Synchronized Chaos’ Second April Issue: A Chorus at the Threshold

Image c/o Anonymous User

First, some announcements. Tao Yucheng invites the winners of the poetry contest he hosted earlier this year to contact him at taoyucheng921129@proton.me. He’ll send out the prize money this month. He also announces that no one person won the Honorable Mention (there was a tie among multiple pieces) so he will automatically enter those pieces in the next competition, which will be at a yet-to-be-determined date this summer.

Also, contributor Mykyta Ryzhykh has a new book out, Tombboy, from Lost Telegram Press.


“In his book, as in books of poems written in poetic forms and free verse, language moves through a pattern, and the basic organizing unit is the line. In tombboy, the line may be a syllable, a sign, an image, or even a dot… Readers may rightfully assume that many, even all the poems in tombboy are anti-war poems… yet it would be inaccurate to infer these concrete poems are doctrinaire, or purely political. Nor are they autobiographical. But they are personal, intuitive, original, and memorable, each with something to show…”
Peter Mladinic, author of House SittingKnives on the Table and many other books

tombboy is filled with an experimental spirit, combining fearless phrasing with satirical madness. The result is a fascinating examination of the human condition… it seems there are no limits to his masterful creativity. Each page of this book will grab your attention. tombboy deserves a prominent spot on your bookshelf.”
Roberta Beach Jacobson, editor of Five Fleas Itchy Poetry and smols poetry journal

Tombboy is available here.

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Welcome to Synchronized Chaos’ mid-April issue: A Chorus at the Threshold. This issue presents a chorus of voices singing, speaking, sometimes whispering, at different types of thresholds. People of different ages and backgrounds come together in this issue, each sharing thoughts, observations, and feelings at points of shifting and transformation.

Some of these thresholds are deeply interior. Adalat Gafarov Izzet oglu’s poetry is contemplative and reverent, with a focus on spirituality and the search for meaning. John Edward Culp speaks to self-discovery, love, and finding one’s own rhythm in life. Duane Vorhees’ poetry forms a cohesive meditation on struggle, distance, and the human effort to bridge impossible gaps—whether spiritual, emotional, or existential. Mesfakus Salahin’s piece highlights self-exploration in times of solitude, as Maja Milojkovic laments the increasing unwanted loneliness caused by the setup of much of modern life. Mahbub Alam probes the highs and lows and capacities of human nature, highlighting the need for empathy and compassion. Prasanna Kumar Dalai’s poetry is romantic and melancholic, expressing deep emotions and longing. Poet and physician Anwer Ghani suggests that despite our attempts to conceal our emotions, they can still be sensed and felt.

J.J. Campbell’s writing touches on his inner shadows: feelings of isolation, the desire for a simple, authentic life, and the pain of his loneliness and inner demons. Ana May likewise writes from the doorway between suffering and transformation, insisting that pain must be faced if it is ever to yield meaning. Fhen M.’s eerie poem recollects the legend of G. Bragolin’s Crying Boy painting surviving house fires, meditating on trauma and memory. Thi Lan Anh Tran depicts the complex, multilayered social and psychological effects of both romantic love and war. Amina Kasim Muhammad’s poem illuminates how people rebuild after the loss of a loved one, growing around rather than overcoming grief. In David Sapp’s vignettes and Eva Lianou Petropoulou’s scenes of personal and public tragedy, ordinary life itself becomes a threshold where loss is transfigured through memory and grief into reverence.

Other voices gather at the threshold between childhood and adulthood. Yeon Myeong-ji and Hamdamova Dilzodaxon Halimjon qizi craft scenes of family love, care, and loss. Their work, and Jacques Fleury’s return to his father and their childhood treehouse, all stand in that tender doorway between then and now. Sarvinoz Bakhtiyorova depicts the impact of remembering one’s past and how that can shape one’s identity. Here, affection survives distance and the past remains startlingly alive.

Nature, too, shifts throughout this issue, with pieces about seasons and the liminal spaces between dreams and reality. In Stephen Jarrell Williams’s idyllic vision, the act of learning to fly becomes an awakening into another mode of being. Elaine Murray’s visionary reflections on natural landscapes, Charos Ismoilova’s gratitude for the sunrise, Ananya Guha’s pensive thoughts on seasonal time, Graciela Noemi Villaverde’s vision of a world where humans protect and care for the natural world, Joseph Ogbonna’s song to a nightingale, and Brian Barbeito’s dream journey scenes of birds, constellations, and moonlight all invite us to the threshold between the visible and the unseen. Sayani Mukherjee’s luminous piece on the sacred mystery of existence completes this movement, reminding us that existence itself is a continual process of change.

History and heritage form another vital threshold in these pages—the place where inheritance meets the present moment. Dr. Jihane El Feghali’s tribute to Lebanon, radiant with resilience and memory, stands beside Ilya Ganpantsura’s portrait of Pushkin, writing in a nation poised between autocracy and intellectual freedom. Abdulaxilova Sevara’s meditation on Yusuf and Zulayha reveals divine and human love, earthly devotion blended with spiritual transcendence. Eva Lianou Petropoulou shares the tale of miraculous holy fire burning the day before Easter in Jerusalem’s Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Lan Xin acknowledges the shared humanity and commonalities within the heritage of the world’s people, finding harmony within global religious teachings, and Bhagirath Chowdhary echoes that sentiment in his poem. Mohizoda Xurshiq qizi Roziqova discusses Uzbekistan’s legacy of teacher-apprentice training in the trades as Shokhida Nazirova highlights the Uzbek government’s investment in youth education, athletics, and personal development. The works rooted in Uzbek heritage further remind us that culture survives through crossings: hand to hand, teacher to student, voice to voice.

Image c/o Marina Shemesh

The chorus also rises at the threshold leading to justice.

Sim Wooki confronts racism and colonial power, while Patricia Doyne and Manik Chakraborty write from the brink where historical violence and oppression not only cast a shadow upon the present, but continues to this day. Alan Catlin and Stephen House stand at the moral threshold of witness, asking what it means to remain human before scenes of suffering, ecological damage, and collective harm. These are works that refuse the comfort of distance. They ask us not merely to observe, but to consider the ethics of paying attention.

Elsewhere, the collection turns toward personal thresholds of growth and development. Axmatova Maxliyo Ag’zam qizi discusses challenges in ESL education. Satimboyeva Risolat Ilhomboy qizi compares AI technology to the human brain as Adkham Mukhiddinov outlines how integral calculus can function in economic analysis. Khamidova Shahzoda Kholbozor qizi’s poem extols the promise of Uzbekistan’s next generation as Tursunoy Akramjon qizi Umirzaqova highlights the potential power of computer technology to improve traffic flow and safety. Ibroximova Hayitbon Mirzoxidjon qizi explores another potential role for AI in education, developing individual study plans. Yoqubova Barnoxon Baxtiyorjon qizi suggests ways to harness digital technologies in preschool education. Yunusova Robiyakhon Khayotbek qizi discusses challenges and opportunities for new technologies in the financial services sector. Charos Yusupboyeva outlines the promise of online education for remote areas. Doniyorbek G’ulomjonov and Tillayeva Muslimaxon Yashnarjon qizi examine the evolving role of technology in education, Saitkulova Fotima reflects on how living standards and education have greatly improved over the years in Uzbekistan, Axmatova Maxliyo Ag’zam qizi suggests ways to improve language students’ writing competence, O’rinova Diyora outlines methods for improving language learners’ speech, Kurbanova Mohinur Abdumuxtor qizi discusses challenges in translating idioms between English and Uzbek, while Rakhmonova Gulzoda Sodiq qizi stands at the threshold of a career in medicine, drawn forward by compassion, intellect, and personal resolve.

Image c/o Anonymous User

Jernail S. Anand looks at compassion, care and the consequences of individual actions. Mykyta Ryzhykh highlights the dissonance between our ideals of gentleness and innocence and abusive human behavior that falls short of these ideals. Asalbonu Otamurodova’s reflections on boundaries offer another kind of threshold: the necessary line where care for others must meet care for the self.

Art itself becomes another form of threshold, creating space for various ideas and sensibilities to meet and overlap. Noah Berlatsky considers how even a weathered, broken artwork can convey meaning, how the breakage can become part of the work. Doug Hawley and Bill Tope’s joint short story humorously compares an ordinary couple with historically famous idealized sculptures of people, finding in favor of the average, imperfect, but real, married couple. To’lquinay Ubukulova points out creative people’s current dependence on technology of various sorts. Jerrice J. Baptiste’s poems and paintings of women highlight their individuality, strength of character, and connection to the natural world. Juraeva Aziza Rakhmatovna interviews Croatian writer and poet Ankica Anchia, illuminating her love for her nation and birthplace as creative inspiration.

Ummusalma Nasir Mukhtar celebrates the power of writers to move society forward through their creativity, as Bill Tope explores his personal literary motivations. Ri Hossain analyzes themes in his own poetry, highlighting his combination of materialism and surrealism and how he renders urban realities through free verse. Gionni Valentin’s fragmented thoughts, images, and reflections explore themes of creativity, self-discovery, and the human condition. Kandy Fontaine describes post-Beat poetics, defined by inclusivity, community, focus on embodied and lived experience with living writers, and rejection of hierarchies and trophies. Patrick Sweeney’s tiny poetic fragments touch on art, identity, nature, history, and relationships. Joshua Martin’s poems combine lexical debris, media fragments, bureaucratic residue, and historical ruin, while Mark Young’s fragmented transmissions emerge from different frequencies of reality.

Image c/o Daniele Pellati

What binds these many works is not sameness, but shared arrival. Each piece stands at some edge—of understanding, of memory, of identity, of survival—and from that edge it calls out. The result is a true chorus: not a single melody, but many voices meeting in resonance.

Chorus at the Threshold sums up this collection because every page invites crossing. Between sorrow and wonder. Between history and dream. Between the self we have been and the self we are still becoming. Yet, many of these doors remain open, so that the thoughts and impressions in one “room” carry forward along one’s journey or can be remembered.

May you enter these pages with openness, attentiveness, and the quiet recognition that something in you may emerge changed.

Essay from Hamdamova Dilzodaxon Halimjon qizi

Sky

It was as if the dark clouds were racing each other. They were just about to meet the nine-year-old. Grandpa came into the house with a bunch of colorful bags in his hands. I ran over and threw myself into their arms Grandpa handed me one of the bags. It was amazing!

My grandfather had never brought anything in a bag with such a pattern before I  asked:

-Grandpa why is that?

-Just like that?

-Well you still don’t understand 

-Why?

-Your grandfather grandmother loved such bags 

-What kind of person was my grandmother? She taught  children raised them  loved to read and was a very pure person. The main thing is these

-If only my grandmother were here now….

She was a wonderful person  

My grandfather said  interrupning me I envied my grandfather just like any other child. I grew up listening to my grandfather teach them . The are with me in my heart. As I was starting at a point in the middle of such thoughts the boy next to me interrupted my thoughts:

Teacher can you check my homework ?

Blind eyes

-Finally  my son we are going to the capital tomorrow.

-Haaa will we stay there for a long time?

-We will leave when the doctors say so.

-Then will you take me to the park?

-God willing we will definitely go.

-I love you, honey!

-Okay honey, have a good rest -he said and left 

-Dawn passed. Mother and son set off happily. The boy was thinking about something in his mind. They reached the hospital. The boy’s operation was successful. Since the boy had good immunity, the wounds healed quickly.

The boy asked his mother caressingly.

-Mom shall we go to the park now?

-Darling, let’s get home

-Mom honey, be careful, we are turning left. Stop! Hold on don’t trip.

-My child, you are so kind 

-Not like you!

Hamdamova Dilzodaxon Halimjon qizi was born on May 11, 2009, in Uchkoprik district, Fergana region, Uzbekistan. She is currently a 10th-grade student at the Erkin Vohidov Creative School.

Poetry from Alan Catlin

Rules for War Photographers

Recognize what the war is,

and where, then patiently wait for

the photograph to happen

Be objective and never

interfere

Even when the baby is

drowning

when the village is

burning

when the women are on their

hands and knees praying, begging

you to stop

where the girl is running with

her back on fire

Do not become the subject yourself

even when captured by

the enemy

Especially when captured by

the enemy

To not take these pictures

so we will never know what

you have known,

to see what you have seen

these pictures are too terrible

for words

Violate all these rules

whenever possible

The Crime Scene

after Stan Rice

All the faces in the ill-lit street

are wearing masks like equity

actors off-stage in guerilla theater,

a strange interlude with police cars,

emergency flashers, real murder

weapons and riddled bodies 

emboldened by death, their heads

covered by rags, a black plague

mask for disease prevention in

a rat-infested tin pan alley awaiting

a visitation of wisemen from another

vision drawn with white chalk and 

defined by yellow caution tapes,

Caucasian chalk circles drawn

on stained concrete for filling in 

the spaces with blood evidence and

severed finger prints; the muffled

hooves of a mounted police cordon

nearby indicate the pale horses,

pale riders, have arrived.

Found Photo, “The Garden of Earthly Delights” in the Background 

The talk here is

not of Spain

nor of the Civil

War

Not of Picasso

bleeding,

a failing century’s

grief

but of the harm

men do to other

men

the held-breath

silence of just-

before-the-end

and what

comes after

Mayakovsky at 3 AM

Eyes closed, stuffed head in

a noose, broken arms

wrenched aside useless as

foam, the smoke of many

cigarettes in glass ashtrays

on the littered, low table,

dealt playing cards folded

into hands, played tricks

amidst litter: empty clear 

bottles, overturned shot glasses,

spent cartridges, dueling pistols,

barrels still crossed on the wall

above the torso of a bald, 

black veiled woman, painted 

eyes half-open, false lips

the color of dried blood.

Enola Gay, the result: details 

Three wisemen with gas masks,

their asbestos suits alight; dis-

colored babies, the egg heads and

the deformed; body parts of the afflicted

blue and exploding; peace bridge

over a river, running red as ink, collapsing,

a conveyance, a memorial no more;

railroad trestles melting, steel matchsticks

pliable as plastic; graveyard markers

reduced from stone to ash; altars

for the ancients and the newly dead

wiped away; great beasts rising from

the human muck, primordial, simian,

their eyes white as heat lightning,

as atomic mushrooms after the fire

storm, after the manumission of these

wandering souls; the black impressions,

shadows frozen in flight.

Portrait of the Artist, Photo of a Mock Turner in the Background

Brought back to life, his eyes

have seen it all on both sides

of the bar, the swarthy demons,

the headless huntsmen, range

riders on white buffalo shooting

the dead warriors when artificial

respiration won’t do what jesus

did, making a mockery out of 

mortality by raising Lazarus three

days gone, decayed and festering,

an incomplete new man cursed with

vision once the white scabs of his

eyes have been removed, once new

uncanny visions of resurrected pain

have been felt; the risen elk on steep

promontory wait amid the unearthly

swirl of colored mists, the creator’s

face suggests what cannot be said,

“nothing I can say will make it better.”

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

Middle aged white man with a beard standing in a bedroom with posters on the walls
J.J. Campbell

sensitive

i grew up listening to the indigo girls

i believe that made me sensitive

i wore a slayer shirt to a tori amos

concert

that got a few weird looks

especially when i knew all the lyrics

always the odd one

the one standing out in the crowd

but i never craved that spotlight

never wanted to be famous or hell,

even rich

just wanted my own little slice

of reality

a place where i could paint naked

while listening to classical music

and the cops would understand

that of course, he has a little pot

in him

of course, there’s a loaded shotgun

in the corner

of course, a few empty bottles on

the floor, holes in the carpet

all the bent spoons are hidden

——————————————————————————-

no longer fit to breathe

a glass of vodka and

two muscle relaxers

must be a thursday

love, that fleeting

myth

lost in air that is no

longer fit to breathe

cursed under a cherry

moon by the most

beautiful woman that

bothered to take your

soul

you never learned

that you don’t have

to suffer to find joy

that you can work

harder and smarter

at the same time

she told me to meet

her on the other side

of the moon

try to decipher that

code when we no

longer have space

alone, listless

wasting away in

pain

waiting for the demons

or the ragged angels

to say hello

at least someone is

still buying books

——————————————————-

midnight

a crisis of confidence

when you shouldn’t

have any

play with your words

like the children play

with their food

eventually, we all go

hungry

dancing at midnight

as the world slips

off its axis

and we all could

see this coming

elect the crazy

and expect

something

else

this is what happens

when no lessons

are ever learned

rinse and repeat

hope is insanity

with a smile

a hill to go

die on

—————————————————————

a fresh kill

loneliness greets you

like a cat bringing in

a fresh kill

it wants the fucking

treats

but we’ve entered

the stage of life

where no fucks

are given

the glue of society

is off polishing the

participation prize

somewhere in the

distance nero is

playing the violin

you smile when

you remember

mozart died

poor

hazy with a dash

of sunshine today

eventually, rain

in the evening

misery to sleep

with

how did that cat

kill the rabbit

twice its size

sweet dreams

embrace the pain

like it was meant

to be

————————————————————–

tied your innocence into a knot

she had a sense of grace

a certain elegance in the

way she would saunter

over to you at three in

the morning

slightly drunk and

always horny

she made you a man

long before you were

ready to become one

tied your innocence

into a knot

and all you could

ever think was what

else could that tongue

do

eventually, even love

moves on

finds a better soul

something more than

it could ever be

memories only last as

long as you allow them

time settles all these

feuds in the mind

ceases to exist on

a spring morning

many years too soon

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Yellow Mama, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Owl Narrative and Disturb the Universe Magazine. His latest book, to live your dreams, is available at Amazon.com. you can find it by going here: https://a.co/d/0aS2cXSX

Poetry from Mahbub Alam

Middle aged South Asian man with reading glasses, short dark hair, and an orange and green and white collared shirt. He's standing in front of a lake with bushes and grass in the background.
Mahbub Alam

Imperialism 

You engineer ruin 

in endless sequences— 

because power permits you. 

A forest predator, 

all teeth and hunger, 

you erase whole herds 

in a single breath. 

Soft faces dim. 

They turn away from the world, 

learning too early 

that the earth does not claim them.

They leave behind 

a quiet, exhausted sigh— 

for you. 

But beneath the silence, 

something ancient stirs: 

a volcano,

red-eyed, no longer asleep. 

When it exhales, 

the air itself becomes flame. 

Lives—small, unnamed, countless— 

collapse into ash. 

Life begins 

to answer life. 

And when that day arrives— 

tell me, 

what language 

will your eyes speak?

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

10 April, 2026.

The Ruined Flower

A broken flower rests on the table. 

Some flowers, even in death,

remember how to breathe 

fragrance— 

but this one 

has learned fire instead. 

Its petals burn. 

Its thorns speak louder

than any beauty it once held. 

It trembles— 

and something unseen 

detonates across the room. 

People come close, 

drawn by love. 

They bleed. 

They fall. 

They rise again 

with raised hands, 

learning resistance 

too late. 

Still, they return— 

to the same flower, 

the same mistake. 

Some errors 

do not remain small. 

They ripple outward,

shaking the architecture of the world. 

A crooked table 

never truly stands straight. 

And some of our mistakes 

bend time itself— 

until generations inherit the ache. 

Generation after generation.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

10 April, 2026.

The Strait of Hormuz

A narrow strait— 

yet it carries the weight 

of entire histories. 

It maps routes, 

spins dreams, 

tilts the sky 

on its axis. 

It sharpens minds— 

and ignites wars. 

Cities burn in its shadow. 

Ports rise and fall 

by its permission. 

For a passage this small, 

your dreams and mine

are undone— 

then rebuilt 

in some uncertain future. 

It is a bridge. 

It is a wound. 

It speaks in opposites: 

fire, then rain. 

famine, then peace. 

And if we could look away 

from the imperialism of Hormuz

that surrounds it—

perhaps something quieter, 

something untouched, 

would still be flowing— 

clear, 

beautiful, 

unafraid.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

11 April, 2026.

Apiculture

The world—
a vast apiculture.

So why does a planet built on honey
taste of poison?

Why do we return
again and again,
with bitterness
coating the tongue?

Why does life itself
stand on the brink?

Why do humans
turn against humans—
with reason,
without reason—
as if destruction were instinct?

Bees do not forget their order.
They gather,
they build,
they sustain.

But we—
creatures of thought,
of language,
of sky-reaching dreams—
fall beneath them.

We grieve
for an ant crushed underfoot,
yet raise our hands
against each other.

We were meant
for something gentler—
to sit side by side,
soul beside soul,
in a world that could have worked.

Since the first dawn,
the stars have poured out light.
They have never
rained fire.

Then why do we?

At the summit of civilization,
why do our faces
still bend in shame?

Why does war return
like a habit
we refuse to break—
border after border,
generation after generation?

What kind of progress
carries this depth of ruin
in its shadow?

And in the end—
this careful hive we have built,
this architecture of survival—

may be the very thing
that calls forth
our collapse.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

11 April, 2026.

Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.

Once when he was in grade ten in 1990, his Bangla letter was selected as the best one from Deutsche Welle, Germany Radio that broadcast Bangla news for the Banglalee people. And he was given 50 Dutch Mark as his award. They would ask letters from the listeners to the news in Bangla and select one letter for the best one in every month.     

From 17 to 30 September, in 2018 he received a higher training in teaching English language in Kasetsart University of Thailand for secondary level students through a government order from education ministry. 

On 06 November 2015 he achieved Amjad Ali Mondal Medal for his contribution in education field by a development organization in the conference and felicitation function for the honorable personalities at Rajshahi College Auditorium. 

On 30 December 2017 from West Bengal in India he was declared a ‘Literary Charioteer’ in Bangobandhu Literary and World Bango Conference and they awarded him with a Gold Medal in their International Literary Conference and Prize Giving Ceremony.

In 2018, he achieved Prodipto Lirerary Award in Prodipto Literary Conference at Kesorhat, Rajshahi for poems in Bangla literature. He received honorary crest from the administration of Chapainawabganj District Literary Conference and Cultural Function in 2021 and 2022 consecutively. 

His poems have been published in many international online magazines such as Juntos Por las L Raven Cage Zine, and Area Felix.  His poems have been translated and published in Argentine and Serbian, and he participated in many international online cultural meetings. 

Poetry from Manik Chakraborty

Looking at the tall buildings, 

the stones of those buildings are black with blood. 

The water stained with tears on the iron railings of those buildings,

 the stairs of those buildings have deteriorated as much as they can. 

The sweat of slaves on the white stones of those buildings,

 the bones broken by whips, 

the price of labor has not been paid.

Poetry from Patricia Doyne

SEIZE THAT TROUBLEMAKER—

AND HER TORCH!

After the “No Kings” rally in LA,

signs and costumes milled around, blocked traffic–

until the cops showed up.

Picture this: riot-gear police

seizing blue-gowned, blue-faced Lady Liberty.

They confiscate her torch, then loop a chain

around her waist, cuff hands behind her back,

and march her off, one lawman on each side.

So—Liberty’s too dangerous? Too woke?

Welcomes the tired and poor, asylum-seekers?

Says no one– NO ONE– is above the law?

We the People came downtown today,

seeking solace, strength in shared resolve—

rejecting ICE, that preys on immigrants,

but won’t apply laws to rich pedophiles;

rejecting millions spent to build a ballroom

while health care’s cut, and hospitals shut down;

rejecting war with no goals, no way out,

while old bone-spurs plays golf at Mar-a-Lago;

rejecting loss of three-branch government,

while faux-king stamps his name on doors and dollars.

We twice elected this convicted felon

with track records of insurrection, racism, and rape.

He raised the cost of living, and attacks

free speech, free press, and now, the right to vote.

Eight million, coast to coast, reject this future.

and gather to share anger, fear, and strength.

But in the end, when all the chanting’s done–

there goes Lady Liberty in chains.

A zip-tied symbol of a vision lost.


Copyright 3/2026

Patricia Doyne