Chronogram Poetry | January 2019 | Poetry | Hudson Valley | Hudson Valley; Chronogram

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Chronogram Poetry | January 2019

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The Gift

I said that I was happy.
They told me what to say.
The truth is I feel crappy.
Wear that? No friggin’ way!

—Rick Oestrike

After

After I die
And after a pause
You'll go back to do
Just what you did
Before I died.

—Ze'ev Willy Neumann

Mourning

Ellie sends me an article
about a Neo-Nazi who lived
on our street
and the fear gets closer again.

Reading the words
My stomach turns
And in one of the photos at an Alt Right rally,
I see a kid wearing a Mets hat.

The world is on fire.
Every small
noise I wonder if I'm next.
A sacrifice to the insanity.

A bouncer who saves
everyone gets
shot and killed
But the terrorist gets a neat typed up
report in which the responding

FBI officer states his credentials.

God is tired.
And the hands they used
to rock our crib have succumb to a
slumped over figure in the corner of the room.

We are losing.
We are losing.
Please wake up
Before anyone else has to die
Please now, we need you to wake up
And help us.

I flicker the lights and bang on the door
But there is no movement
Just 130 characters in which someone explains
why they hate a group of human beings
Just several images in which they depict
their deaths and the blood is pixilated and edgy.

Our own neighbor.
Our own little version of a reason
to flee in the middle of the night
And never return again.

—Henry M. McCarty

Grinch

I deleted you
The pictures, last Christmas too
Best holiday, you

—Meghan Sullivan

What about the Moon?

Full moon, block your eyes bright.
A crescent, a sliver…to small to be significant.
A half, a mathematical prediction of more.
Always pulling at the shore.
Tugging at waves of emotion running through the blood.
Circling back to nothing, then something, then nothing…

Strength in the subtlety of being close.
Open and shining but cozy with the darkness … hidden in day.
Seeking, seeking but with no destination required.
Tied imperceptibly and wrapped or rapt in the universe.
Revolving around each stronger force without judgment.
Hooked to others without fear.
Speaking volumes.  Whispering a blank page.

Instructions from every moon since…since before there was a since.
Telling us to be.  Just to be.
Always able to get there in dim light.
Finding ourselves without directions.
Reflecting my face in yours on this moon lit night.

—Sharon Breslau

The Backward Easel

In the fall I am your ladder
In the step of my father I am my son

He can see us blind
Truth shelves defiance

—J Sweet

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