Moral Inflation


Paying $3 for a cup of coffee

is the closest I get to praying

these days, as the tip jar is fuller 

than my Sunday School soul

that once made me feel so special 

placing money

in the collection plate at church,

only to be indoctrinated a second time

years later

on how minimum wage

defiles the free market

by a man who also preached

against the electric company's

monopoly and other economic evils

which have yet to engulf me in flames

as I place my change in the tip jar. 

FLYING FREE

She let the bird
out of its cage,
opened the window wide,
watched the creature
tentatively pace the sill
for a minute or two,
then fly away.

It was a parakeet
and only knew captivity.

It never occurred to her
that the bird would not survive
the harsh New England winter,
or that it was so tame,
it could hop up, willingly,
on a red-tailed hawk’s claw.

She imagined her own life 
within iron bars,
how she’d dearly love
someone to set her free.

She dreamed of 
something other than survival. 
Of prey animals
and all she had to give.





NEW MORNING

Early morning,
cocks stop crowing,
other birds take up the call.
A town awakes,
leaves the sex dreams in their bed somewhere,
pushes the fear dreams to the back of their heads.
Much shaving, face washing, coffee,
now the dreamer must go out and do it.
Work harder or less, steal or put back,
screw the neighbor's pretty wife
or demons in an office bathroom.
The light has moved everyone on from where they were.
Apology replaces act.
Honing in trades places with randomness.
It's to do with the brightness
and the stirring of a spoon
or the spray of hot water on the skin.
A scrawny rooster booted last night out the door.
Other birds feed on its flesh.
A town barks like its dogs,
purrs like its kittens.
Today, a bum could be the mayor.
A mourning widower might find a bride
behind that tombstone.
A shy girl will read Homer.
A boy from Brooklyn will go to Texas.
The rooster flops down from his fence,
double-trots to the barn
to rustle up some hens.
The birds are singing a song
that a clock taught them.
A guy says never leave me
to a woman who wasn't here before.
A child recites the alphabet
before the day knows that's how words are made.



CHILDHOOD FEARS

One ugly toad 
on the banks 
of the small pond
was enough to send me
running back home.

My pond,
the one where I collected tadpoles,
was held hostage 
to that gruesome creature,
whose chief weapon  
was simply to be.

Cane toad,
that insidious interloper,
barely raised an eye 
in my direction,
as if it believed its own legend,
that one touch of its slick brown skin
would be enough to kill a grown man.

My mother tried to assure me
that they were harmless.
And in a way 
that strangers in vehicles were definitely not.

I might have dreamed
that, on my way to school,
a car pulled over
and a toad poked its head out,
said something like,
“Hey kid, do you want a ride?”

I didn’t.
But, for a time there,
my dreams were headed in that direction.




YOUR DANCE

Marriage slowly evaporating
an emptiness at home
that not even a daughter can fill,
just like your dancing dream
faded when your father lost his job,
and now spinning round the room
clutching a wine bottle –
it’s not the same,
not while your back hurts 
from falling on the ice,
and his silence is like some intolerable barrage –
you still sleep together
but it feels like you’re in different rooms –
so much for the tango,
so much for expecting flowers on your anniversary,
you can’t even get tipsy –
and your thirteen-year-old is so busy texting,
sure, her life is going great,
she hasn’t grown older,
she hasn’t had to move around just to break the tension,
and she can get away with eating chocolate,
and wearing jeans –
you have to laugh,
at her age,
you could amuse myself by catching raindrops in your palm –
now you’re in company but alone
for no one can hear you,
as your confidence peels away,
you fear your slightest error,
for your mind’s a clearing house 
for all past mistakes,
and most of them are assigned to you –
and to think, you could have been a ballerina,
you could have learned tap,
you might have found the one thing you were good at
instead of the many where you just get by –
your dance, these days, 
merely wards off doing nothing –
it’s clumsy and misguided
and unsuited to applause.



IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING

Childhood
is about remembering how it was, 
adventures in phone calls, 
a weakness sweet as early spring,
pulse in a swirl when it’s not tick-tocking,
the half-assed bringdowns of a true believer,
age of reason as proposed by a fourth grade teacher,
two bucks to mow a lawn,
farts loud and smelly enough to empty a building,
big words, small actions,
alone with an ache,
an idea in my head 
falling short of the mile marker,
stolen wine sip held long on the tongue,
briefly glimpsed nude painting in library art book,
some green and fungus-like stuff oozing from the nostrils,
an uncanny ability to be found out,
bowing head in grass with the animals,
quarreling with the word “no”,
diminishing belief in the efficacy of prayers,
any given weekend,
stuff that appears on the horizon,
upticks in knowledge, downgrades in cuteness,
tears fewer and fainter,
a liking for loud metal music,
(and loud metals as well),
TV-watching face supported by palms and elbows.
beautiful women -  who knew?
learning to be careful but not careful enough,
rushing in more than stepping away,
an inferior swimmer in a no-nonsense ocean,
singed fingers on just about anything hot,
the first bucket-list to include Mount Everest,
learning the art of unseen hands,
thwarted by the second chapter of an immense novel…
as if words would just roll down a window
and I could shove my tawny head through.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.

“The bamboo bush listened without a word. Winds rustled sweet nothings through and around. Satisfied, yes, she was satisfied. Her heart was lighter. She had found her bearings here. This place which had become a spot of solace for her; she couldn’t stay away or stray away— summer, or winter, fall or spring; the bamboo bush, an extension of herself, couldn’t be parted with. The rainwater dripped down its leaves.

Skies above, far above, somewhere the greyness matched. It matched not above nor below but at the core, not the core of the earth; it was all a connected cycle. It matched the color of her mood, the greyness of the heart, an organic interconnection. The rain, the bamboo bush, the grey skies, her heightened mood, all in one chain of cosmic order. Separate, yet connected. Connected through a natural network. She loved her life, she hated her life, she just didn’t know what to do with her life; her sufferings purpled like the blooming jacarandas under a silent, grey sky.”

Order Mehreen Ahmed’s Incandescence here or at your favorite indie bookstore!

Welcome to July’s first issue of Synchronized Chaos!

This month’s issue explores themes of tension and solace.

Are there unavoidable sources of tension in life, and is a life without anxiety even desirable? Where can we find solace and peace when we need them? Where do we need to maintain a certain level of awareness and vigilance?

Satis Shroff comments on the continuing human cost of Russia’s war with Ukraine. Steven Croft reflects on how soldiers and civilians endure the other armed conflicts around the world.

Jelvin Gipson expresses through a fable the need for wisdom to prevent endangering oneself or committing hasty acts of violence. James Whitehead’s poetry speaks to the impact of reproductive legislation and sexual assault on women’s lives.

Richard LeDue and John Thomas Allen highlight moments of humor and beauty found within hospital settings, where patients make the most of their encounters with illness and injury.

Ike Boat reports firsthand on a destructive flood in Amanful, Ghana. Stephen Jarrell Williams explores themes of society’s end and nature’s rejuvenation.

Closer to home, Yusuf Olumoh seeks comfort in the sea and solitude after the loss of his parents. Linda Crate describes the recovery of one’s self after an unbalanced relationship, while Scott Strozier illustrates the need for maintaining relationships and how they stay intact or fall apart. Shakhzoda Kodirova’s short story highlights the importance of maintaining our natural and human communities.

Andrew MacDonald’s poetry captures the moments that may seem fleeting or mundane, but which cement relationships.

Thadeus Emanuel comments on change and creativity in nature and in a writer’s mind, and how our creativity and relationships can be derailed by hypocrisy and deceit.

Candace Meredith’s short story illustrates the horror of not only the monster attack its protagonist survives, but of how she’s completely alone in her perception of danger.

Linda Hibbard expresses ambivalence about change and progress: will making things different make them better? Mahbub’s poems draw on dual meanings: bridges between the past and present, symbols that can represent multiple concepts.

Doug Hawley explores the limits, nuances, and paradoxes of personal and political freedom.

Peter Crowley humorously dramatizes various sorts of literal and metaphorical birth pains, looking at the cost of different sorts of creation.

Jason Ryberg contributes vignettes of middle America looking into the drama of ordinary life and little moments of grace or annoyance, while Peter Cherches dramatizes an unexpectedly familiar encounter with jazz great Mingus.

John Sweet shares the ways in which many ordinary people in middle America can become stuck in life, left behind in modern Western society.

Mark Young’s amusing poetry explores the different sorts of “deliveries” we receive in life while Debarati Sen waxes poetic about the joy and beauty of the plethora of words and figures of speech available to all of us.

Ian Copestick’s narrators simply check out of their ordinary lives, using whatever means are available to them. Jack Galmitz delves into a photograph of a man cooking at a barbecue who’s deeply engaged in what he’s doing.

John Edward Culp sends in a somewhat ineffable piece on transcendent travel by means of light, while Diana Magallon contributes a mixed media meditation on discordance. Alan Catlin’s Southern Gothic poetic landscapes, after Sally Mann’s visual art, immerse us in the murky history of swamps and American Civil War battles.

Jim Meirose relates a piece with humor, charm, and dialect while Nathan Anderson breaks language down to syllable and syntax and nonlinguistic symbol.

J.J. Campbell captures the wisdom and cynicism of older age, while Santiago Burdon’s tale of teen angst and athletic shoes humorously reminds us there are times to keep our mouths shut.

Gaurav Ojha also encourages us to quiet down. He says we’ll find wisdom when we stop thinking and speaking and directly experience and learn from life, whether a beautiful sunset or a dentist appointment.

Michael Robinson and Sayani Mukherjee reflect upon the spiritual solace and comfort they find through the faiths of their heritages. Chimezie Ihekuna’s poem reminds us of the spiritual meaning of Christmas as a holiday with a message we can reflect on all year.

Matthew Defibaugh and Christina Chin’s collaborative poetry presents images of gentle movement within nature. K.J. Hannah Greenberg’s set of bird photographs illustrate and comment on the variety of ways we as humans coexist with and treat other species.

Thank you for reading this first July issue of Synchronized Chaos. May it invite you to ponder, consider, and engage with the writers’ and artists’ work.

harmony in the midst

of an orderly universe

. . . earth's chaos



invisible

from outer space


Christina Chin / M. R. Defibaugh





lonely night 

how long this cold

winter river



train leaving

for home



Christina Chin / M. R. Defibaugh





boarding

the same train . . .

different destinations 



a cluster of felled branches

in the olive’s shade


Christina Chin / M. R. Defibaugh





a few strands of hair 

caught on her lips

golden field season



her sequined gown

blows them away



Christina Chin / M. R. Defibaugh





uneasy night

the whining horse  

in a haunted barn



the old nag telling

his fate 



Christina Chin / M. R. Defibaugh