Lest I Forget

Write it down, I tell myself, lest I forget.

Something always comes up, gets in the

way of my remembering.

Sometimes, I find, it’s the most simple

things which slip the mind. Write it down,

put it in a place you pass by several times

a day, a place where nothing else gets in

the way, by

the phone, on a table top where it sits

by itself all alone, a flag waving in your

face as you pass frequently on the path

you travel several times on any given

day.

Surely there are more important things

to consider, thoughtful concerns which

interrupt and occupy the mind.

Write it down, a memo reminder to

self. My son comes Tuesday to do some

grocery shopping for me. It’s Monday,

not too soon; not too late.

I open the fridge door, and it hits me

four square in the face—I must add a

large jar of mayonnaise and mustard to

my list.

Now, where was it I put that damn thing?

                    -30-

Chris Hanch 11-29-2020 

The Plot Before the Fall

 

When Dad reached his mid to late eighties,

dementia began to affect his mind. My older

brother, Mark, who lived with and took care of

him tells of the antics he would pull now and

again.

There were times when Dad craved special

attention, and brother Mark was in another

room. Dad would carefully lay his walker down

on the carpet and place himself prostrate next

to it pretending to have taken a fall.

Dad would then yell out to Mark, “Help! Help

me I’ve fallen! And Mark entering the room

where Dad was could see he was not injured

and that he and his walker were conveniently

placed in close proximity to one another.

Of course Mark went along with the preconceived

ordeal, and would hoist Dad back up to his feet.

Playing along, Mark said to him, “Next time, Dad,

be more careful.”

Either forgetting or intentionally not paying heed

to Mark’s warning, Dad would repeat his deceptive

maneuver several times a week.

Now where does this all lead, you may be asking

yourself? Well, long story short, I am myself disabled

at seventy-three, and I too use a walker or cane to

get around at home. I live alone and still pretty much

still take care of myself.

In earlier years, I can’t tell you how many times people

who knew us have said how much I take after my dad.

Now, I have taken a fall or two myself. While I do suffer

with memory loss now and again, I still have the where-

withal to know that should I fall, I damn well better be

prepared to get up off my ass by myself. I don’t have a

brother Mark around to answer my calls for help.

I can see why Dad did what he did, though. Neither of

us cared for Mark very much in the first place. And I can

see where playing tricks on him once in a while would

be good for a chuckle anyway.

Like Dad, I may be old and infirmed. And one thing is

for certain, I still have the presence of mind to know

good joke when I see one.

                                        -30-

Chris Hanch 11-28-2020

56-years Ago

 

Christmas Eve 1964, I was riding a Greyhound Bus

from Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri to Kansas City and

a visit with my dad. I wore my Army green class A

uniform.

Still in basic training and only having been in service

for barely a month, there were no chevrons or hash marks

on my arms, no medals worn on my chest. I was, however,

proudly wearing the uniform of my country, and glad to be

on a 3-day pass to visit my dad who was to pick me up at

the bus station.

Upon my arrival in K.C., I disembark the bus with my

duffle bag slung over my shoulder. A month previously,

as a skinny and lanky seventeen-year old teenager, I left

home a boy. And although my class A uniform at the

time bore no signs yet of valor or rank, I had taken my

first steps into manhood.

It was back then, I wore brass buttons on my uniform with

shiny U.S. medallions on my lapels. Standing tall with spit

shined shoes and my shoulders thrown back, I marched

up to my dad smiling proudly, greeting with great big a hug.

Dad would never again need to tell me to shine my shoes.

He too now had a reason to be proud.

-30-

Chris Hanch 11-27-2020

The Curious Array

 

This curious piece I write today

could have been set to paper

yesterday or prhaps the day before.

In fact it may have been

created a year or two, even

five years or so ago. And for

all it’s worth, no one will ever

care to know.

The issue with writing some-

thing everyday is that one

tends to accumulate so much

material that it floods the

market of the mind, both

yours and mine.

It’s the same as advertising

on TV, the barrage of clutter

is so constant it saturates the

sensibilities. One can easily

become dumbfounded and

numb.

What can I say which

speaks profoundly to

my thinking today?

What of interest do I

ask of you to associate

or relate?

I find myself swimming

in the cesspool of memories.

The quagmire of my thinking

has viscosity thick as sludge.

The possibilities are so end-

lessly deep my feet will never

touch the bottom.

I love custard pie which

I haven’t eaten in quite

some time. I’m willing

to bet, as sure as tomorrow

arrives, that bit of hokum

will slip the surly bonds of our

inquiring minds.

            -30-

Chris Hanch 11-27-2020

Giving Thanks and Praise

 

I’ve already told you all I know.

That may be a silly way to begin

a poem.

Besides, unless what I have said

included you personally, all of

that could be summarily dismissed

as hearsay, and not considered

admissible in a court of law.

Suffice it to say with all the infor-

mation I have presented in so many

words today, our lives have been

similar in so many ways, and for

the most part you and I can relate.

We have both experienced birth and

death in our lives, have run the gamut

of emotions per se, have loved, hated

won and lost, have been subjected

to pleasure and pain.

We breathe in and out circulating

rich red blood through our veins.

Had a good laugh or cry lately?

Why, of course you have.

And curse the evil you have seen

and endured. And be thankful

for all the good which remains.

We are indeed made of the same

stuff, you and I, yet are uniquely

us in our own way. Thank the

Creator of Life for that.

Thanksgiving and praise. Oh

Happy Day, One and All!

            -30-

Chris Hanch 11-26-2020

Deep Thinking

 

Some say, meditate.

Others prefer hallucinatory drugs.

Some sit cross-legged, motionless

and hum a mantra, om!(108 times)

Still others dance entranced while

singing a chant.

Some bow down and kiss the ground.

As for me, I see myself at the bottom

of a dark well.

It is the looking up into eternity which

invokes me

to my deepest thinking—

How in the world of futility did

I get myself here,

and more importantly,

how in hell do I elevate myself out?

As I live and breathe, mind over matter,

The Spirit God within me, I suppose.

                -30-

Chris Hanch 11-24-2020

Sunday Night Football

 

He did it! A few nights ago on Sunday Night

Football, our young, Kansas City Chiefs quarter-

back, Patrick Mahomes, had a minute-forty-

three seconds to get the ball from his 25-yard

line to the Las Vegas Raiders goal line.

Chiefs were down 31 to28 in the fourth quarter.

A minute-forty-three, mind you, to move his team

75-yards to a touchdown and their ninth victory of

the season. And they weren’t playing at home either.

Well, by golly the young, talented, calm, cool and

collected Mahomes did it with a last bullet pass to

tight-end Kelce in the end zone with some twenty

seconds to spare. With the point after, Chiefs beat

the Raiders 35 to 31.

I got to thinking perhaps the nearly 500 million

dollar 10-year contract Mahomes signed before

the 2020 season began was well worth it.

You should have seen some of the shit I’ve man-

aged to make it though in my nearly seventy-four

years here on Earth. And I never made more than

30-thousand dollars a year.

With age, money aside, some have come to realize,

you can’t win every game to be played. Mahomes

has his days ahead of him as I have had mine.

Now here I am facing the goal line in life. Poor

young Mahomes has a hell of a lot more game

yet to play. Some of us aren’t in this game for

the money, you know. Hopefully we’ll get to do

the happy dance in the end zone dance when

the time clock runs out.

After that, I’ll be thankful when it’s time to be

inducted into that Great Hall of Fame in the sky,

where I’m most likely to be voted MVP of my life.

                       -30-

Chris Hanch 11-23-2020

Something New

Something new. After the same old,

same old, I find the need for something

new.

Old songs on the radio, old shows on TV,

old news, old reviews. Gotta have something

new.

Flipping through old books of poetry I’ve

read a hundred times before, finding nothing

new.

Old shirt I’m wearing, same pattern, old holes

I stick my fingers through. Lord I’d trade all the

old for one thing new.

I’m disgusted and awash in the same old attitude.

and I’m weary of the same old me I’ve come

to be.

Same old place I’m in. I rise up to go outside and

look up into the nighttime sky, and nothing.

It is said that old habits are hard to break.

Maybe for this old dog, the same old phase

of a New Moon will just have to do.

I am reminded that I haven’t had a good

old howl in quite a while.

                  -30-

Chris Hanch 11-21-2020

Instinct

 

The dog or the cat

don’t have time to

fiddle around.

They’ve got to get it

right the first time

in order to survive.

With mothers by their

sides, baby elephants

learn to do the same.

We humans get more

than one shot at it…

if we’re lucky.

           -30-

Chris Hanch 11-20-2020

Days of the Week

 

Saturday will soon enough slip away

(all of them do).

Sunday will once again turn into Monday.

Tuesday and Wednesday shall come and go

(mostly unnoticed).

Now Thursday this coming week, this month

of November in this 2020 year, Thanksgiving

will appear.

And due to my disability and Covid-19, I

shall stay at home alone, just my pup and me.

No turkey, but a fine pork roast with all the

trimmings on the menu for me.

My family, son, daughter, grandchildren shall all watch the

parade and football on TV, and feast in their own homes

as the Pandemic explodes and terrorizes American society

this year.

Then Friday shall come around again, and for me leftovers.

Cooking enough for only one meal doesn’t make a lot of

sense for me, about as much as the different names for

seemingly the same days of the week.

It’s like me lighting up and smoking a cigarette at home

alone after a good meal. I don’t really gives a damn

which day of the week it is. Name any day, they all

play out pretty much the same.

As long as I have that pork roast in the oven and a fresh

pack of smokes, I’ll have something for which to be

thankful, I suppose. It’s those little things which make

a difference, you know.

                           -30-

Chris Hanch 2-21-2020

another day

 

again today

as it has been

for days

on end

no knocking

at my door

no one

scheduled

or spontaneously

will appear

no flesh

and blood

from out there

no visitors

come near

no one

to notice

and applaud

the limping

drummer

in my

one-man

band

the beat

goes on

         -30-

Chris Hanch 2-19-2020

Too Late

 

It’s too late, the cat caught the mouse.

It’s too late, the train has left the station,

the trash men have come and gone,

the horses have left the gate.

It’s too late, the last act has been played,

the batter has hit the ball.

It’s too late, the virus has already spread,

the bed has been made.

It’s too late, way too late, far too late,

the grapes have been eaten and the sun

is overhead.

It’s too late, that bridge has already been crossed,

the last track has been laid.

It’s too late, the last loaf has been bought,

that war has already been fought.

Too late, my friends, the season for planting is past,

the first has finished last, the bond has been broken.

It is too damned late, the air has escaped the balloon,

the last room has been rented, all the icing has been

licked off the spoon.

It’s too late, all the votes have been accounted for,

all the dancers have left the floor.

The punch bowl is empty, and there is no more.

The ice has melted.

The candle has been extinguished.

The license has expired.

Gone is what you have for so long been waiting for.

It’s too late.

Who’s keeping time?

It wasn’t on our side anyway.

-30-

Chris Hanch 11-19-2020

No Guarantees

 

Slipshod, haphazard, hit-

and-miss at best, this body

given me never came with

any guarantees.

But come on now, folks, for

all the starts and stops one

is expected to generate in a

lifetime, surely reliability

should be a given.

You take Michael Jordan,

Ted Williams, Mohammad

Ali, John Wayne, Fred Astaire

and Ginger Rogers, Serena

Williams and the like, physi-

cally they performed flaw-

lessly in the prime of their

lives while I schlep around

with a hitch in my get-along

way too early on.

Marlon Brando as Terry Malloy

in On the Waterfront said it best:

“I could a been a contender; I

could a been somebody...” And

look at poor Terry, he wound up

with a one-way ticket to Palookaville.

Come to think of it, as the world of

humanity slips in and out of gear

and limps haplessly home with

astonishing incompetency, I suppose

things could have been a whole hell

of a lot worse for me.

Besides, the thought and sound of

Palookaville does make me chortle

with a measure of gratitude. Being

punch-drunk on occasion is one of

the side-effects with which I

must deal.

               -30-

Chris Hanch 11-18-2020