A Plea of Guilty

Have you ever considered committing a crime

no one will ever solve? Could be that you

already have. Come to think of it, a stint in

prison may be too good for the likes of you

and me. I tend to use “me” in many of my

poems because I am guilty. And I hope you

understand that I am writing these lines so

that someone will find me. Next time slip a

file into the pie you bring on visitor’s day.

Chris Hanch 11-20-17

Questions?

The raccoon lives his life knowing nothing

but the truth. The sycamore has no reason

to doubt the wind. The earth whirls all around

us and we become believers. The son refuses

to tell his parents the whole story. Why is it

the butcher asked forgiveness on his death bed?

We take for granted that our lives had a plan to

begin with, and soon learn that answers to our

questions demand a price to be paid. I cannot

say for sure what attracted me to red roses in the

first place. As a child I recall my father handing

my mother a bouquet of American Beauties on

Valentine’s day. Days later she sat my brothers

and me down to tell us she had filed for a divorce.

In a week’s time those roses withered, losing their

luster, and were thrown in the trash. As a child

I wondered, why do so many of our prayers go

unanswered? Why do red roses tell us lies?

Chris Hanch 11-18-17 

The Way Things Are

It seems that it is the duty of each generation

to explain to each succeeding generation how

things have changed. It used to snow a hell of

a lot more back in the day. Why, when I was a

child, I had to walk miles to school and back

home every day. What’s more, it was up hill

both ways. My mother would wash my mouth

out with soap had I said some of the things you

kids say today. Nowadays it seems more likely

and appropriate that we encourage our children

to follow the example set by our elected officials:

Be a bully, defy the rules of common decency,

promote yourself and demean others who dis-

agree with you. Be disrespectful of women,

the disabled and the less fortunate. Grab all the

p***y, fame and fortune you can. Lie, cheat and

steal, divide. You too, my child, can become President
of the United States of America…

Go ahead, build that wall! Lock her up!—Only you
can Make America Great Again!

Chris Hanch 11-17-17

Something Unexpected Today

Should something unexpected happen today,

it would more than likely happen in this poem.

There, I’ve said it, and now I’m committed in

writing here to perform. Poetry for me is a

thought at first, perhaps just a single word,

and then popcorn kernels start popping, onions,

are peeled as layer upon layer is revealed, rose

buds yesterday bloom into fragrant blossoms

today. Something I sense is about to happen

today, a simple word to begin and a simple

word to end and in the middle, some magical,

abracadabra, rabbit pulled from the hat.

Who can say? See, there is nothing up my sleeves.

Chris Hanch 11-14-17

Knowing Only That Which You Know

The archer takes aim hoping the arrow hits its mark.

The general moves his battalion of tanks into position.

The 8^th grader refused to do the homework assigned

him the day before. We awaken each morning with

an unsolved problem lingering on the mind. The

left foot screams that the awkward shoe is meant to

be worn on the right. Your dog scoots his rear end

across the carpet in the living room. That action was

passed down to him instinctively through thousand

of years of canine history. You have managed to live

through seventy years of life. History tells you that

accuracy and repetition, even the best laid plans are

not guarantees that the species will survive. A steady

autumn rain continues to fall. You grab your umbrella

on the way out the door.

Chris Hanch      

Life's Recipe

My life includes some of the best recipes

as well as those which may be considered

less than choice or tasty. I am the chef of

cuisine, baking deliciously in the ovens of

my dreams. Over time, I have selected

scraps and pieces which were less than

prime, while artfully seasoning that which

by some standards may be considered not

so appetizing and savory. Along the way,

I have acquired a taste for the bitter and the

sweet, dabbing a dollop or two of butter or

cream to enrich most any fare. It doesn’t

take a lot to make this life of mine seem

more palatable. I carefully measure my

spices mostly by the teaspoon, you see,

while using a pinch of this and a dash of

that to season my dishes more appetizingly.

And often, I’ll pound repeatedly with fierce

intensity to tenderize life’s toughest cuts of

meat. Has anyone left room for dessert?

Chris Hanch 11-11-17    

Lifetime Mysteries

After a life not so kind, mostly brought on

by a deep depression of the mind, and having

to deal with three sons birthed one after one,

my mother died at age fifty-nine. (Adding to

her melancholia, The Great Depression and

World War Two turned out to be a few more

bitter bites for her to chew.) My father, her

knight in shinning armor at first, proved to be

a lot less stellar than she expected him to be.

This story has been re-told over and over again

in the post-war dreamworld of our society—

white picket-fenced houses in the suburbs, and

new cars parked in every garage. Leave it to

Beaver family lives being lived from sea-to-

shining-sea. I got to thinking about my own life,

befuddling and conflicted at times with that

insidious strain of depression my mother and

father passed along to me genetically. Today,

I am seventy-years of age, and my two brothers

are seventy-one and sixty nine respectively.

Were she alive today, our mother would be some-

where in the neighborhood of ninety-three. I am

sure she would be questioning how it is that her

three sons have thus far managed to survive. In

reality, it is I who has been doing that wondering

on her behalf. For several decades now, mother

has been far beyond questioning one of those

venial varieties of lifetime mysteries. At my age
and in my lifetime there is no end to the wondering.

Chris Hanch 11-10-17