Enigma of Your Imagining

 

You don’t know me. I live either in the apartment

next door or the one a floor below. I would introduce

myself formally face-to-face, but due to a physical

infirmity, I have not been out of my place for well

over a year.

Your apartment has been rented and vacated several

times since I moved in about 3-years ago. So, not

getting to know you is practically speaking, okay.

Since you too will likely not be living in your apartment

for too long, I thought you might like to know, I have a

mental picture of who you might be. How is that, you

may ask? My sensory perception is triggered and inhan-

ced by vibrations and sound. Loud voices overheard,

the pace and pressure of footprints across the floor,

the sudden dropping of heavy objects, the regular

bouncing of a ball or annoying hammering of nails

into the walls conjure up vivid images for me.

I suspect, due to the rent structure here, your wall

hangings are not original works of art, but rather

a tacky collection of cheaply framed prints from

Walmart or Costco.

And given all that, my mental assessment of your

physical and psychological makeup is that you are

overweight, self-centered, an inconsiderate narcis-

sist who enjoys pictorial generic scenes of places

you only dream of visiting one day. And your pre-

ference in music sucks, is obnoxiously loud and in

poor taste.

It is my wish that your occupancy here will only

last a few months, and your curiosity of the enig-

matic tenant who lives next door or below remains

a deep dark mystery to you throughout your tenure

here.

And that my silent, reclusive and undefined nature

may suspiciously indicate a cynical and diabolical

ax murderer is quietly plotting his next execution.

Due to my physical inability to reveal myself in the

flesh and personally lodge my complaints, I trust

you realize that I have lots of time on my hands to

silently plot and creatively ruminate.

When it comes time to renew your lease, I strongly

suggest that you may want to reconsider. Without

actually seeing me physically, you can never fully

realize how perfectly harmless I really am. However,

I do dabble quite a bit in creative writing.

                       -30-

Chris Hanch 4-30-2021

All in the Game

 

I finally got it figured out.

After 74-years it suddenly

became crystal clear to me—

I was never meant to be rich

or poor in life, but for the most

part was relegated to somewhere

in the middle.

You know, like a buoy bobbing

in the ocean, pie in the sky above

me, denizens of the deep below.

Would have it mattered anyway

at an early age had I known?

Possibly. I may have made

adjustments, either pressing down

harder or easing up on the gas.

I may have soared or could have

gone down, you know. Suffice it

to say, it was all a game of

horseshoes and hand grenades

which count for something when

you come close.

I’ve always wanted to use that tried

and true analogy in a poem. And to

date, I am proud to report, at least

I was able to achieve that.

              -30-

Chris Hanch 4-29-2021

Missed Opportuniy

 

Years ago (forty years or so) had smart phones

been invented then, I certainly would have taken

more pictures. As it was, I had to consciously

carry my camera around with me intending to

take pictures on any given day.

Back in the day, I needed to ensure that I had a

roll of film or two and the proper lenses with me

to cover the subject matter which I intended to

portray that day. Traveling and while on vacation,

it was a must.

I had to be prepared to take pictures of people

and places which were not familiar or common

to me on a daily basis. I managed to do that

successfully most of the time, and today I have

the fruits of may labor to show for it.

But had I a built-in camera on a smart phone

which I would have carried with me constantly,

I would have surely taken many more photos,

capturing images which were in front of me on

a daily basis (no film or prior planning necessary).

But alas, way back then that was not a possibility.

Oh well, what’s done is done. I did what I could with

that which was available to me before the age of

digital photography.

Most of my life shall remain unrecorded history,

missed opportunities. A shame, I may have captured

a precious shot of you on a bad hair day. Not to be

awarded a prize winner photo-journalistically, but

one which may have likely afforded viewers today

a chuckle or two. And you embarrassed, claiming,

that the shot is crudely bogus, and doesn’t even look

like you.

Damn, I should have had my camera with me

that day.

                       -30-

Chris Hanch 4-28-2021

The "Yes Man" in Me

I have been told that what I need in my

aging and unyielding years is a good

woman. What I need is what I already

have, I submit.

Good women are meant for others.

I wouldn’t know what to do with one

now that the best part of me has been

given away, and the remainder of me

refuses to be changed.

I have known a few good women

in my day, and had to deal with not

so good women as well.

A therapist once told me that I was a

people pleaser, and that I had a hard

time saying no.

She was a good woman, I’m guessing,

and I pleased her by agreeing. That was

the extent of our relationship.

Our hour is about over, she said. I’ll

see you same time next week. I agreed.

And there you have it—I paid her twenty

dollars for the privilege while again sus-

taining her professional assessment of me.

These days, I find myself more satisfied

finding good women in the movies and

as seen on TV. There I can let my ima-

gination soar more freely. And it proves

to be a lot less stressful psychologically.

What’s more, it’s a hell of a lot cheaper

for the occasionally seen penny-pinching

“no ma’am” other side of me.

                 -30-

Chris Hanch 4-25-2021

My First Job

 

My first job as a civilian

after 3-years in the Army.

1968, still only 20-years

old—Benson Manufacturing,

Kansas City, Missouri.

***

Booth head, the Personnel

Director told me, a job

responsible for moving

raw material, piecework

and assorted parts from

one operation to the next.

***

$475 a month, an hourly

based wage. Punch in

on the time clock at

at 7:30 AM. An hour for

lunch. Clock out at 3:30

PM. Five days a week,

some Saturday work and

overtime when required.

Yes, sir. I can handle that.

***

You’re hired, start tomorrow

7:30 sharp. Be on time.

***

A union job—

Iron Workers Local.

Dues will be taken out

of your check.

***

Barely enough money to

support a young family

of three family, but had to

start somewhere, I figured.

***

A group of experienced co-

workers invited me out to

lunch with them after a few

days on the job.

***

The neighborhood tavern.

A few rounds of boiler

makers to start. These were

rough and tumble burly

guys, machinists, fabricators,

equipment operators who

did what they needed to do

to survive their drab, daily,

piecemeal, gritty routine.

***

I was a no-count skinny kid

who didn’t yet have a clue as

to how things worked. Better

get your head out of your ass,

I was advised, and wise up

quick lest you get run over

or cut in two.

***

Needless to say, along with

my seniors, I was required

to drink my lunch that day.

***

And after returning to work,

I wobbled around until I

found a rest room and an

empty stall where I passed

out for an hour or so. The

other guys were not phased

by their alcohol intake and

proceeded with their work.

***

Fortunate for me my ab-

sense was not noticed,

and hungover, I staggered

about moving material

from one station to

another sick as a dog.

***

Any more shenanigans

like this and surely I’d

get my ass tossed out

onto the street, fired

and humiliated before

my first paycheck.

***

I had come to the figure

that I was never cut out

to be a beefy blue collar

brute who could handle

alcohol and a job at the

same time.

***

After that incident, I stuck to

drinking after hours on my

own time. In fact, sober or not,

factory work turned out to be

not such a good match for me

either. I was fired a year latter

over an insubordination matter.

***

It took me years, a divorce

and moves from to one job

and place after another to

discover alcohol and I were

a bad mix all together, no

matter when or where.

***

For certain from early on,

I can definitely say, I never

liked blue collar work

anyway.

Oh well, live and learn

they say. I used to wonder,

for me, how many lessons

would that take?

-30-

Chris Hanch 4-23-2021

A Life Indeed

 

As a young married man

with

a family, a car and

home in the suburbs,

with

a lawn to mow in summer

and snow to plow in winter

with

bills to pay

with

nosy and obnoxious neighbors

to endure

with

taxes, mortgage and upkeep

to maintain, there was

only boredom, routine

and old age to face the same.

I didn’t want to die

that way

with

an obituary to claim,

he was a good church

going family man

and a pillar

of the community.

So, I left it all behind to

experience the other side.

And I’m here to tell you,

it can be a cold, cruel and

lonely world out there, but

there’s a life to live

if you dare—

No weed-free lawn for me

as my legacy,

but a wondrous and

beautiful world indeed!

           -30-

Chris Hanch 4-21-2021

Every Day

 

Every day, alive

and awake,

I’m okay

until I struggle

to get up

and move.

Every day, alive

and awake

another time

and place,

I have

survived.

Eyes opened

wide,

and within

my reach

and sight,

could have been

otherwise.

          -30-

Chris Hanch 4-21-2021

War is Hell

 

I met Marcus at the VA drug and alcohol

rehab program in St. Louis. Both of us

were Army vets, but from different eras.

I served during the Vietnam War and was

fortunate enough to have been stationed

for my term of Service in Germany.

In 1965 the US at the height of the Cold

War the US was still focused on deterring

the Soviets from advancing militarily in

Western Europe.

Marcus was young enough to be my son.

Unfortunately for him the War in Iraq

was in full swing.

Marcus was an infantryman and was

involved in live fire action. He was

injured when his vehicle was destroyed

by the detonation of a roadside bomb.

Several of his buddies were killed in

the explosion.

On another mission after attacking an

enemy location Marcus and his squad

discovered a child of about eight years

old was killed in the skirmish.

Needless to say Marcus suffered from

PTSD, and after his term of service he

relied heavily on drugs and alcohol to

relieve his intense anxiety.

My addiction condition, I discovered

later was partly due to a family genetic

disposition. With a combative and

tumultuous upbringing between my

mother and father, I was told by a

psychologist in therapy that I too likely

suffered from PTSD as well.

It didn’t help having alcohol available

to me from the age of seventeen when

I went into the service. And being in

Germany where stout beer and all

varieties of hard liquor were readily

available to me.

I am sure I could have been far worse

off had I endured the combat experience

of Marcus. Glad I escaped the psycho

hell of Vietnam.

Anyhow, years later, after my stint in

rehab, Marcus invited me and a couple

of his other buddies over to his place

for dinner where the booze and drugs

flowed freely. I managed to abstain

from drinking that night, but Marcus

had broken his new found sobriety.

Months later, I did succumb to the

same fate. More rehab treatment for

me a year or so later and eventually

I managed to cling successfully to

my sobriety.

After several moves, I lost track of

Marcus. That night I had attended his

dinner party years earlier, on one of

my visits to the bathroom, passing by

Marcus's’ bedroom I noticed an AR15

propped up at his bedside. Perish the

thought, but the war Marcus was waging

would carry on, and the outcome would

likely not be so kind and favorable for

him. As exemplified in Vietnam and

Iraq, some wars are not meant to be won.

                          -30-

Chris Hanch 4-20-2021

She Wore Black

 

She Wore Black

Color had gone from her lips and cheeks,

color had been drained from her life.

Years had passed, gone was the purity

and sanctity of wedding white. And too,

gone were the rainbow colors of unity

and security in her life. Time had invaded

and consumed her days, had taken her

vision of youth away. No longer could

the music and dance of better days sustain

her, no longer had she a vivid palette of color

to maintain her strength, to enlighten her

joyous hopes and dreams. She dressed in

black to symbolize the deprivation and the

void. From head to toe, she wore black

every day as a reminder of the death of her

husband and lover which had years ago

taken life’s spectrum of color away. And

today until her dying days she would be

known respectfully by townsfolk as the

old widow in mourning. That was the custom

of their ways.

-30-

Chris Hanch 4-19-2021

My Treat

 

Growing up, I never was a runner, racer or

jumper, never climbed higher than the low

branches of a tree.

Rarely did I lead the way or take first place

in any event I ventured into. In baseball, I

never homered, only managed occasionally

to make it safely to first base.

In my lifetime, blue ribbons and trophies

did not stir an interest within me; winning

was never a part of my game.

I played Scrabble and Monopoly, folded

mostly with a loosing hand at poker too.

But I loved to draw and paint. Found my

calling in the arts as something useful I

could pursue.

Never had a bevy of friends either, was

generally grateful in the company of one

or two.

And as I progressed in life and was forced

physically limited into old age, I found

it acceptable to be alone and reclusive

mostly with my music, reading, writing, a

dog and memories to occupy the mind.

As a child I did win a cake walk once

at a school carnival. Weekly these days,

I add a devil’s food with chocolate icing

to my grocery list. That’s quite a treat

and you might say, the frosting on the

cake for me. You can keep your trophies

and first place.

                     -30-

Chris Hanch 4-17-2021