The Cosmos and Me Biologically

 

Looking up at the Cosmos

at night. Peering into the

microscope revealing creatures

never before seen by the naked

eye.

The James Webb telescope

reveals mysteries developed

for more than 13.5 billion

years.

While our existence can be

explained for the most part

scientifically, it never ceases

to amaze how in heaven’s

name we got here on Earth

in the first place.

Oh, I got the basic concept

of biological evolution, but

for minerals, atoms and cells

to be arranged in a specific

DNA way as to produce you

as you and me as me uniquely

seems a fantastical feat of

improbability.

Why, nature had to select all

this stuff in precisely a certain

way to make us the consciously

self-aware creatures we came

to be.

What’s even more amazing is

the copulating male and female

of our species had to be specifically

selected to genetically form who we

turned out to be.

Some days I need to pinch myself

hypothetically to bring about this

uncanny reality. I am here alive

and consciously mindful of

my existence.

Why for cripes’ sake, even

allowing that my parents as

mates turned out to be a terrible

match temperamentally. In fact,

they came to hate each other’s guts,

and wound up eventually going

their separate ways.

Had they figured that out earlier

on in their relationship, I could

have wound up being ecologically

someone else entirely. Who can 

say what my universe would look

like then? Why, this piece I present

to you today may never have been

written in the first place.

And so it is, if you have a mind to,

you too can claim the same.

                      -30-

Chris Hanch 11-18-2023

Infinity ∞

 

Infinity,

a time and place

with no beginning,

no end,

a birthplace preceding

the maelstrom midst

of cosmic clutter.

Infinity,

an omni present

everywhere,

an everlasting

nowhere place

where time is multiplied

and divided finitely,

where time

is born and goes

to die and recycle

again and again.

Infinity,

never and forever,

theoretical

physicists decry,

a void

everything and

everyone come

to occupy for a time,

where everything

and everyone

erupt on the

forever and forever

lazy eight or

where what goes

around comes

around over and

over again without

end.

Infinity,

where zero

is the sum total

of everything

and you and I

are defined

then forgotten

in the blink

of eye.

And this

incessant rambling

explanation of mine,

becomes

a curious scribble

which refuses

to adequately

be described.

Infinity man,

extending from

what always was

to everything

yet to come--

never and forever

all over again.

In any case, this is my

understanding,

amen…

                  -30-

Chris Hanch 11-16-2023

Laundry Day

Wash, rinse, repeat

as with the daily

laundry of life.

Wash, rinse, repeat,

some days, a heavy

load, others a medium

or light.

Cycles change,

some seemingly

remain the same.

Add a little softener

to the dry avoiding

static cling is always

wise.

Shrinkage and

color fade can be

avoided when cold

water is applied.

Wash, rinse, repeat

laundry day every day,

for me, an appropriate

metaphor for life.

What in hell happened

to that other sock?

                   -30-

Chris Hanch 11-15-2023

 

A Summer's Day in August, 1960

 

It was a hot and muggy St. Louis day. The dog

days of August, 1960, I recall.

Hobbling with arthritis, 64-year old Bessie, a

black woman, and her 14-year old nephew,

Albert, departed the Manchester 57 bus in

suburban Webster Groves that summer’s day.

They had several blocks to walk to the Hanch

house where Bessie had worked as a maid for

a number of years.

Mrs. Hanch, a divorced mother of three

teenage boys had a chronic heath issue

and needed domestic help around the

house.

My two brothers Mark, David and I were

each one year apart. We helped with

some of the household chores like grocery

shopping, taking out the trash and basic

yard work. But we were either unwilling

or inept when it came to doing the laundry,

washing, drying, ironing, folding and such.

Vehemently, we resisted cleaning the bath-

room and kitchen, dusting furniture and

mopping floors. Bessie had done that sort

of housework all her life. Back then, men

had their jobs and women had theirs.

The week before, Bessie had asked my mom

if on her next visit could she bring her nephew,

Albert, with her. Their inner-city neighborhood

was not a safe or pleasant place for a fourteen

year old black boy to hang out by himself, She

explained. Drug dealing and gang violence were

widespread and pervasive in the summertime.

It would ease her mind if Albert could tag along

with us for the day given we were all about the

same age.

Albert loved baseball and Bessie knew we

did too. And without hesitation, my mom

gave her approval.

Mom didn’t give a second thought as to

having a black boyy tagging along with her

sons in an all white neighborhood. As far as

she was concerned, this was our business

and “damn well none of the neighbors.”

That was over 60-years ago. I recall playing

catch with Albert in the back yard, and

talking about the St. Louis Cardinals, our

hometown team. Stan Musial, Ken Boyer,

Bob Gibson, Bill White and Curt Flood,

white and black, all played side-by-side on

our team. And they were equally among

our favorite players.

Race never came up in our conversations

during the day. It was not an issue as far

as we were concerned. But secretly, I was

pleased, even proud to have a new Negro

friend.

I could see initially that Albert seemed a bit

apprehensive about being where he was. But

as the day progressed, he lightened up and

enjoyed the same things as we did.

Mom thought it would be nice if we would take

Albert into town which was within walking

distance and treat Albert to some French fries

at The Toll House Restaurant. (We loved French

Fries, and The Toll House had some of the best

in the world as far as my brothers and I were

concerned.)

Mom gave us a couple of dollars, and merrily

we went our way in joyful anticipation of the

savory treat.

We entered the restaurant around lunchtime

and were immediately confronted by the

manager. “What can I do for you, boys?” he

asked in a rather unfriendly manner. “We’d

like to order some French fries, sir,” older

brother Mark responded. “Sorry, boys, no

French fries today. I’m going to ask you to

leave.” “But we have the money,” Mark

informed him politely. “Sorry, out you go now,”

the manager said sternly with a scowl on his

face.

We were shocked and upset. We had never

been treated like this before. We did nothing

wrong and didn’t understand.

Albert was silent. He never said a word, but

he knew. Aunt Bessie, she would know. Pretty

sure my mom did too.

It took this harsh rejection at The Toll House

Restaurant for three white boys and one

black to realize, 1960 in this all white

community, prejudice was alive and thriving

on the menu.

We took Albert to the Tasty Freeze down

the street and ordered 4-soft serve cones

at the to-go window.

Albert went home with his Aunt Bessie that

evening, and never returned again.

And likewise, my family and I never again

stepped a foot inside The Toll House

Restaurant.

We did learn to appreciate the pasta at Yacovelli’s,

however, a more welcoming Italian place a few

miles away.

Bessie is long gone now, but I often think about

Albert, and I wonder if he would feel the same?

                                  -30-

Chris Hanch 11-14-2023

Genealogy of Reality

 

Wart hog, polliwog,

bump on a log, tumbling

tumble weed, bumble bee.

Pond scum, fig leaf or

willow tree, bits and pieces,

a smattering of this and that.

The difference between

you and me, choices,

a product of humanity.

Biologically,

there’s a similarity,

Stagnated or animated,

a commonality

between us, you see.

Seek and find it

as salvation

for mankind

over time.

Or be remanded

to damnation

for all eternity.

Poof, the dust

bin of reality!

                -30-

Chris Hanch 11-12-2023

A Bitter Bouquet

Fermented by time,

a fine full-bodied wine.

You and I pretty much

the same, classic one

might say, although

much of the full-bodied

quality has faded away.

Notice the vinegary

bouquet, a bit hard

to swallow at our age,

you and I, wouldn’t

you say? None-the-less,

regarded fine and sublime,

palatable back in the day.

                 -30-

Chris Hanch 11-11-2023 

Thanksgiving

 

For me it’s Mark Twain

for humor and literature.

For me it’s Pete Sousa

for photography.

For me it’s Bill Mauldin

for editorial cartooning.

For me it’s Robert Bly

and Bukowsky for poetry.

For me it’s Beethoven,

Dylan, Queen and so many

more for music. For me it’s

Joseph Campbell for

mythology and philosophy.

I favor dogs as pets, cheese

and chocolate cakes for desert,

art, photography, writing

and travel to fill my days.

Memory tells me it has been

these friendships, simplicity

and a good deal of luck

which brought me here to my

76^th Thanksgiving Year.

I contributed biologically in

part to the lives of two upstanding

children and four independent and

creative grandchildren.

Suppose I could go on with more,

but in the interest of my time and

yours, I’ll drop the mic right here,

more than gratified and thankful

for this bountiful cornucopia life

of mine.

                      -30-

Chris Hanch 11-10-2023