me a story about pushing

through Germany and arriving at Pilsen,

Czechoslovakia with his unit toward the

end of the war. Great town, Pilsen, he

would say. Some of the best beer in the

world brewed there. And he and his bud-

dies looked forward to quenching their

thirst after a long and hard fought war.

Damn Jerry destroyed all the breweries

when they had withdrawn from the

place, Uncle Ray told me once, a hell of

a shame, he said in disgust, shaking his

head. After the war, Ray had given some

of his medals to his older brother, my dad.

Ray didn’t need extra reminders of the

death and destruction, the ugliness he had

witnessed during the war. And although he

never complained, I’m sure that he suffered

from PTSD which he carried with him for the

rest of his days. Knowing that I had an affinity

for the military as a child, my dad passed Uncle

Ray’s medals along to me figuring, I suppose,

Ray wouldn’t care to see them ever again. After

the war, Ray eventually got married and helped

raise five children. And life, as it has a tendency

to do, moved along. Well, long story short, some

forty-years later and upon one of my visits to Ray

and family, I brought one of his medals along with

me. It was The Combat Infantryman Badge…

(The Combat Infantryman Badge is a U.S. Army Badge,

it has a blue bar, the color that is associated with the

Infantry. The musket is adapted from the Infantry Insignia

of Army Branch of Service. The oak leaf cluster symbolizes

steadfastness, strength and loyalty. There are basically

three requirements for award of the CIB. The soldier

must be an infantryman satisfactorily performing infantry

duties, must be assigned to an infantry unit during such

time as the unit is engaged in active ground combat, and

must actively participate in such ground combat.)

I wasn’t sure how Uncle Ray would react to my

returning this symbol of his meritorious service

to brothers and country. Uncle Ray was a

quiet man, a thoughtful man who would speak

his mind when he had something of value to say.

On this day, the tearing in his eyes and affirming

smile of pride and appreciation spoke volumes.

Chris Hanch 11-14-19

Confusion

And so it is, day after day,

we look for our Savior,

each in our own way. Up,

down, inside and out, eyes

shut or open wide, which

way, who can say? I’m on

the Road to Go, you know.

And, we’re all headed...

ABCs, I had to learn them before

forming words on the page. I

had to see the misspellings in

order to understand the errors

of my way. With numbers it was

pretty much the same beginning

with one plus one equals two.

There is a measure of math

involved with...

From a distance all raccoon

look the same. One elephant

is larger than another, but

certain characteristics appear

to be similar. Take the snout

of a pig, the wing of a bird as

opposed to a fly…

This is my fourth try, and writing

a piece which imparts a message,

or with some clarity makes a mod-

icum of sense to you or me today.

Nonsense is bound to happen to

the best of us sometimes.

I can choose to start over and again,

but time is lost and the exact place

shall never be the same. I am only

human, I could explain. However,

other species see me for what I am

and tend to flee with good reason.

With you, the same scenerio more

than likely applies. Is it any wonder

that we don’t always see eye to eye?

Confused? Sometimes, so am I.

Don’t turn around and run; just

smile, then slowly back away.

Chris Hanch 11-12-19

Service

You put on the uniform, lace the boots, don

the cap, all dress the same. Rank may change,

but not the name. Duty to uphold; you took

a solemn oath, and do as you’re told. Salute

the flag twice a day, and ranking officers pas-

sed on your way. Stand shoulder-to-shoulder

at attention in formation, willing and able to

defend your nation. Always hopeful for peace

not war, ever present and accounted for.

Army, Air Force, Coast Guard, Navy and Marine,

you stand rock solid beneath Old Glory at the ready

alongside your brothers and sisters just in case.

Chris Hanch 11-11-19

A Saturday Night in the 1950s

Could we, Dad, could we please, please?

We’ll be quiet, really, really quiet. We

won’t say one word, promise. Huh, Dad,

please? So it was frequently in the 1950s

for my two brothers and me begging our

Dad on a Saturday night to stay up past

our bedtime and watch Gunsmoke on TV.

C’mon, Dad, could we please? We won’t

make a peep, promise, not a word, please?

And with a stern but yielding look, one

of hesitation yet reluctant belief, our Dad

agreed. Okay, boys, but just this once,

and absolute quiet, please. And then we

settled in, eyes wide and affixed on the TV

as Marshall Dillon appeared on a lonely

and dusty Dodge City street. He stared

down the bad guy and both drew their guns.

Marshall Matt shot once and was left stand-

ing. (We never saw what happened to the

other guy, but everyone knew he lost.) Then,

up came the music, and the word Gunsmoke

appeared on the screen. The saga was about

to begin as three boys sat quietly with their

dad, figuring in our promised silence that in

the end, Matt Dillon, US Marshall of Dodge

City, Kansas was certain to win again.

Chris Hanch 11-10-19

It Is What It Is

Something is happening on the surface of

Saturn far too distant for the naked eye to

be seen. Synergy is a process happening

here, there, everywhere, 24-7 changing

what was into that which forms anew.

It takes sunlight on an apple to ripen

the fruit. I cannot see the stream of traffic

on the Interstate, but can hear the thrum of

activity several miles away. A battery holds

its energy at the ready to electrify the light

when the need arises. We rely on gravity to

ground us yet ignore its influence every step

we take. I awake over and over again each

day. Seventy-two plus years in a row for me

has been the case. There is so much we take

for granted, my friends, so much we ignore.

It is what it is, like it or not, until it is no more.

Then, I recon, whatever it turns out to be, we

shall be moved to reconsider. And for today at

least, Saturn still seems so far away. But you

might want to check your batteries just in case.

Chris Hanch 11-9-19

Lest We Forget

Remember the wars, One and Two, and all the wars

which came before and after. Remember our ancestors,

our brothers and sisters who were wounded and gave

their lives. Remember the freedoms taken away or

never gained. Remember the liberties fought for and

maintained. Remember the day you looked across the

Great Divide, and shook your head in shame, telling

yourself and the world—we are better than this; let

us one day unite. Remember the hopeful listeners and

the deaf ears of resisters who refused to hear. Remember

the histories of our victories and defeats. Remember the

righteous and outspoken teachers who have given hope

to those who have known the curse of captivity, who

long for the fruits and sweet taste of liberty. Let us re-

cognize the warrior teachers, who armed with truth,

have dedicated their lives to spreading the beacon of

peace and harmony to a people yearning to be, and those

committed to remain free. Lest we forget, let us give praise

and remember.

Chris Hanch 11-8-19

Eccentricity

Once, while involved in a parlor game,

my second wife was asked to describe

me in a word. “Eccentric” she told the

other players, not bothering to look

directly at me. Kind of made sense,

though. Had often wondered why I

always rolled downhill lopsided while

others went round and round much more

concentrically. No wonder I was never

the first to reach bottom. I suppose I’ve

lived my life that way, never in first place

and motivated ever so slightly out of round.

Imagine a grand prix racer driving his

formula one car with a flat tire. Floppity-

floppity-flop, man, that would be me.

Eccentric, huh? A lot better, I suppose, than

the sorry son-of-a-bitch my first wife often

made me out to be.

Chris Hanch 11-7-19