All are welcome to attend the Hayward Lit Hop, a multi-venue literary reading at 3pm Saturday April 30th, coinciding with and continuing after Hayward’s first youth poet laureate award ceremony. Several Synchronized Chaos contributors will read from their work.

Welcome, readers, to Synchronized Chaos’ second April issue, To Know We’re Alive. This issue explores ‘signs of life’ of many kinds, creative and emotional and intellectual as well as physical.

Michael Robinson relates his faith journey and in honor of this weekend’s Easter celebration of resurrection and new life. John Culp asserts his spiritual wellness and his choice to stand with what’s good. Stephen Jarrell Williams shares gentle odes to love, writing, and the next

John Thomas Allen leads us through a semi-urban nocturnal trek amid the cicadas and beer cans and metallic moonlight. Dan Raphael ponders existence and observation from a distance in a variety of domestic and ordinary settings.

Mahbub discusses lively characters: birds in flight, soccer player Diego Maradona, people of the world embracing in peace. He pleads for people to come together in harmony and also to show special care for those in need, such as the frail and lonely elderly.

Denis Emorine celebrates the rich heritage of Russian culture and urges us not to equate all of it with Putin’s contemporary aggression. Chimezie Ihekuna celebrates the dedication and honor of a soldier who has chosen to put service to their country above their own desires.

J.J. Campbell brings us our monthly theme, mentioning how pain is often a medical clue that a person is still with us. His work explores heartbreak, disillusionment, and the vague unease of watching news of a distant war.

Howie Good sends up vignettes of trauma observed from a distance, of how the passage of time, space, and culture renders inhumanity mundane. Brian Fugett renders trauma half a world away into a symphonic metaphor, pondering what it means to bee the audience to events that kill children.

Gabriel T. Saah paints a pastel photo of a gentle village beachside love, along with the drama of driving in the rain. Santiago Burdon also depicts love, at nighttime, in a hypnotic sentence replete with moonlight, street lamps, and scented magnolia blossoms.

Yusuf Salisu Muhammad celebrates his love for his mother in a piece full of visceral images: food, the home, and his body. Gerald Onyebuchi renders love through Biblical psalm imagery, adding a historical, cultural, and spiritual dimension to his romantic yearnings.

Please enjoy and find comfort and inspiration in this month’s issue.

Broken Poets

Alone in a locked room
window bars rusted
unmade bed against the wall
dripping faucet in the dimly lit bathroom

someone slamming a door down the hall
a thumping from the ceiling
forgetting yesterday with the outside wind
nighttime shadows already closing in

sitting in the corner on the only chair
beside a tiny desk handmade wood
an open notebook filled with words
lines of poetry endless in thoughts

they laughed at you when you were a kid
wrinkles on your forehead and closed mouth
only a few poets are known by name
but you are blessed and will never change.



Never Forgetting

In this quiet
night

soft on your back
remembering

the past
horizons
caressing
sighs

oceans away
but waves coming near
rhythmic
with her beside you

sand and salt
smooth beach
laughter and tears
never forgetting

the touch
of her
tender hand

with you
all those years.



Her Last Words

Heaven so near
to us,
we can touch it.

Diego Maradona, A Wonder of the World

Diego Maradona, a name of charisma, the famous football player of the world
Today and tomorrow will ever flow on - to you, to me and for all
Whenever the ball touches his feet, the rhythmic passing can't but charm 
Though the striker all the time circled round by four or five opposite players
Ran so swift with the ball to the goal post in an instant leaving behind all 
And the whole stadium fascinated with the sound 'Goal' ---- in the blink of an eye
Technique of passing with the ball always made the audience spell-bound
Even his throwing by the hand to the goal once judged as 'The God's hand'
What a striker! What a magician!
In the field of The World Cup Football
What a magic playing! How charismatic in dealing with the ball!
Though went away very soon from his earth
Can we say he is no more in the field of The World Cup Football?

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
05/01//2021

The Tough Loving Cup
 
The heat caused deaths by corona
More violent than the heat causing deaths by gratuitous violence
From this different guise of destruction
People hang on the fate for mutual submission
Of course, we can't blame our predecessors for this
The skin disease of white and black
For what is happening today or happened in the past
In this garrulous world suffocated by the smoky, enigmatic form of work
Like the car in a dizzying speed or guarding the buildings like a Dobermann
Where is the loving cup?
Can we sip in the Holy Grail?
Though the curling smoke mounts high in the morning, evening or midnight cup
The woods are burning; the land submerged by   
Everyday every moment in the light, shade or dark. 

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
05/01//2021


The Flapping Bird

The bird is flapping standing still over head
Like the plane before landing on the ground
Jerking the body and the people inside
This is the sky the bird flies free 
Take rest on its feather and fly again
Is it watching my black-haired head or something other for a particular thing?
Different species of birds possesses different ways of flying
Compared to body, strength or taste
According to God's will
But all fly free to the own
That acts on the human brain and search for the new
In this evening when the sun is just going to set with its round red charm
Reflecting on the mind in bond of love
The bird snatched me away to the wonder of the nature's diversity
I fly over where the bird can't.
 
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
07/01//2021


The Sign of Love

Let the sky be open
From the hazy and crazy mood of the universe
Let the passion be for beauty
From the morning to the evening
Let the moon kiss on
From all sorts of pain and suffering
Let love be for each other free from any danger
From one corner of the earth to the other
The sun shines on flowers
Blooming the smile of all faces
Let tyranny and oppression be stopped
Singing all in harmony the sweet note of birds
Let peace cuddle on everybody irrespective of cast, color or creed
Removing the snake tamed in the palace causing so many deaths
Let shake hands to each other and embrace to die for each other
Can you see the sign of love hung on the wall? - The heart!

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
07/01//2021

The Old Home

Life cries on the bend of the river
The flow of the river halts, when life falters
A great relationship we find in between life and river 
Streaming from an unknown power
Rivers dry up- sand and sand -the bottom and the surface 
Life walks -life burns, life dives in quicksand
The sandy river turns into a hot spot
The green leafy trees fade away
 Life from on to the other
Life appears to be a skull, a living dead on the flowing blood
Why do the sons and daughters leave the parents?
Why is the blood cut off from its blood's stream?
Why power and pelf lead the rational being to the path of blindness
Forgetting the nourishment and the caress in childhood?
The old in no way walk to The Old Home
A woman lying on bed paralyzed and senseless
Roaring in pain for bed sore in the back
The old coming here were unknown to each other before 
So close now and very near and dear to each other
From the long journey of life, all seem to be a love bird singing altogether
Or like the weathered green glittering in the sun after the rain 
Rolling water into my eyes
Life is like the flying rain with its different means and ways disappears very soon
How diversified to take a single breath cultivating the land in different field! 

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
10/01//2021

Rebirth of a Soul 

Life had been empty when my faith was lacking. 
Years of seeking something that was empty within. 
Faith came to me earlier this season of Jesus’s death.

Daily praying to be saved from a world which held nothing. 
Listening to the gospels there was no recognition of death. 
Yet, death had me in a vice on me daily without ceasing. 

My emptiness repeated each year and tears continued to flow. 
Kneeling at the altar alone and crying alone praying for a life.
Finding that empty place within me without salvation coming.

Meaning meant life was a vacuum of suffering and pain. 
Jesus hanging with nails in his hands had meaning for me. 
It was a day in which a quietness blanketed me the first time. 

Walking with a wooden cross on his shoulders alone. 
It had meaning to walk to his death to suffer with meaning
Sitting there in an empty church alone changed that day.

Instead, it was an understanding of what death meant,
There was no flashing of lights or angels singing. 
It was a recognition that my life meant something. 

My life was given to me by God’s love for me to live. 
Somehow it all meant something to me that he died. 
Not for my sins but rather to save me from emptiness. 
God had given me my life and my life had meaning. 

Translation from the French by Michael Steffen

In a Nutshell

What is this foam in the mouth of the West since the invasion of Ukraine by Russia? Nearly everywhere around the world we’re writing Russian culture off.

Who has the authority to issue this order unjust as it is reprehensible? No need to cite examples. Everybody knows what’s going on here. I’m ashamed of these gravediggers 
who confuse Chekhov with Kalashnikov. Like that’s going to help save the Ukrainian people bravely facing bombs, missiles and torture. Are we going to throw Dostoyevsky in jail without a fair trial and have him executed? Trash Pushkin and 
Pasternak? They are also dictators who aim to erase artists by assassinating their thoughts. This is not Democracy and Liberty. Culture is international, it doesn’t have borders.

I’m still listening to Rachmaninov, Shostakovich, some days over and over. I’m still reading Anna Akhmatova and Marina Tsvetaeva, often with tears in my eyes.

I say No to the Thought-Police! Long live Russian culture!

Denis Emorine (original) 


нет !

Quelle folie s’empare de l’Occident depuis l’invasion de l’Ukraine par la Russie ? Partout dans le monde ou presque , on excommunie la culture russe et ses représentants ! Qui a lancé un mot d’ordre aussi injuste que méprisable ? Je ne donnerai pas d’ exemples : tout le monde les connaît. J’ai honte pour ces fossoyeurs qui confondent Tchekhov et la kalachnikov ! Qu’ espèrent-ils ainsi ? Sauver le peuple ukrainien qui affronte les bombes et autres missiles , les massacres et les viols avec courage ?  Faut-il emprisonner Dostoïevski avant de le juger puis de l’ exécuter ? Jeter aux ordures Pouchkine ou Pasternak ? Ce sont les dictateurs qui s’en prennent aux artistes en assassinant la pensée !  Pas les pays libres et démocratiques ! La culture est internationale, elle n’a pas de frontières !
J’ écoute toujours Rachmaninov, Chostakovitch  parfois plusieurs fois par jour ; je lis toujours Anna Akhmatova ou Marina Tsvetaïeva souvent les larmes aux yeux…
Non à la dictature de la pensée quelle qu’elle soit ! Vive la culture russe !
Denis EMORINE 

Translation from the French by Natacha Rostova

НЕТ!

Что за сумасшествие охватило Запад , когда Россия ввела войска на территорию Украины? Везде или почти везде  в мире выкидывают  русскую культуру и ее представителей! 
Кто отдал такой как
несправедливый, так и презираемый приказ? 
Не хочу приводить  тому примеры, их  все знают и так.
Мне стыдно за этих могильщиков, которые не видят разницы между именами  Чехов и Калашников
На что они рассчитывают? Спасти украинский народ, который смело противостоит бомбежкам, ракетам, массовым убийствам, изнасилованиям?
Нужно ли посадить Достоевского в тюрьму до суда и следствия, а потом его казнить? Выбросить Пушкина и Пастернака на помойку?
Диктаторы, убивая мысль, ведут наступление на представителей культуры.
Не только свободные и демократические страны!
Культура интернациональна, у нее нет границ!
Я люблю слушать Рахманинова, Шостаковича, иногда слушаю их несколько раз в день, всегда читаю Анну Ахматову или Марину Цветаеву, часто со слезами на глазах…

Нет диктатуре мысли, в любой форме!



Да здравствует русская культура!

Денис Еморин

i try not to think
 
did you ever think
the rain would end
 
did you ever think
love had an expiration
date
 
did you ever think
your dreams wouldn't
come true
 
did you ever think
your demons were
better than mine
 
did you ever think
this love would mean
more to someone
else
 
did you ever think
death was a good
conversation starter
 
did you ever think
how fast flowers
die
 
did you ever think
i was going to love
you this much
 
did you ever think
you would as well
 
did you ever think
we were suicide
lovers meant to
find each other
on the same
fucking cliff
only to jump
before anyone
could say no
------------------------------------------------------------------
supposedly still winter
 
it is around 60 degrees
today, supposedly still
winter
 
these are the days that
tease us just enough to
get everyone fucking
sick
 
a little collusion between
mother nature and the
fucking medical industry
 
two days from now it will
snow and then we'll all be
running to the pharmacies
to get our pills
 
rinse and repeat
 
death is quickest opt out
i can think of
----------------------------------------------------------------
yellow and blue for freedom
 
watching the bombing
right before i try to go
to sleep probably isn't
the best way to sleep
peacefully
 
but it does paint the
dreams in these vivid
colors
 
red for blood
 
black for death
 
yellow and blue
for freedom
 
there's always
a madman worried
about his legacy
 
more than the citizens
of his country or the
country he's trying
to destroy
 
and i know everyone
is worried about
world-war three
 
i'm more worried
about what happens
if freedom loses
---------------------------------------------------------------
like her life depended on it
 
remember when she said
she would love you forever
 
that every day without you
would ache more and more
as she got older
 
remember how she would
kiss you like her life depended
on it
 
how the sex was more amazing
each and every time
 
how you used to laugh on the
front porch of the farm while
talking about marriage, children,
what a future could possibly
look like
 
and then remember this is the
shit you wanted a relationship
to look like
 
reality is a cruel bitch
-----------------------------------------------------------
if we are alive
 
i had a doctor
tell me once
that pain is
often the only
way we can
tell if we are
alive or not
 
and as the
pinched nerves
provide the
waves of pain
for me to ride,
 
i guess this is
what the fuck
she was talking
about
 
yet another
fucking thing
i won't miss
when i'm dead

Spiritual Advance 
    Purple Heart 
for Freedom's Stance admits
         choices I've drawn from 
                    the  Well of
                       Endless Light ,
  Where Being is Laid
      in the presence of 
             GOOD 
Knowing all is Well.