Chronogram Poetry | December 2019 | Poetry | Hudson Valley | Chronogram Magazine
tongue of morning sun
lick new wounds
i finger scars

Just Find It

If you sit,
in silence,
there's something to hear.

If you lie,
with your eyes closed,
there's something to see.

Even if it's silence,
even if it's darkness,
there's something to notice,
just find it.

—Rosa Weisberg (11 years)


They follow the gurneys
holding bags of clothes,
a wallet,
a cell phone,
his ring.
Poised in chairs
jumping to attention
at the slightest sound
or movement
or tone from the IV pole.
They're tired.
Aching backs,
contorted brows,
heads that throb,
dirty hair.
Huddled in waiting rooms,
at vending machines,
in lobbies,
at bedsides.
Sleeping sitting up.
The other one.
Not the recipient of care,
the other one,
the one left to do the clean up,
or simply,

The suffering.

Enough to go around.

—Charlotte Berwind

Sonnet for a Circle
“Until he extends his circle of compassion to include all living things, man will not himself find peace.”
—Albert Schweitzer

And praise the children for their smiles; so free,
so easy in their dreams. And praise the sun
for caring warmth, that feeds the dreams that see
beyond; the shadows soon will come undone.
And praise the soil we walk upon, the earth
that suffers every step we take, yet holds
us upright, gives us flowers full of mirth,
and feeds us even when we're getting old.
And praise the time it takes for us to learn
the things we learn; the knowledge that we keep
will move us towards a life that we must earn,
a life that never comes to those that sleep.
And never look to gather praise, yet share
the fragile graces gathered everywhere.

—William J. Joel


I rented an apartment of bees
that first year in Los Angeles
sticky buzzing day and night
stingers past the turn of knob

sunny day the bees hovering
over body encircling you
paranoid optimistic dreamer
don’t leave the hive yes stay

get stung camera rolling and
action as in stasis as in days
wrapped around you burning
August blankets dripping lust

for fame everyone plays the
game gathering in droves to
hot stove hands on surface
level interaction as in in-


—James Croal Jackson

Thanksgiving Table

no need to put the leaf in—
scattered family

outdoor café

a man in a tie-dye shirt
orders a la carte

a large tourist bus

parks in front of the window
blocking the fall view

through balcony blinds
moonlight clings to the ocean—
a lingering thought

—Sari Grandstaff

We’re Equidistant

7 miles home
on bare feet
I could see the
trees and
you were one.
it was not
your fault
you’d been away
it was just the fall
calling its name
and you
beckoned me
not to run.

—Corey Greenberg


Do you remember the sunrise that Sunday morning in June?
I do.

I remember climbing through a hole
In a thick wire fence, crossing the train tracks,

And feeling
Like the tallest wildflower,

A bee sucking my nectar, preferring my flowers.
Then there was another chain link fence.

We put our arms on it and rested our chins on our hands,
And watched the sun rise

Forgetting that it set.
We were devoted to avoiding loneliness.

I was bliss.
I felt the workings of a wave that would eventually crash in me

And come out of my mouth,
Replying to you.

You bravely proved
The miles between each letter without effort

Because sometimes four letters
Can make a circumference.

—Jennifer Wise


I walk away from every smiled
conversation just a stitch more broken
than before
and I think
why couldn’t we love this way
when we shared long kisses
under the covers
of my bed?

—Meagan Towler


I didn’t want to ride in the ambulance
Or fill out the forms at the hospital
I definitely didn’t want to see the body
Everyone says it’s time to remember
But all I want to do is forget…

—John Kojak

I feel like I left the oven on.
like the ticking of the kitchen clock is counting down
to some impending doom that I will never see coming.

like the flutter in my womb. which I will never feel again.
Will leave me for
some god forsaken path like my own.

Only to live
Feeling like
the oven is on.


—Stephanie Carter

April Water

Higher up,
snow melts,
flows down to waiting springtime,
slithering and tumbling,
racing and splashing,
glistening and scattering,
fills the ponds, the lakes,
the rivers
and, inadvertently,
your cup.

—John Grey

A Symphony of Color

She gazed around and her mind couldn't help but think of
Micro industries around luxury
The used-up glamour of the stroll home
Overwhelming abundance of fulfillment

fractured memories

Thoughts of possessions
ravaged her spirit

she saw herself eclipsed in the sunlight
taken by nature
by beauty, reality
she wept for it was good

—Shanekia McIntosh

I Wish

“I wish”—a seed falls to the ground.

Not much chance
That it will land on fertile soil,
Find water, reach sunlight.

The substance of reality is hard.
It is mostly rocks:
“Impossible”, “Forbidden”, “Or else”.
It is riddled with petrified bones:
“I regret”, “I never”, “I always”.
It is swarming with voracious mouths:
“I should”, “I promised”, “I must”.

“I wish”—a seed falls to the ground.

Not much chance,
But a chance nonetheless.

May it take root: “I am”,
May it send up a shoot: “I will”.

—Yana Kane

Inevitable Journey

Most answers are unknown
purple transforms to lavender, but never back to blue

Yellow is sometimes the golden sun
teaching wisdom
other times, causing blindness

I am caught in this steadily flowing stream
not understanding how water can be pastel

Glancing backward, but not wanting to return
just let it flow, pull me

Downward is somewhere I have never been
but I will go without regard or resistance

Better this way, just to accept

And I do like the color of a very deep red
It is my final color after seeing the rainbow
and then being blinded by the sun

A very deep red
burning me forever

—Roger D. Anderson

Lucy From the Tree

Lucy fell
Like an apple.
Choosing a branch too slender
To sustain her,
Tumbling from considerable
Height, terrified, stretching
Her arm as anyone would
To break the fall.
But the ground rose cruelly fast
Jamming her arm
Into the shoulder joint,
The impact ripping
Vital organs free
“Death would have come quickly…”

That was 3.8 million
Years ago.
Small as a child,
Hiding from jungle beasts
Among the branches at night,
Wondering, perhaps,
Where she was, and why,
Beneath the bright moon
And pale stars.

Leaving behind what seemed
Just a scatter of bones
That once recognized,
Bore the signature
Of an earliest direct forebear,
Tooth and jaw. But the deeper
We looked, the clearer
It became that she was
Not so different from us,
A little “person”
Living as best she could,
Until a mishap sent her
Tumbling to her demise,
Leaving but tiny traces of herself
But enough for us
To feel the fear she must have felt
As she fell, helpless
In her life’s last moment,
To the ancient earth.

—James Lichtenberg


The dim light of heaven on the floor of my dark cave
fills me with such sweet joy, knowing,
as I gaze up into that eternal night,
that my loved ones are there,
happy and blessed,
in that single distant star.

—John Goodman

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