Quandry

It never ceases to amaze, to puzzle—

From the time we take our first

wobbly steps on life’s journey, the

moment we grow to question the

oblique and absorb the well-defined.

When language coats the tongue, and

we transform baby babble into some

coherent linguistic stream of meaning,

when it is deemed by our appointed

guardians that we have sufficiently

matured, it is then we are dressed

for the day and shuffled off to the

institutions of our learning where we

are summarily stuffed to the gills with

a litany of words and deeds, good and

evil. When two plus two equal four,

when each sentence includes an

appropriately tensed verb, when we

can identify and delineate animal

from vegetable and mineral, when

a slap of the hand teaches us to revolt

or reach out at our own risk, it is with

these our story begins in earnest. And

thus, we are assigned the responsibility

of sorting through chaff, pile after pile

of data we have received in search of

the devious and the divine. Processes

of progress and the declination of our

species never cease to amaze, while at

the same time a puzzlement lingers. And

for all it’s worth, we are struck with

these unremarkable words …

Oh, the humanity!

Chris Hanch 5-11-18

The Exchange

Rules are the rules. According to the

calendar and astronomical positioning

of Earth, yesterday is done and gone.

King or queen, rich man or poor, there

are no do-overs irregardless of who you

are. History shows, it happens this way

day after day. The yesterday you wittingly

bought into at the time turned out to be

defective. There are no exchanges, but you

figure it’s worth a try anyway. Light in the

window ahead of you has risen, and once

again today is open for business. Hesitant

with a measure of trepidation, you inch

forward. Have your receipt at the ready, my

friend, you’re next in line. Here it comes!

Chris Hanch 5-10-18

Happiness

While watching TV the other day I heard the man

explain (and here I am compelled to paraphrase),

happiness comes intermittently in bits and pieces.

Sometimes you stop randomly making your way

through life’s trials and tribulations, and out of the

blue it hits you, and you feel the urge to say, I’m

happy. And although you know this feeling is fleeting

you go on with life anyway. There was a fragrant and

perfect rose in the garden on a warm and sunny spring

day. You stop in your tracks and recognize it for what

it is. Now, here’s the kicker—continuous happiness by

any other reckoning is called Fascism. Thank you for

the enlightenment, Anthony Bourdain.

Chris Hanch 5-8-18

The Likes of You and Me

All of us must go one day. It happens to

the best of us as well as the worst. None

of us will ever have the right to claim being

the first or the last. We who have thus far

survived will fall perhaps among the billions

somewhere in the middle. Who among us

still alive recalls the day we drank that six

figured bottle of Chateau Lafite? Or, how

about the day we planted our flag atop 

Everest? Who could forget our trip around

the Earth in a hot air balloon? And wasn’t

it a hoot, you and I atop the podium in the

Olympics being awarded gold and silver

medals respectively? Of course you don’t

because the likes of you and me never did

any of those things. No sir, no ma’am, even

our best achievements in this lifetime were

never so glorious and grand. In my time, I

have painted a few paintings none of which

ever became renown, have never been hung

in a local gallery let alone the Louvre. You may,

however, recall a silly or mundane something

I may have said or done while we were both

still alive. And should I be the one who survives

your passing, I’ll do whatever is left in my power

trying to remember your name. Ralph, wasn’t it?

No, Carl or Mike? I can still see your face all right,

but I’ll be damned in this old age mind of mine,

at this time, your name seems to have escaped me.

Chris Hanch 5-7-18

Gratitude

After seven decades of trial

and error, the dreadful losses

and glorious gains, through

calendars of holidays come

and gone, given whiskers

ripened on my chin old and

gray, after the monotonous

string of sameness day after

day which accumulate along

with the occasional eye-popping

surprises which have entertained,

I am honored to kick the dog of

my discontent being able curse

the pain. For it seems to me a far

more preferential way than being

settled six-feet under, silent for

an eternity committed to the

grave. At least I am alive and

grateful for yet another sunrise

with something left to say.

Chris Hanch 5-5-18

Springtime Storm

Last night, after dark, a faint flash

outside. The low and distant rumble

of thunder grew closer, louder. And

as the wind began to howl and bend

the trees, torrents of rain were driven

sideways against the windows. Then

a sudden bright flash, and immediate

boom shook the room. Another and

another as sirens sounded a warning,

seek shelter immediately. My small

dog hopped into my lap shaking

frightfully as the springtime storm

raged outside. I gently stroked her

back and rubbed behind her ear

reassuringly. I have been through

many of these in my past seventy

some years. Nothing to fear, little

one, I’m still here. And besides, I’ve

got a fifty-one year old son and a

daughter of forty-eight who have
likewise survived. 

Chris Hanch 5-3-18

A Sunday Poem

This morning I have been reading from some

country poets who have portrayed fond images

of their childhood growing up on the farm—

rustic home fires in winter, horse drawn wagons

hauling bales of hay, callous handed grandfathers

on combines harvesting fields of grain, aproned

mothers baking Sunday dinner for the preacher

and his family after church. I come from a far

different place. A city boy I grew up to be, removed

considerably from pastures of green and home-spun

fields of familial memories. As a product of the streets,

my take on life, poetically speaking, developed quite

differently. For now, lets put aside the crush and

clamor of vehicular traffic on rush hour streets, the

tall wall-to-wall skyscrapers which line downtown

avenues. Disregard for a time the museums and shops,

the McDonalds and Kentucky Frieds, the manicured

pocket parks, the narrow and trash lined alley ways,

the spired churches, the domed mosques and temples

of myriad faiths. Pass by the Come-to-Jesus professor

on the corner of 5^th and Market. Were I, in a few graphic

images to amply describe the city life I have grown to

know, I might begin with that hapless, disheveled and

intoxicated black man curled up and sleeping it off over

there in a doorway by the dumpster with no home and no

where else on Earth to go. No country roads here. Uptown,

mid-town, downtown, the city goes round and round. The

steel and concrete jungle is a damned hard place to escape.

Should one be hungry and in need, perhaps there is a

Sunday bologna sandwich to be had at the St. Peter and

Paul Shelter south of here over on Allen Street.

Chris Hanch 5-1-18