Welcome, readers, to the first Synchronized Chaos issue of November 2025. First, a few announcements.

This issue was edited by poet Tao Yucheng, who has been published several times in Synchronized Chaos and in several other publications.

Contributor Kelly Moyer has launched a blog-style journal, Circle of Salt, a simple blog-style journal for all things esoteric. Potential contributors are invited to send up to three unpublished pieces of magickal poetry (including esoteriku), prose, personal essay, original art, reviews, recipes, tips, etc. to Kelly Sauvage Moyer at unfazedmoon@gmail.com. The web address is https://circleofsaltmag.blogspot.com/.

Also, the Naji Naaman Literary Prize is now open to emailed submissions from around the world.

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Now, for this month’s first issue: Sip and See.

A sip and see is a meet and greet party popular in the southeastern United States where people enjoy light snacks, drinks, and the chance to meet a newborn baby. In a way, Synchronized Chaos Magazine’s issues are global ‘sips and sees,’ celebrations where we may meet newly emerged bursts of creativity.

As we would when encountering a new baby, Priyanka Neogi revels in life’s joy.

Teresa de Lujan Safar’s poem celebrates the delight a mother takes in her children’s appreciation. Graciela Noemi Villaverde remembers the daily love and care of her deceased mother. Rakhmiddinova Mushtariy Ravshanovna pays tribute to the presence and care of her mother.

Bill Tope and Doug Hawley’s short story “Evergreen” portrays quiet familial concern, capturing the subtle tension and affection between siblings as they notice their mother’s unusual, tender attachment to her garden.

Mahbub Alam takes joy in nature and the brilliant sunshine. Timothee Bordenave’s essay explores permaculture, advocating livestock grazing on fallow land and urban fruit tree forests. Genevieve Guevara playfully links weather patterns and emotions. Walid Alzoukani revels in how the rain enriches his spirit. Brian Michael Barbeito’s “What is the Meadow and What is Love?” finds love and presence in the quiet endurance of nature. Bekturdiyeva Nozima’s essay examines the urgent need to cultivate ecological consciousness among youth, emphasizing education, family, and practical engagement as keys to a sustainable future. Jack Galmitz’ poetry speaks to cultural memory and our connections with nature. Brian Barbeito’s work reflect the relationship between human beings, nature and animals, which is even more important in the current Internet age.

Paintings from Srijani Dutta reflect hope for the return of spring, drawing on images from an Asian mythological system. Eddie Heaton guides us on a surrealist romp through a colorful universe. Mark Young speculates through found and created poetry on how human art can coexist with science and technology.

Federico Wardal highlights the work of holistic physician Dr. Antonello Turco and how his medical practice is a work of art. Nidia Garcia celebrates the creativity and insight of a weaver who tells the story of her people in cloth. Taylor Dibbert shares an amusing anecdote about sartorial fashion choices and lost luggage.

Jacques Fleury’s “The Color Purple” is a vibrant meditation on heritage and symbolism, exploring how shades of purple evoke nobility, spirituality, emotion, and the richness of human experience. Normatova Sevinchoy reflects on the nature of beauty and finds it through elegant simplicity. Kelly Moyer’s films explore the relationship between life and all things through the disposal and dissolution of human-built objects.

Literature and writing are integral parts of human creative culture. Contemporary Uzbek literature blends tradition and modernity, emphasizing national identity and the Uzbek language. Abdulazizova Nigina Faxriddin qizi’s article “Developing Speech Culture of Primary School Students” examines methods to enhance young learners’ oral and written communication, emphasizing interactive strategies, cultural awareness, and the link between speech skills and social participation.

Zuhra Jumanazarova expresses that preserving the literary quality of the Uzbek language is integral to preserving Uzbek culture. Muhayyo Toshpo’latova’s essay explores how contemporary Uzbek literature balances tradition, national identity, and digital-age innovation. Nilufar Yusupova discusses advantages and challenges posed by online education. Masharipova Unsunoy outlines strategies for improving student public speaking competence. Dilafruz Karimova evaluates various methods for teaching English as a second language. Rashidova Lobar’s “Mother Tongue” is a heartfelt tribute to the Uzbek language, celebrating it as the nation’s soul, heritage, and eternal source of pride and unity.

Mickey Corrigan’s poetry honors the survival, grit, and literary mastery of novelist Lucia Berlin. Grant Guy’s artwork evokes the creative spirit of decades-ago absurdist No! theater. Christina Chin and Kim Olmtak’s tan-renga poems promise adventure on the horizon. Scott Derby’s poem draws on The Odyssey, exploring a journey of trials and self-discovery, ultimately evoking a return to faith. Inga Zhghenti reviews Armenida Qyqja’s collection Golden Armor, about the quest of the human spirit for survival amidst adversity.

Peter Cherches’ vignettes explore through gentle humor how we make decisions and set up our lives. James Tian reminds the faithful to use their God-given brains, even in church.

Janna Hossam’s essay explores the fleeting nature of achievement and the trap of “fast dopamine,” urging a shift from chasing external validation to finding lasting fulfillment in steady, meaningful growth. Sharifova Saidaxon advocates for balance in the use of social media and online entertainment. O‘rozboyeva Shodiya’s essay “How Social Media Affects Young People” reflects on the dual impact of social media, highlighting its benefits for learning and reading while cautioning against distraction and over-immersion in the virtual world.

Brooks Lindberg’s poem wittily questions the nature of facts, blending philosophy, mathematics, and law with humor and skepticism. Candice Louise Daquin reviews John Biscello’s novel The Last Furies, which evokes themes of tradition, vaudeville, religion and mysticism.

Turkan Ergor reflects on how people’s strongest desires and best-laid plans don’t come to fruition. Dr. Ashok Kumar expresses the peace found through surrendering to what we cannot control.

J.T. Whitehead’s Nocturnes are haiku-inspired reflections on art, history, and personal experience, capturing quiet joy and solitude. Christina Chin and Marjorie Pezzoli’s collaborative renga blends fragmented, stark imagery with a conversational, experimental flow, exploring tension, vulnerability, and the raw textures of experience. Derek Dew’s poems “To Come” and “What is Ours” delve into language, memory, and moral stillness, blending abstraction and lyricism to explore identity, silence, and the elusive nature of meaning. Sayani Mukherjee’s “God’s Hands” is a dreamlike meditation on time and memory, shimmering with blue skies and fleeting wishes. Vo Thi Nhu Mai’s “Harbour of the Changing Season” is a tender, reflective meditation on love, loss, and the passage of time, finding beauty and peace in the rhythms of nature and the flow of life.

Duane Vorhees’ poem “ORH” tenderly portrays love as cleansing and transformative, merging identities like rain washing away dust. Amina Kasim Muhammad advocates kindness and humanity. In a similar vein, Maja Milojkovic reflects on the value of a human soul as measured by the person’s compassion and integrity. Ruzimbayeva Quvonchoy Jamoladdin qizi’s essay highlights Uzbekistan’s national values as the enduring heart of the nation, shaping identity, unity, and moral life.

Yodgorova Madina also celebrates traditional Uzbek values such as diligence, hospitality, respect for the elderly, the young, and women, honesty, and compassion and urges modern Uzbeks to pass down those values. Jumanazarova Muxlisa’s essay highlights women as the vital foundation of Uzbek society, shaping history, education, and leadership. In the same vein, Egyptian writer Adham Boghdady’s poem portrays a woman as a radiant, inspiring presence who lights up hearts and the world. Dildora Khojyozova’s essay “Kindness and Humanity in the 21st Century” emphasizes the enduring importance of empathy and compassion amid technological and social change, arguing that true progress depends on how we treat one another.

Abbas Yusuf Alhassan’s long poetic piece illustrates the different facets of love as expressed through grief. Elmaya Jabbarova’s poetry intertwines love and grief. RP Verlaine comments on what brings people together and what divides us. Eldar Akhadov ponders the mental distance that inevitably separates everyone.

Turdiyeva Guloyim’s “I’m Tired, Mother!” expresses profound loneliness and disillusionment, lamenting false friendships, cruelty, and the harshness of the world, while yearning for genuine human connection. Kandy Fontaine’s “Nepantla, The Tipping Point, Deep Time: A Conversation Between Worlds” examines the intersections of literature, identity, and planetary change, using the concept of Deep Time to reflect on societal fear, power structures, and the urgent need for transformation. Mirta Liliana Ramirez reminds us that powerful people exist who prey on the vulnerable. Patricia Doyne surveys the sentiments at a San Francisco Bay Area No Kings rally. Aubrey Malaya Lassen’s poem “The Call” confronts misunderstanding and oppression, using vivid animal imagery to explore awareness, resistance, and the refusal of power to recognize truth.

Bill Tope’s “The Gauntlet” is a tense short story following Anais, a Haitian refugee, as she navigates an unsettling encounter with police in a small Ohio town, exploring themes of fear, vulnerability, and power. Ahmed Miqdad’s poem reflects on the horrors of violence and displacement, using stark imagery of blood and silence to evoke grief and loss. Emeniano Acain Somoza Jr. writes of humans eking out existence in the shadows of ageless deities and harsh weather. Stephen Jarrell Williams crafts a slow piece on calm preparations as an apocalypse looms.

J.J. Campbell illustrates the lingering effects of trauma on a person’s life and psyche. Mykyta Ryzhykh’s poem juxtaposes stark, unsettling images with fragile signs of life, capturing the raw and abrupt entry of innocence into harsh reality. Alexa Grospe personifies the pain and terror of stage fright and writers’ block. Philip Butera views life from the panoramic perspective of one nearing death. Ablakulova Dilfuza’s essay “My child, if I leave, you won’t find me again” is a poignant meditation on solitude, aging, and loss, vividly portraying the emotional landscape of a woman left alone, clinging to memories as her world darkens. Adewuyi Taiwo’s short story “A Star Called Priye” explores themes of family secrets, grief, and quiet strength.

Duane Vorhees’ review of Taylor Dibbert’s On the Rocks explores his Bukowski-inspired style—plainspoken, raw, and grounded in everyday struggle—revealing a candid search for freedom from pain. Rizal Tanjung’s review of Eva Petropoulou Lianou’s “Freedom” highlights the poem’s haunting imagery of two wingless birds, portraying freedom as both a lost ideal and a visceral, human necessity.

Jabborova Vasila comments on how medicine can address psychological changes in some heart transplant patients. Melita Mely Ratkovic’s poem urges the speaker’s friend to heal and love themselves again after trauma. Ramona Yolanda Montiel wishes all her readers simple joys and gentle comfort.

Eva Petropoulou Lianou’s “Miracles” celebrates everyday wonders, human connection, and the light of faith amid darkness. Jeanette Eureka Tiburcio’s poem honors resilience and hope, invoking golden children as symbols of strength, growth, and the enduring light amid adversity.

We hope that this issue serves as a guiding light as you ‘sip and see’ the many forms of human thought and feeling from around the world.

—————-

Apologia to the angry mob of futureless youths

We are the immortal goodbyes the  gods said to each other

Aeons ago at the gloaming hours of broken covenants

Every word is now a forging of newfound courage, or hope

Behind gray clouds that quiver on the breast of crestfallen dew

Do not bind us now to the oaths of our failed bloodlines

We may fail yet again with tired maxims, axioms hiding

In the palimpsest of hardworking mediocre metaphors

—————–

At a bullet train station in Fujian

Ten years ago around this time of year 

The weather was biting like a lover gone bitter

The fellow Chinese teacher said something about winter wind in China

Which can typically lick human faces off with frost bite

That there’s no way to know pain from shame 

Because the cold is an anaesthesia

So we could be walking around like zombies 

With nice-smelling coiffed hair

Empty eye sockets staring back at people

I didn’t know if he was only trying to shock or humor

A newcomer with excess baggage to boot.

When the train arrived, the wind howled harder

Stepping inside I caught myself in the glass door

Not a zombie yet, whatsoever, thank God

Just a Bukowskian traveler with frozen lake eyes

Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr., is a native of Siquijor Island in Central Visayas, Philippines. He was last based in Fujian, China as a second-language teacher after over a decade stint as a Corporate Communications Officer in the Middle East. Some forthcoming online and in print, most of his poems and stories have been published by literary magazines and journals, including The Philippines Graphic, The Philippine Free Press, The Philippine Star, and the Philippine Studies: Historical and Ethnographic Viewpoints Vol. 53 , among others. He has published three poetry books since 2010. and currently Editor-At-Large for The Syzygy Poetry Journal. 

Golden child,

On the dark red of the earth

Mark your tracks

In weakness and Uncertainty.

Barren roads, disturbed and Flooded

Of the vile nature of the one Who has decided to steal Everything from you

Of whom in his ignorance The I AM was believed.

Golden children,

May your shine never fade

Access to believe, to dream, To grow

To have clean air and Electrifying food.

May the rain caress your feet

Multiply bonanzas

Let the rain irrigate you Hope

To build your story and build.

I apologize

For the damage done to the earth

On behalf of my parents, my grandparents,

The ancestors, who by doing nothing, we did everything

I ask your forgiveness for those who

They watered the crop with blood

That today reaches your Mouth as the only food.

There’s no way to erase the past

I don’t mean to

there is no coupon that exchanges life

if there is, I don’t have it…

what I have is hope and will

I want to share with you and inherit your resistance and resilience

Invite you not to give up even in the biggest fires

Invite you to dance life

Every time you can.

What I can do and do is give you my voice

for the calling

share my passion for this life,

Activate awareness and decision

impact transformative leadership

and fight hard in the face of uncertainty.

Let us consistently stop the actions that lead us to this deterioration and devastation.

The tension at the maximum limit found a home,

the earth catches fire, little will freezes us,

natural imbalance is our reality

we have to write, paint and dance

the world we deserve to have

as long as the oxygen reaches.

Nocturne No. 93 

Li Po wrote something like this:


‘This river town could be in a painting . . .’ 

And here in the West, I think: so could Guernica.

 — J.T. Whitehead

 *

Nocturne No. 94 

Buson wrote something like this:


‘No inshore whales are in my sight, & Night falls on the seas.’ 

& here I thought it was the fishing industry. 

 — J.T. Whitehead

*

Nocturne No. 95 

Buson wrote something like this: ‘Utter aloneness: 

this is another great pleasure in an Autumnal dusk . . .’ 

Fine. But I would still miss my lover.

 — J.T. Whitehead

*

Nocturne No. 96 

I feel some small joy knowing when I see the Moon


that the Sun, like a smiling blond baby, kisses the graves


of those Haiku Masters. Small, like an egg, an atom, or a gem. 

— J.T. Whitehead

Mirrors Of Winter

Under a dark moon

on an empty road I run

past my frozen breath.

Thinking of her in 

delicate  nightwear

cheaply bought yet

worth a revealing 

fortune when she wore it.

Were we anything more

than a blur of circumstance?

Brought on by trays of

drinks served and emptied

truncated clips of film repeating.

I run past the park of rusty

locked gates, abandoned

as any hope we had at the end.

New tears freeze scarlet

cheeks to a savage burn.

Insane to run when its eight 

degrees at 1 am, but I must

move forward I tell myself.

Until finally home to wonder

in an endless hall of mirrors

cracked in the reflected  truth

of all my past mistakes.

Colder Than The Coffee

After

A brief dalliance

a few days

lasting too long…

We meet

a second & final time.

She said her coffees

getting cold

before adding-

say what you must

no louder than a whisper

I have friends here &

It won’t change anything.

But she doesn’t let

me speak…

There was no going

beyond us being

a footnote with 

every inch a lie.

Undone by words

over politics

calling her mad king

a fascist fool, undid us.

Despite sex I thought splendid.

At this outdoor

cafe with a fine view

of the beach she continues

to talk. Calls me politically

immature and  leftist crazy

while I think of the sex.

This is pointless I say

as she shifts to the border

to illegals and Ice.

.

I look up

almost certain

yesterday’s clouds 

have vanished.

Replaced by impostors

formless as our future

that lasted two evenings.

Undone by the truths of naked polemics

that unlike our bodies-refused to meet.

Winter Frost

It takes half

lost innocent hours

after midnight

but the city

quiets some…

When I go for late walks

my tall shadow’s

lack of jewels and my clothes

many hands past second

on most days, keep

predators a broken

two step dance

multiplied

away.

But tonight

I see a face

grim as an ambulance

time betrayed, just

as late for the

dance with

fortune, slowly

step out of shadows.

Outline of a knife

I see, begin to run.

He tries but can’t

touch my hours

in the gym.

I leave him in the dust

like life has and

keep running past

the exits where

stop signs lie

you’re getting anywhere.

I keep running

In  a cold sweat

this worst of 

a fierce winter

can’t stop.

Closer To Distance

This failure of closeness you claim we have

issues of displacement that all manifest

when you say commitment or likewise words.

That infer or swallow whole both our paths 

divergent in chaos yet somehow blessed

to last and linger past all truths left blurred.

But I’m at a loss when you ask out loud

if we’re adults or sharing its pretense 

not to answer questions, time will address.

Marriage or children, a house, or allow

ourselves a plan to dare the consequence

of a joined future sacred vows may bless.

I’m 40 you say, no longer a kid 

I nod, say nothing that you won’t forgive.

Rp Verlaine lives in New York City. He has an MFA in creative writing from City College. He taught in New York Public schools for many years. His first volume of poetry- Damaged by Dames& Drinking was published in 2017 and another – Femme Fatales, Movie Starlets & Rockers in 2018. A set of three e-books titled Lies From The Autobiography vol 1-3 were published from2018 to 2020.  His most recent book, Imagined Indecencies, was published in February of 2022A new volume will be published in spring of 2026.

The greatest blessing to find,

Is a heart both true and kind,

A magnanimous spirit, vast and deep,

Where empathy and compassion softly sleep. 

And with this heart, a mind that will not bend,

A tenacious spirit, until the very end,

Where storms of doubt and trials we may face,

Will keep us steadfast in our rightful place. 

A spirit strong will not yield,

Across life’s vast unfolding field,

Where hearts entwine, compassion’s touch,

Woven through a hopeful aurora. 

With an unyielding mind, so strong and true,

Through every challenge, rise above, it’s up to you,

With spirits high, beneath an ever-watchful sky,

Push your existence to the heart’s bright aura, nearby. 

In realms where fortune’s whispers softly gleam,

That brightens the soul, and shadows fleeting moments teem,

As clear as morning’s light, a guiding star,

To banish endless nights, no matter how far. 

And seal your life, seal your fate,

With love and strength, forever bound,

In blessings deep, and joy profound.

Amina Kasim Muhammad is a Nigerian writer, poet, with a passion for writing and values her pen and book. She found herself by the way stories could transport her to different worlds and the way ideas could be shaped and shared through writing. She’s a member of Minna Literary Society (MLS). She’s on Instagram as Meena Kasim.

Smooth As Water, Flat As An Envelope

It is rough around the edges
but that will eventually work out-
the water will make everything smooth
and flat and standard like an envelope.

I will let you in on something:
when I was a boy
my parents were octopuses.
Do not task me

with explanations.
I just knew. Okay. It was a certitude.

When I went to sleep my father
had to lie in bed with me.
I had recurring nightmares.
Each night the room was filled
with ghosts who wore red fezzes.
I know it has Freudian overtones,
but who knew then. Not even
my father, who was a human.
I think my mother sometimes kept
him company, which settled nothing.

Anyway, I grew up, you might say.
And I am acceptable,
at least on the surface
and that takes up most everything.

Where I Live

I am not Chinese.
But I am married to
a Chinese woman.
And I have observed over years
that if a Chinese person
comes upon a patch of earth,
they will fetch a pail and shovel,
bring some seeds and plant
a garden. It is all those years of agrarian living.

In my building there is an OC
who had allergies. Instead of going
to a doctor, he chopped down all the trees
and bushes and every living green thing
outside his window and then sat back
pleasurably.

Mao Zedong took care
of the sparrows in China.
It was called The Great Leap Forward.
Sparrows ate grain so the Chinese destroyed
their nests and killed them off
by noise and terror and exhaustion.
Of course, sparrows ate locusts
and when the sparrows were gone
the locusts consumed all the crops.
This was The Great Chinese Famine.

I am very partial to sparrows.
When I approach and they hop off
I find it very gratifying.
In Montparnasse on the steps
of Sacre Coeur Basilica
I once fed sparrows from my hand
and it was secretive.

Talking To The Tree

Looking up at the tree
its heart hanging there
aimlessly still
I could see its
filigree leaves and catkins

planning something:
perhaps to pay a debt
or fill an old order.
There was an idea
doubtless
germinating in
that bound body.
I stopped my aimless
wandering, my body
stiff with age, my hands
in my pockets, empty
but for small change. What would I say to the tree?
If we were in the same world
it was only because of our bodies.
The mind of the tree and its body
were close together.
My mind had flown from my body,
a bluejay screeching
in the uppermost branches.