Choices or None at All

 

I was never refused service because…

never told to leave because...

I was never stopped and searched because…

I was never demanded to show my hands because…

I was never accused of because…

I was never not chosen because…

I was never chosen because…

I was never slammed up against a car,

never cuffed and hauled off because…

How was I ever to know discrimination,

intimidation and accusation because..?

I was never asked to step out of line

or to move to the back of the bus because...

Never singled out and called something

I never was.

I was never beaten, shot, kneeled on,

strangled,

incarcerated or hung from

a tree because…

Once in 1988, while on a bus stopped at the

airport in Rome, Italy, I was asked by armed

guards to see my passport, likely because I

was a middle aged white man with a long beard.

For the same reason, a boss I once had asked me

at work one day if I had forgotten to shave?

Had I refused to hand over my passport or

told my boss to go screw himself, I could

have been detained or lost my job, but I

had choices to make because...

And I had my goddamned rights,

you see, but only because.

                 -30-

Chris Hanch 6-17-2021

Who We Truly Are

 

Who am I; who are you?

I am other than an artist,

other than a writer and

photographer. These are

merely tools in my lifetime

trade.

I am other than you and

seek to know and show

together who we are.

And side by side,

I desire to find in you

more of who I truly am.

We are different, you and I,

more the same in many ways.

Humorous and sad, open

and closed seeking to know

one another and hopefully

to share in spirit and heart

the best and the least,

the essence

of who we really are.

Make me laugh, make me cry

Make me question

the human condition

and wonder, why?

          -30-

Chris Hanch 6-16-2021

Cocerto

 

Concerto

for cello

and orchestra

in e-minor,

opus 74,

melody for

the aging

lovelorn

and lonely,

Chris Hanch,

composer

and conductor.

I feel

a trite

attitudinal

and somewhat

symphonically

predisposed

today.

Let the

music play.

         -30-

Chris Hanch 6-15-2021

Just Another Unholy Day of the Week

 

Last Sunday, in the morning

around 10 AM, my doorbell

rang. What in Hell? It’s bloody

Sunday, supposedly a day of

peace and quiet serenity. All

I can say is, as troubling and

difficult for me to get up out

of my recliner and hobble to

the door, there better damn

well be a fire or a dire emer-

gency to rouse me at this

or any other time of day.

For Christ’s sake, it’s

bloody Sunday, don’t you

know? And the doorbell

rang again. And I raised

my voice to yell out,

Damn it, hold on, I’m

coming! And when I

got to the door and swung

it open, there stood two

young men, one black

and one white, smiling

as if we were best of

friends. What is it? I

spoke loudly enough

to be heard over my

barking dog who was

annoyed as much as I.

Yes sir, the lead young

black man said, We’re

from a church nearby…

Now granted, it was

gratifying for me to

see racial equality at

work in my neighbor-

hood. I certainly could

appreciate that. But to

discuss religion with

strangers on a Sunday

or any other was not

in my nature. Don’t

get me wrong, I was

happy to see the two

races represented in

harmony. If I believed

in God, I am sure his

professed holy deeds

were at work here,

and that was enough

religion for me. So,

instead of some

wise-ass, snarky

remark (and over

my dog’s disturbed

bark), I smiled and

said, Thank you.

I’m not interested.

Have a pleasant day!

They smiled in return,

and went on their way,

I’m sure to find

some other worthy

soul to save.

And I, just another

lost soul, hobbled

back to the

comfort and security

of my recliner and

resumed watching

an MA rated movie

on TV.

For me, it was just

another one of those

regular unproclaimed

holy days of the week.

          -30-

Chris Hanch 6-14-2021

Ah, the Poem

For those of us who do,

there is a quiet

yet profound joy

in typing a poem.

But what’s more,

the sudden revelation and

lightning inspiration

when words flow

like honey from the brain.

And what’s even more

is the curious notion

which arrives just in time.

From where in hell

or heaven and earth

did that come?

Ah, the poem—

when it arrives

what a pleasant

and fulfilling

surprise...

Again and again,

it’s like trying

life on for size.

          -30-

Chris Hanch 6-13-2020 

Deep in Thought

 

... Alive in body, spirit and mind today,

I entertain the incredible cosmological history and

complexities of scientific reality.

I take this moment in time to consider the properties

and credibility of shopping malls, Amazon, Ben and

Jerry’s ice cream, rubber bands, the Civil War, Mt.

Rushmore, The Immaculate Conception, mythologies

and fairy tales, the microbial bacteriological essence or

otherwise pissant relativity of the humanity, you and me.

To even consider the existence, the evolution and relevance

of such things blows my friggin’ mind. Here we all are, galaxies,

solar systems, planets and stars, you and I alike set sail, propelled

by the Dark Energy from our Big Bang Beginnings, completely

engulfed by the Deep Dark Matter of the eternal unseen.

And all along, and for what it’s worth, there have been those

who believe that a PhD, fortune and fame, Botox, an AR 15 or

a benevolent creator would save them.

                              -30-

Chris Hanch 6-13-2021

Some Poetry

 

Some poetry makes no sense even to me.

I suppose that is the way it’s meant to be.

I have no accounting for old men in pissy

diapers either, yet there they are.

We may question a swarm of bees around

the railroad track. Why there, and who in hell

cares?

The screen door has wholes where the flies

come in as the old maid mops the floor. Is

the obtuseness suppose to open the eyes

and surprise? Your guess is as good as mine.

Could be most poets and their poetry are

just plain nuts, asking us to see just how

absurd the marriage of words and images

can be.

Oh, indeed there are poems which rhyme

just fine, those with vivid sensible imagery

we plainly see. But a bird-headed buffalo

swimming in a shallow stream is as ridicu-

lous as it can be, a baseball bat to the head,

metaphonically speaking that is, a tireless

truck irritatingly skimming over a bed of

bent nails.

What in hell else would you expect from me?

Is it all a misguided smoke screen, a stab at

the mind attempt at poetry? Go ahead, you

tell me.

                     -30-

Chris Hanch 6-11-2021