Poetry by Eric Sadler


I went howling to the Moon
And I hoped to outrun it
Before the days turn into nights
And she’s left with quite a


Of Sing, Sing, Sing
And Etta James
And Charles Mingus
And Miles Davis
And Sir Duke
Who juke out those fountains of
That saw sway saw away
Out of that golden flashing bay.

And I see
In the moonlight
The way for me
But not for
But against

And I guess she was
Dressed for quick
Double time
At the Hide-Away slime.
To chill with the yellow cats
Scratching their chairs
And lapping their beer
And having funny thoughts so queer
Until you think you’re gonna pass
From the stuff.

But her dress was Green
And I was in Black
And she was bathed in
The spotlight of the Moon
And I was drenched with
Howling sweat.


Please send any questions or feedback to Eric Sadler at etsadler@yahoo.com.


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An Interview with San Francisco Visual Artist, Anne Eunice

[Article by Cynthia Lamanna]

I recently engaged in a refreshing and candid phone interview with artist Anne Eunice, who currently resides in San Francisco. I was drawn in by this winsome, light yet sincere young woman, intrigued by her simple, poignant answers to some specific and open ended questions regarding her art, and the creation thereof.

Without a lot of fan-fare and drawn out explanations or reflections, she was humble, yet assured and matter of fact.

When asked how long she had been creating art, she answered “all my life.” She implied that over the last six months, she has taken more of an active interest. Currently part of a weekly art group, Eunice views drawing as a catalyst for inner healing. “When you make art, you can see that there’s still good, still love, still some happiness inside yourself.”

When asked how her art has evolved, she spoke up without pause. “I think it’s still evolving.” As the succinct answers and conversation weaved and flowed, with a sense of order and purpose, I was processing an image of an unpretentious sort who might be far too modest in her own appraisal of her gifts. Yet she seemed far less concerned with the grandiose, and final product, and more aware of the beauty of the journey, in the process, and expressed with an earnestness and conviction how she would like to continue her education in art, improve upon and develop herself as an artist.

What came across too was the fresh fascination of creating, emulating or re-creating beauty, and an enduring child-like wonder. I had not yet viewed her art at the time of the phone interview, and was curious, using my trusted imagination in place of other senses, to envision and/or capture in part, an essence, as it were. I invited her at her own pace to express herself, give a birds’ eye view, and somehow convey a prominent or primary message as well as visual, in telling a story about her art.

Cynthia Lamanna lives in the East San Francisco Bay Area, and is a regular contributor to Synchronized Chaos Magazine. You may reach her at cynthialamanna@yahoo.com.

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Chanticleers Theatre’s production of Lend Me a Tenor

[Reviewed by Bruce Roberts]

Having acted in local theater before, I know it’s rare when a performance goes off without a single hitch. That’s why I was so impressed with the Chanticleers’ flawless performance of Ken Ludwig’s Lend Me a Tenor on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

Chanticleers have been performing community theater in Castro Valley, California for 62 years. Tony Award-winning Lend Me a Tenor debuted on Broadway 22 years ago. That they finally got together is a wonderful treat for the audience.

This is a high energy comedy. Two side-by-side rooms provide a double set for parallel action. Within those two rooms are six doors, which of course present multiple possibilities for entrances and exits that keep this comedy of errors, and errors, and more errors, fast-paced, lively, and hysterical, a tribute to the directing of Sue Ellen Nelsen.

This cast had not a weak link anywhere. Everyone was on cue and over-the-top. With parallel sets, there was no wasted stage time for anyone either. If the focus was on one room, the actors next door would still be moving, mugging, gesturing. The audience had to watch every part of the stage to catch all the character nuances of this rich performance.

In this play, Max-well-played by Jeffrey Morrill–is an assistant, apparently not the leading man. Well-cast as the diametric opposite of an Italian opera superstar, Max expands the breadth of his role impressively as the play proceeds. To start, he is a toady, panicky, his stressed-out voice squawking into falsetto at every downturn of events. As the play moves on though, he reveals a marvelous operatic voice, plus great knowledge of the opera in question, Otello, and the stage presence to pull off an amazing charade. This allows the subsequent confusion that carries the second act, with him growing into leading man stature, and getting the girl at the end.

In short, if you’re ever in Castro Valley, California, check out Chanticleers Community Theater-small, intimate, unpretentious– and see what excellent show they’re running then. If you’re ever in need of a belly-laugh, find a theater playing Lend Me A Tenor. You won’t be disappointed either way.

Bruce Roberts is a poet and ongoing contributor to Synchronized Chaos Magazine. Roberts may be reached by at brobe60491@sbcglobal.net.

Poetry by Christopher Bernard

Rag Elite

Ah, it’s hard to be an elitist,
and not be a defeatist,
in this populist purgato-ry.

You’ve got to feel swell
even as you go to hell,
and remember most of literary

there was Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky,
Flaubert, Balzac, Chernychevsky,
Baudelaire and Mallarmé,
frenzied, tragic, or blasé;

there was Thackeray, there was Dickens,
Eliot, George, and no slim pickin’s,
all those Brontes and Jane Austen,
witty, goth, and little costin’,

Lord Tennyson paired with Browning,
Lord Byron and Grace Abounding,
and, not taking up the rear,
the one and only Will Shakespeare,

raving Homer about that roamer
and the burning of Ilium,
Virgil, Dante, Poe, Cervantes,
Aeschylus and Sophocles,
and that ancient Grecian tease
we all know as Euripides,

there was Faulkner, there was Joyce,
there was Hemingway and Stein,
and no writer worth his voice
could refuse the heady wine

of Spencer, Milton, Shelley, Keats,
young Rimbaud and old man Yeats,
and even though the fates
were or-ne-ry,

they’re now Famous and Admired
by librarians and graduate students and professors and junior high school English
teachers and the lame and the retired,
and will be for Eter-ni-ty.

Christopher Bernard is a widely published writer, critic, playwright and poet, co-founder of the literary and arts magazine, Caveat Lector (www.caveat-lector.org), and author of the novel, A Spy in the Ruins. Contact Bernard at christopherwb@msn.com.

Book Review: Just J’Rie, poetry by J’Rie B. Elliott

[Reviewed by Michael Widman]

A pink rose on the glossy cover on Just J’Rie, poetry by J’Rie B. Elliott, leads my mind to matters of romance, but that rose deceives by its looks. Likewise, the backside text on the little booklet from PublishAmerica that I keep on my desk since yesterday speaks about style (romance to patriotic with rhyme and rhythm, it says), but these assurances bear little meaning to me since I don’t buy books to satisfy my need for style.

In contrast, the message and the literary devices by which Elliott conveys it, matters more. I am therefore glad to find that Elliott’s poetry instantly connects to me. I have never come across any other poetry like hers. Her honest and straightforward presentation speaks to my simple mind in spite of the fact that I’m a man, who is only moderately interested in romance.

Elliott practices a sort of poetic reasoning that impresses me as clever. Her ways with words interest me much more than any experimentation with style would because she reasons about what it means to love.

Romance in Elliott’s hands calls the needs of the heart rather than the needs of romantic style.

I wish to expose below Elliott’s reasoning a bit since I believe her words can be of value for all kinds of readers.

A caveat: Elliott’s book reflects religious beliefs, but your reviewer is not a particularly religious man. Fortunately, religious faith is not required in order to enjoy Elliott’s poetry, although faith in humans helps. Anyway, beware that my personal opinion is imperfectly informed in religious matters.

I have read every one of Elliott’s fifty-six poems. Together they illuminate from different angles the needs of the heart. Serious reflection on the needs of the heart and the mind excites me.

Michael Widman may be reached at widmanm5@comcast.net.

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Book Review: Boneyard, by Dee Allen (Reviewed by Floyd A. Logan)

[Reviewed by Floyd A. Logan]

Boneyard begins its’ dialog with you immediately, through the cover art and layout. The shape of the book; an elongated rectangle, monolithic, tombstone like. The photograph of a sealed  mausoleum is the main feature. This fortressed mausoleum sitting on smooth manicured cemetary lawns is bathed in sunlight, is held in the palm of deep cool shadow, as one would see at the beginning of dusk. It is a metaphoric depiction of Dee’s book in some respects; with head and face exposed , vulnerable in the bright lights of present existence, with soul and body resting deep, still and dormant, as with the bulb of a spring flower now in repose.

There is a reflecting pool in front of the structure. A reflecting pool, displaying an inverse perspective of life, only slightly distorted. How telling that there appears to be more animation and movement in the distortion than in the true subjects.

Acknowledgments: Dee gives thanks to his many sources of inspiration, which includes friends, other poets and professional connections. Dee goes on to speak of the betrayal and abandonment he experienced through some of these same friends. He then describes how this all came to be viewed as part of the necessary process of an artist. Very little is forgotten, even less is forgiven. In spite of (or perhaps because of) this bitterness, Dee feels that he has developed as an artist, and learned how to discern what is worth holding onto.

Floyd A. Logan may be reached at floydalogan@gmail.com. Reviewer’s note: Some (not all) of Dee‘s poems in Boneyard are contained in this review.

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Poetry by Cynthia Lamanna

Once upon a time, a boy with love enough for all
Put his hand in mine, and said he loved me so,
And now he loves me even more-
Far from this earths shore

Once upon a time
A boy with curls like golden spools
Came into the world
With eyes like big black pools
Though this was once upon a time
It wasn’t very long ago

Once upon a time
Most every single night
I sang because “He lives”
It made his young heart light
Though my arms reach out for him
My soul will leap again

Once upon a time the water turned to wine
The boy- now a young man
had burning amber eyes
We scarce could take all of him in
Once upon a time-

We are smarter than we were
Yet in heart- broken as in half.
He taught us how to cry
And he taught us all to laugh
Yes this was once upon a time
And now that day has passed

The Lord makes His greatness known
He gives me joyous dreams
Skipping with my son
Our tears will soon be gone
It will be even greater than
In paradise with Him

Rejoicing all the days
We have found Jesus in our midst-
He will not leave us here
As orphans in the snow
May we come to love him more
On our faces may it show!

Though it seems once upon a time
A garden flourished- vibrant green-
His Kingdom is within
And His Kingdom soon will come-
Church, let us not be unaware-
He is our one and true Bride-groom

Cynthia Lamanna may be reached at cynthialamanna@yahoo.com.