Poet Pat Doyne invites writers to enter the Tor House poetry contest. Submissions must be sent via snail mail to the address in the link and postmarked by March 15th.

Poet Eva Petropolou shares that Our Poetry Association, an international writers’ collective, has opened submissions for its spring contest, with a theme of justice.

Poet and essayist Abigail George, whom we’ve published many times, shares the fundraiser her book’s press has created for her. She’s seeking contributions for office supplies and resources to be able to serve as a speaker and advocate for others who have experienced trauma or deal with mental health issues.

Synchronized Chaos Magazine also encourages you to watch short videos of international authors, artists, and activists interviewed on the Xena World chat show, including several of our contributors.

Poet Annie Finch seeks assistance with training a new app that will identify and teach different forms of poetic scansion. She’s looking for people who know how to do scansion manually to go over the collection of poems in the training set.

Essayist and poet Chimezie Ihekuna seeks a publisher for his children’s story collection Family Time. Family Time! is a series that is aimed at educating, entertaining and inspiring children between the ages of two and seven years of age. It is intended to engage parents, teachers and children with stories that bring a healthy learning relationship among them.

Essayist Jeff Rasley’s new book is out: It’s a story inspired by my own experience of a sophisticated California kid transferring to my grade school in the small town of Goshen, Indiana in 1965. It did not go well, when the new kid challenged the “gang” of kids who thought they were the cool kids who ruled the playground. For most of us, it was a blip in our lives. But one boy never recovered. 

It is a short story, just 25 pages. So it only costs $2.99 for the ebook and $9.99 for the paperback. For some of you, it may evoke nostalgia for a time gone by (like using Juno instead of gmail). For others, it will be historical fiction from a strange time and place.
Check it out at https://www.amazon.com/Came-Parkside-School-Jack-Thriller-Mystery-Romance -ebook/dp/B0DY9TKL6V

Contributor Kelly Moyer has a new book out, Mother Pomegranate and Other Fairy Tales for Grown-Ups. It includes the piece “The Pussy Whip” which she sent to Synchronized Chaos, as well as many other stories. It’s available here.

Contributing poet and Pushcart nominee Kurt Nimmo’s new book Texas and New Mexico: Selected Poems 2015-2025 is out and available here.

Our April 1st issue will be crafted by co-editor Kahlil Crawford. He’s a poet, musician, and essayist who has put together previous issues on Latin Culture and Electronic Music.

In March we will have a presence at the Association of Writing Programs conference in L.A. which will include an offsite reading at Chevalier’s Books on Saturday, March 29th at 6 pm. All are welcome to attend!

So far the lineup for our reading includes Asha Dore, Douglas Cole, Scott Ferry, Linda Michel-Cassidy, Aimee Suzara, Reverie Fey, Ava Homa, Michelle Gonzalez, Terry Tierney, Anisa Rahim, Katrina Byrd, Cindy Rinne, Norma Smith, and Kelliane Parker.

Author Justin Hamm is hosting a FREE online literary event the weekend of AWP, known as StayWP. This will include author talks, informative panels, book launches and networking!

To register, please click here: https://docs.google.com/…/1FAIpQLSe0jqgxfQn…/viewform…

Now, for the first March issue, Oh, the Humanity!

Paul Tristram, like Whitman, sings of himself with easy confidence and exhilaration in life’s experiences. Philip Butera’s poetry speaks to the masks we wear and finding the courage to be authentic. Grzegorz Wroblewski digs deep into our fleshy reality, addressing the “meat” of our existence and our bodies’ undeniable needs. Tojiyeva Muxlisa also looks at our bodies, outlining common gynecological diseases and their treatments.

Dr. Prasanna Kumar Dalai’s poetry explores human emotion: romantic attraction, loneliness, grief, and confidence. Kendall Snipper speaks to the small and large sensations that bring back memories. Stephen Jarrell Williams looks back at the ‘paradise’ of his hometown in a moment of nostalgia. David Sapp recollects the wildness and local color of his boyhood days.

Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ photography captures a sense of whimsy and joy. A cat, Jean-Paul Moyer, partners with poet Kelly Moyer to create splashy, colorful paintings by moving paint around on canvas.

Life meets art in Alan Catlin’s work, as he recollects bits of his past and how he engaged with literary movements and cultural icons. Mark Young evokes moments of change, evolution, and decision in his poetry, as characters grapple with taking stock of themselves. Alaina Hammond’s drama explores the tension and commonalities behind practitioners of different art forms, and how and why they chose their crafts.

Umida Haydaraliyeva expresses the creative joy of an emerging author. Muhabbat Abdurahimova speaks to a poet’s quest for inspiration. Chris Foltopoulos’ guitar plucks out dulcet tones on his experimental music project Arpeggios. Chuck Taylor turns to writing as one of many ways to find solace during fits of insomnia.

Mahbub writes of a dream journey through gardens and his early childhood as Rus Khomutoff’s visual poetry takes us on a dreamlike quest through the beauty and mystery and riddle of our existence. Chuck Kramer’s work comes from a speaker of a certain age reflecting on their life and its meaning, finding purpose through experience teaching young children.

Ilhomova Mohichehra offers up her gratitude to her teacher. Bibikhanifa Jumanazarova poetizes about her mother’s wisdom and gentleness. Ibrahimova Halima Vahobjonovna celebrates the lifelong love and devotion of her mother as Sevinch Abirova contributes a piece of love and appreciation for a younger family member. Mirta Liliana Ramirez points out how she learned and got stronger from her past experiences, even from people who were not kind to her. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa speaks to the power of kindness and friendship, even online friendship across the distance, to affect our lives.

Mesfakus Salahin recollects the joy of young love on a warm evening. Xavier Womack speaks of a crush and the desire for a deep connection with a classmate. Anna Keiko speaks to the joy, strength, and staying power of true love. Jeannette Tiburcio Marquez evokes the joy and sweet surrender of ballroom dance with a romantic partner.

Kristy Raines’ poetry explores both interpersonal romantic love and human compassion for the world. Peter Cherches’ short stories probe how much we owe each other as fellow inhabitants of the planet, how far we will go for each other. Graciela Noemi Villaverde expresses her hopes and dreams for international peace among humanity, and Eva Petropolou does the same for the sake of the world’s children. She also pays tribute to her deceased father.

Dr. Adnan Ali Gujjar offers up a poetic tribute to the grace and mentorship of poet Eva Petropolou Lianou and her advocacy for peace and global justice. Dr. Jernail Anand’s essay argues for the value of art and literature for a fully developed and moral society.

Nozima Gofurova shares about an inspiring visit to one of Uzbekistan’s national centers for the visual and performing arts. Poet and magazine editor Maja Milojkovic interviews one of Serbia’s greatest living poets, Dr. Maja Herman Sekulik, on her writing journey and the need for artists to teach ethics and culture to the next generation.

Saidqulova Nozima sings of her Uzbek homeland as Munisa Azimova celebrates her Uzbek heritage and homeland in tender verse. Still others focus on the nation’s many accomplished writers. Sevinch Shukurova illustrates how the genre of poetry allowed Uzbek writer Alexander Faynberg to concisely and directly express his message. Nilufar Anvarova sends up a poem on the creative legacy of Uzbek writer and statesman Erkin Vahidov. Odina Azamqulova highlights the contributions of writer and translator Ozod Sharafiddinov to Uzbekistan’s literary heritage.

Nosirova Surayyo offers up suggestions for becoming fluent speaking in a second language. Maftuna Bozorova encourages readers to learn about other cultures through learning foreign languages. Abduraximova Farida Khomiljon examines various methods for teaching English as a second language.

Noelia Cerna, in her new poetry collection Las Piedrecitas, as reviewed by Cristina Deptula, endures great loss, abuse, and racism. She finds the strength to stand firm in her own worth as a woman and a Central American immigrant in the United States, claiming her culture and her identity.

Poet and magazine editor Maja Milojkovic interviews poet and peace activist Eva Petropolou Lianou about the power of our shared global poetic heritage to connect us.

Nafosat Nomozova draws connections among art, life, and the universal language of mathematics.

Lazzatoy Shukrillayeva translates a poem by historical Uzbek writer Alisher Navoi that considers the vagaries of fate. Duane Vorhees speaks with a gentle humor to both intimacy and mortality. J.K. Durick’s work comments on transience: money, moments in time, even our health will pass. Kurt Nimmo addresses forms of living death in his work alongside actual mortality: being stuck in a dead-end job, being addicted, having one’s life’s work erased.

Mykyta Ryzhykh crafts a somber, deathly world. Jacques Fleury’s protagonist drowns himself in a quest for oblivion after his mental illness drives his family away, missing some potential positive news after his passing. Alex S. Johnson’s short story character decides against suicide when he encounters “spirits” who wish they had had more time on Earth.

Paul Durand’s piece explores how Andy Warhol transcended his ordinary, vulnerable humanity through art and fame. Taylor Dibbert finds a kind of strange and transcendent solace in the fact that great authors have written about the kinds of travel mishaps he experiences.

Maftuna Rustamova reflects on life lessons from growing up poor. Joseph C. Ogbonna describes the small and large privations of life in poverty in Nigeria. J.J. Campbell speaks to his memories, life, struggles, and inevitable death. Denis Emorine’s excerpt from his upcoming novel Broken Identities addresses the long shadow of the Holocaust in the cultural and personal memories of academics and writers.

Pat Doyne lambasts Donald Trump’s plan to take over and gentrify the Gaza Strip by displacing its impoverished residents. Bill Tope’s short story traces how casual prejudice and homophobia can lead to violence. Abeera Mirza’s poetry tells the tale of how a young wife escapes domestic violence. Bill Tope and Doug Hawley’s collaborative story also presents hope as a wife bravely confronts her husband about his behavior and he chooses accountability and sobriety.

DK Jammin’ turns to his faith for moments of grace and solace in ordinary life despite a complex and sometimes harsh world. Sara Hunt Florez recalls the constant passage of time and encourages us to make the most of what we have, even in small moments with those around us. Ma Yongbo speaks to shifting reality and impermanence, human limitations and death, and the immortality he finds through creativity.

Isabella Gomez de Diego’s photos reflect the simple joys of nature, family, home, children, and faith. Maja Milojkovic offers simple kindness to a ladybug, releasing the insect to fly and dream freely outside. Lidia Popa reaches deep inside her mind to find inner personal peace.

Sayani Mukherjee revels in the small pleasures of a spring tea party. Rasulova Rukhshona celebrates Central Asian spring Nowruz New Year with a poem about loving grandparents, flowers and birds.

Brian Barbeito’s prose piece evokes his youth and personal creative awakening. Mushtariy Tolanboyeva expresses the lament of an impatient tree who wanted to blossom, but bloomed too early before winter finished.

Daniel De Culla’s piece illuminates his love for all of the planet’s life and recognizes that each species’ existence is inter-related. Adaboyev Maqsad’s essay suggests pathways towards ecological sustainability, elucidating economic and legal means of addressing environmental issues.

Murodjon Asomidinov also discusses economics and global justice, calling for empowering the youth of the world through financial literacy education.

Z.I. Mahmud’s essay explores feminist Indian writer Amar Jiban’s writing about the struggles of older single and widowed women and the need for all women to have education as a pathway to independence and financial security. Nurmatova Aziza relates the tale of a young woman who bucks traditional gender expectations by traveling to the city for an advanced degree.

We hope that this issue will be a source of empowerment, commiseration, and merriment at the many facets of our shared humanity and our shared connection with the rest of Earth’s life.

*************

A child of an ordinary person has the most knowledge, but a child of a rich man knows nothing.

Why are you always a rich man’s son?

Why do you say that if a man with money is his father.

Did you see, my friends, this story of mine will still be answered in the Day of Judgement.

Saidqulova Nozima To`lqin daughter

                                  Republic Uzbekistan

                   Kashkadarya region Karshi centre

               Karshi Engeneering-Economist Institute

                           Sanoat faculty 3-rd student.

Motherland

To praise the motherland,

My highest wish, my family dream.

In your corners that filled my heart,

My feelings are awakened, in your dreams.

I live to praise your name,

I saw my mother in you.

Be full of love,

I saw my father in you

Courage and strength.

Exalt your name,

It’s a confession.

If I wave your flag,

To another country.

Heard your description,

                  Greatness heard.

Let him wonder surprised,

My heart is white.

Dream rush,

My motherland is mine.

Girls picking flowers

Makes bouquets

The guys are also gathered

“Ko’pkari” plays the game

Both mountains and gardens 

It is bluish in color 

Swallows are coming

Everyone knows that.

This is the most wonderful holiday

Nowruz, my dears,

Ancient, traditional

Everyone will appreciate it.

Grandmother, grandfather

They always pray

Peace and health

They put it in their eyes

Rasulova Rukhshona Vahobjon’s daughter was born on October 16, 2008 in Rishton district of Fergana region. In 2015, she started studying in the 1st grade of school 34 in this district. Currently, she is a 9th grade student of this school. Rukhshona Rasulova is interested in participating in various competitions, writing poems and stories, and reading many books.

She regularly participates in school and district competitions and takes pride of place. Also she participates in many online contests and earned international certificates. She is a member of various creative teams and the 2024 “Ufq ilmi” 1st place winner.

As a young artist she has unlimited goals in her heart. Her biggest dream is to become a “young reader”.

Rukhshona Rasulova’s poems were published in the book “Youth of Uzbekistan” published by Justfiction publishing house, and in one of the most prestigious British magazines “Raven Cage” and “Kenya Time” in Thailand. And she has been included in various anthologies covering artists across the Republic. 

Tea

Teapots and adorable napkins
The child's soul knows no bounds
It clasps a little a lithe wards dream
A homesickness that grows in your soul
A pungent tea flavoured gift that i picked up
A flower of moth eaten daisies I charm in thee
Bottled and boat necked gifts that churn my soul
A homely affair a stage show for faint hearted
I like to knit sweaters in lulled voice
What if my voice reached you today? 
I will scramble and do the dishes the art of 
Domestic choices still I landed on my fairy tales
I daresay I will write on my behalf 
As poetry becomes a stagecraft for skin and home. 

Dead poet

The famous poet 

died and left his manuscripts 

to his wife and publisher. 

After he was put in the ground, 

the wife and publisher 

went through the unpublished poems. 

It was decided the dead poet 

was an embarrassment: 

he wrote about crude things, 

alcoholism, sex, bodily functions, 

he was misanthropic 

and that was unacceptable 

for the widow and publisher. 

He used coarse language, cursed 

and said bad things about people, 

especially women, 

and it was unacceptable, 

politically incorrect 

for the widow and his publisher, 

so they edited, 

removed words and entire lines, 

softened things up, 

all of which would have outraged the poet, 

but he was dead 

and unable do anything about it. 

I am not a famous poet. 

I am nowhere near fame, and when I die, 

it is unlikely anyone will modify 

and sanitize my poems. 

Most likely, when my remaining possessions

are gone through, they will find my poems, 

stories, and artwork in a box

and like all undiscovered 

and undiscoverable poets, 

everything will be rolled out to the curb 

for trash pickup 

on Thursday.

making ends meet

it’s a terrifying thought. 

the alarm clock 

going off next to my head 

before light has had 

a chance to conquer darkness. 

the bathroom thing. 

I no longer shave, 

but I must brush my teeth, 

what’s left of them, 

and there’s no hair to comb, 

so I am spared another routine. 

dress in clothes perpetually wrinkled, 

put on workman boots, 

a strip of cardboard showing at the heel, 

tie laces with tired fingers. 

out to the car. 

the cars I have gone through, 

they find me when they want to die. 

traffic. it is endless, 

and the anger and impatience, 

the inevitability of road rage 

and casual murder, 

dismemberment in the breakdown lane. 

I pull in at the far end 

of the parking lot 

because I am always late 

and on the edge of discipline, 

write-up, termination. 

and the boss. 

his face forever 

the mirror reflection of a nightmare.

the dream refuses to evaporate. 

and the work, 

mindless, numbing, deadening. 

this is what I face 

here in the autumn of my life. 

it is late November 

and I tell the cat it’s impossible, 

starvation is a possible answer,

a final and futile 

Buddhist gesture.  

the cat looks up at me.

it’s time for his breakfast. 

Timeline

One minute 

you are driving along 

obeying the law 

and the next minute 

a pregnant woman in a pickup truck 

careens from a side street. 

Life is irrevocably altered as she plows into you.

You are no match for her truck and distraction. 

This morning an email was sent. 

It said there are no matches for your job search criteria. 

The woman at the Center for the Aged in the Future

said there are currently no positions for senior citizens. 

You do not ask why.

You have learned not to ask questions. 

Questions are answered in the negative. 

Outside in the car 

you look at traffic and see 

a cement truck approaching. 

If you hurry 

you may be able to reach the street 

and change the timeline

forever. 

until death do us part

my wife

fell off the toilet

hit her head

hard

on the edge of the sink

until crimson flowed

down and dribbled

from her chin. she sat there 

naked on the floor bleeding

looking at me. 

my wife was so drunk

she was in another world

another dimension

and did not recognize me.

her addiction

held tight as a galvanized steel vice 

the two years we were married

and only released its

cold grip upon

death. 

Kurt Nimmo lives in New Mexico. He published Planet Detroit and PNG Chapbooks in the 1980s and 1990s. 

Clashing Tempos

BALLET DANCER sits on a wheelchair, her leg clearly wounded. Enter MODERN DANCER.

Modern Dancer: Hey. I thought I’d dance for you.

Ballet Dancer: Why?

MD: To cheer you up. To distract you.

BD: That’s awfully arrogant.

MD: Fine then, maybe I just feel like dancing.

BD: Oh, here we go. The spirit of dance moves you, the Holy Ghost possesses your bones, and now you have to show it off in front of a captive audience. Where’s my aspirin?

MD: You’re so contemptuous and condescending. God, Don’t you ever just dance for fun?

BD: You’re one to talk about condescension, treating ambition and focus as a mental illness. Go ask a medical student if he ever stays up three days in a row for fun. Ask a law student why she can’t just take a month off. Ask astronauts why they look so stressed. See what they tell you.

MD: I see your point. But you’re not an astronaut, you’re a wounded ballerina. And I feel like dancing, so I will.

BD: Suit yourself. And I’m a ballet dancer with an injury, please don’t make it sound more ridiculous than it is. “Wounded ballerina,” it sounds like a book of bad poetry. Speaking of mediocre art, keep your leg straight.

MD: That’s not the way this dance goes.

BD: Oh I see. You’re out of tune, but you meant to sound flat, so it’s OK.

MD: Oh we’re going for a musical metaphor? It’s more like, there are a few discordant notes, but it’s part of the symphony’s larger harmonic structure.

BD: Did you just compare yourself to a whole symphony? You’re a dancer who can’t be bothered to stretch a muscle!

MD: Everyone’s a critic.

BD: So you’ve taken it one step further. You’ve dismissed the concept of criticism completely.

MD: Aren’t you an artist? Don’t you know it’s subjective?

BD: No, good art is subjective. Crappy art is recognizable as such.

MD: Jesus, if it means that much to you I’ll straighten my leg. Happy now?

BD: It’s nothing to be proud of.

MD: I’d like to see you do better from where you’re sitting.

Don’t cry. I’m just kidding. Of course you can. As I said, it’s all subjective. I’m just doing my thing, I’m enjoying myself.

BD: You’re a hedonist. You have no sense of discipline and resent those of us who do. It takes no practice to be wild.

MD: And you’re enjoying yourself too, I think. You can’t dance at the moment so you kick. You don’t like my music so you bang the pot louder. It DOES take practice to be that rude.

BD: Look down on my manners all you want. Meanwhile, thrust your chest forward, throw your head back, weave around the stage and call it art. A drunken robot could do that.

MD: You just basically described the routine of a wind-up toy.

BD: Did I? How embarrassing for you and the drunken robots.

MD: Ha ha. Your clever insult makes YOU look petty. Reducing what we do to mere tricks and jumps shows you have no imagination, that you’re not paying attention to real art, truth and subtlety, because you’ve decided the form is beneath you. That’s so…bland.

BD: Go watch people do a “let’s pretend we’re kernels of popcorn” exercise and tell me who’s bland.

MD: First of all, that sounds fun.

BD: Uh huh. If you’re five.

MD: Secondly, so what? If you don’t like one teacher, one choreographer, do you discount the medium?

BD: Don’t be silly. There are other reasons to dismiss the genre. It’s… generic. Modern dance, what does that even mean? If I do jumping jacks to catchy music, I could probably convince you it’s a sophisticated yet minimalist routine.

MD: That’s not modern dance, that’s post-modern dance! It’s…you…I’m making up a dance based on your argument! I’m calling it “The Strawman!”

BD: I see. Ballet dancers aren’t as concerned at winning arguments through reason. We’re too busy DANCING WELL.

MD: Bull. You just love how restricted and repressed you are. You’re comforted by the weight of your costumes, the tight lacing of your shoes, and not breathing feels as natural to you as breathing feels to us. The dancing itself? Well, that’s just a side effect. The real joy comes from your sense of burden. We danced our way out of that tiny box and onto a larger stage.

BD: You’re not more evolved than I am just because you forgot your fundamentals, or ignore them.

MD: But discipline isn’t beautiful. It doesn’t look graceful, your artificial grace. The more spectacular the pirouette, the more the audience cringes in pain. Do you think we’re stupid? That we don’t know your feet hurt?

BD:  Why are you so soft, that you no longer tolerate pain? There’s no way to be a part time ballerina, and yes, that requires….You can’t “wing it” and stumble into your footing, then say, ha, I meant to do that.

MD: So you resent that our lives our easier, that our talent comes more naturally?

BD: We resent that you have a loose measurement for what constitutes talent.

MD: Do you really think so little of us? That anyone can do what we do? Wrong! Some of us are gifted, even though we didn’t have our backs broken into ugly straight angles by the time we were ten. You’re like those snobs who deny that a Shakespeare level genius can emerge without elite education.

BD: If geniuses emerge in middle age and later, from amateur night classes, then maybe the term gets thrown around too much.

MD: Fine then, who cares whether or not we’re anointed bright and shiny? You’re jealous because we dance out of love. You stopped loving it so long ago you’ve forgotten the beauty of dance.

BD: Don’t question my love. I sacrificed a literal leg for love. You just put on some comfortable pants and rocked out to fun music. Oh, maybe you memorized a few specific moves, some beats. But you’re self-indulgent. The audience is just watching you play with yourself. I’d rather watch a child color, or a teenager masturbate.

MD: Did you ever find to time for either activity? You were born so old, so cynical. You don’t have dance partners. You have adversaries. You’re on stage with them, trying to out-dance them, trying to prove you’re the best. Even when we don’t touch, we lift each other up. True collaboration makes for better art, even if it’s less symmetrical.

BD: Symmetry is beauty. It’s hard to achieve, but magnificent.

MD: Well, I’m sure your feet are equally calloused. They’re bumpy and beaten by your mistreatment of the part of your body you’re supposed to love, without which you can’t do art, but at least they’re symmetrical.

BD: That’s my business. My feet stay in my ballet slippers. That’s another thing. I’m so sick of looking at your feet. It’s as if you think you’re farmers or priestesses, so holy, so in touch with heaven and earth. But it’s a well-lit floor in an indoor theater.  Why are you showing us your ugly, dirty feet?

MD: Come on, they’re not so bad. (Removes her shoes and socks)

BD: What are you doing? Put them away! I don’t want to see them!

MD: This is how your feet look now. Your calluses are barely there anymore, but your feet still know how to dance. The break in your leg? You can barely see the scar.

BD: I’m a ballet dancer. Any flaw is visible.

MD: Well, I’m not a ballet dancer, not anymore. And so I forget, sometimes, how hard it was. You’re right: I’m arrogant. It comes with being a dancer.

BD: I know ballet is as ballet does, but…You really don’t feel like a ballerina, on the inside?

MD: No. But I was. And it helped me. I’m a better modern dancer because of it, better than the people who didn’t first learn the structure before they played with it. I know I pretend I never compete with my fellow dancers..,I try, but I’m still human.

BD: We’re dancers.

MD: Besides being the same person and having the same DNA, dancing is what we have in common. It’s what binds us, foot to foot.

BD: Then do you think, for old times sake, you could do a few tour jetes? Give them a modern spin if you must.

MD: You taught me well. I’ll do my best.

BD: (Clapping) Yay! I’ve still got it!

MD: Yes and with a few new moves!

BD: Show off!

MD: …Sorry!

BD: I didn’t say stop!

Alaina Hammond is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and visual artist. Her poems, short stories, paintings, drawings and photographs have been published both online and in print. @alainaheidelberger on Instagram. Playwright’s note: Clashing Tempos was originally produced at Manhattan Repertory Theatre, in February 2015. It starred Sarah Ann Masse as Ballet Dancer, and Arianna Taxman as Modern Dancer.