Of Mice or Men, A Fable of Sorts

If it were up to me, I would have allowed

the dinosaurs to live and roam the Earth

to this day. Where would we humans be

then, you ask? Well I imagine, smaller

creatures more nimble and quick, able to

crawl under rocks when threatened. Like

field mice, we’d be constantly on the look-

out for dangerous predators around every

corner, kind of like many inner city folks

behave today. There would be a lot of scurry-

ing around getting to where we wanted and

needed to be. If you are wondering why I

chose a mouse as a metaphor rather than

roaches who live their lives much the same

way? Mice cannot be trained to make war

on their neighbors; armies of roaches tend

to infest and overrun the place. Dinosaurs

could crush insects with their massive

weight; mice for them are way too small,

and wouldn’t make a decent meal.

Mice are apolitical and tend to get along

with one another, men not so much. Damn

that Chicxulub Asteroid, anyway!

Chris Hanch 5-13-19

Precious Time

Time is fleeting, seems to play out sometimes

in slow motion when in peril or in strife. Put

it on pause briefly, and savor each moment if

you will. I stood by the Grand Canyon ponder-

ing its magnificence which took more time to

create than my sense of it can perceive. In turn

I imagined the Canyon looking back at me and

snickering, What a measly speck of time this hu-

manity has compared to me. A profound thought,

I considered, even for a hardened canyon eroded

so deep. Million upon millions of years in the exca-

vating and formation. If I was to fall off the edge, I

would be dashed against the jagged out-croppings

on the way down to the bottom. In any case, my

plummet would take a matter of seconds, a mere

flash in the pan as far as time is concerned, much

like my seventy-two years here on Earth—A brief

and bumpy ride for me either way. So, I guess I’ll

just turn around and walk away, thank you, following

my precious allotted time ahead, while dragging my

hit-and-miss chances behind me.

Chris Hanch 5-12-19

Something Relevant About Time

At the time, I was too young to know any better.

At the time, I was a beginner and had a lot to learn.

At the time, I was out of town and was not available.

At the time, I was short of cash and had other needs to meet.

At the time, I had and older model and it was performing fine.

At the time, I had gone so far and reached the end of the line.

At the time, she said no, so I shrugged it off and went my way.

At the time, I had more pressing things on my mind.

At the time, I was disabled and not fit to play.

And if you’re still around, you’ll know how that is some day.

At this time, I ‘ll make the same excuse I made yesterday—

Sorry, I’m short on time. I know exactly what I’m doing,

and simply don’t give a damn. Don’t ask me again.

Chris Hanch 5-11-19

Strange as It Seems

You swear, the washing machine made

a whirring and whining noise with a

light load, you tell the repairman. It

happened several times before I called.

Same sort of thing happened with the

car not so long ago. You took it into the

shop and told the mechanic there was a

knocking noise. It was consistent for days,

and now that I’ve brought it in to have it

checked out...nothing, not a damned sound.

I swear it was there, you tell the skeptical

man standing before you who can detect

nothing out of the ordinary. I have lied or

been mistaken about other matters before,

but not this time. And I’m not crazy either,

you insist.

Chris Hanch 5-10-19

Who But I Can Say?

There is no one left alive today who

can say things like, you have your

mother’s eyes, your fathers forehead

and nose. That look you had just

then reminds me of your mother’s

side. The way you act sometimes,

that comes from your dad. No one,

not aunts or uncles, neither friends

nor neighbors remain today who can

compare me to my mom or dad in a

familial way. When they all were still

alive, I used to get those likenesses

a lot. Some folks measure age by a

wrinkling of skin and loss or graying of

hair, by the frequency of forgetfulness

or increased slouchiness and muscle loss.

For me, I look to the passing of genera-

tions which preceded me. And I must tell

those of you who came after—all of this

you see in me didn’t just happen by acci-

dent or randomly, you know…

Why, of course you don’t.

Chris Hanch 5-10-19

Something About Words

There are folks who write words and phrases

for a living—Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

Get your words here! Newspapers, magazines,

books, biographical, historical, scientific and

political reports. Words, herds of phonetic

buffalo grazing tall grass on the Great Plains,

a flock of syllabic blackbirds from horizon to

horizon filling the sky, Hemingway words for

whom the bells toll, Shakespearean words, to

be or not to be, Anne Frank words of hope

believing in the return of peace and tranquility,

Maya Angelou words which flow smooth as

honey and potent as brandy wine sometimes,

mathematical words of Albert Einstein defining

space and time, Mark Twain words, a satirical

exposé on the human race, Martin Luther King

Jr. words having decided “to stick with love,”

words which twist the tongue, and boggle the

mind, words which fit snug as a bug in a rug.

What else can be said about words we choose

to hear and use today? Perhaps that words,

costly or free, do matter. Words, I do believe,

contrary to the old saying about sticks and

stones can either break or mend bones—

metaphorically speaking.

Chris Hanch 5-9-19

Boyhood Dreams

As a boy child of perhaps six or seven,

I remember falling madly in love with

one of my summer camp counselors,

Mary Jane was her name as I recall.

She had quite a few kids my age under

her watchful eye, so it was no surprise

that I was never paid any special attention.

But then, she never really knew who I was,

and more importantly who I longed to be.

Howdy, Ma'am, I’m Roy Rogers, Hopalong

Cassidy—someone famous from TV one day

and someone else more famous the next.

Every heard of G.I. Joe, a decorated hero

hero from the D-day Invasion of World

War Two? That would be me, or who I

am pretending to be. And I have a genuine

Steel helmet at home to prove it. No use,

Mary Jane was older and had no use for

a little kid like me. I wished I was fifteen

or sixteen, about 7-feet tall and then she

might notice me. One day, though, and I’ll

come riding up to her on my silver stallion or

roaring back proudly in my Sherman tank.

A year later, and summer camp again. This

time it was Emmy Lou I would pursue.

Howdy, Ma’am, pleased to meet you. My

name is Stan the Man Musial, batting

average .313. Christopher, she told me,

you go out there and play right field. Right

field! I insisted, no one will notice me way

out there. It took me some sixty-five years
and two marriages later to realize that “Howdy,

Ma’am” was a pretty hokey line for me.

I tried it numerous times in my life. No

one falls in love with a kid born and raised

in the city who talks like that.

Chris Hanch 5-8-19