Welcome to February’s issue, the Literary Browsing Experience.

First of all, Synchronized Chaos stands with all those affected by the recent earthquakes in Turkiye and Syria. We encourage all who are able to contribute to the relief efforts, which you may do through the Red Crescent or other worthy organizations.

Also, please come out to Synchronized Chaos Magazine’s in-person event, held during the Association of Writing Programs’ conference, Thursday March 9th at 6pm at Ada’s Technical Books in Seattle.

During the pandemic many of us came to miss browsing in bookstores and libraries. The experience of scanning and flipping through books that we wouldn’t ordinarily order for ourselves, but which catch our eye and we find ourselves fingering, flipping, reading, and then checking out and buying.

This reading creates an ‘audible browsing’ experience by presenting readers who are published authors in a variety of genres. This includes mystery, romance, poetry, memoir, drama, literary and international fiction.

Also, our friend and collaborator Rui Carvalho reminds us about our Nature Writing Contest for 2022.

This is an invitation to submit poems and short stories related to trees, water, and nature conservation between now and the March 2023 deadline. More information and submission instructions here!

Now, for February’s issue. We’re experiencing a visual browsing experience right here in our magazine, perusing pieces of different genres and styles in this combined issue.

Farok Faisal encourages us to cultivate our lives as if they were gardens.

Jeffrey Spahr-Summers’ poetic speakers seek both liberation and sanctuary, and he highlights ordinary life into signboard-esque posters in his photography.

Z.I. Mahmud highlights the role of kindness in Homer’s Odyssey, while Rakhshona Akhmedova poignantly celebrates a friend’s kindness to her puppy.

Laura Stamps explores the potential and the limits of the human capacity to forgive, while Taylor Dibbert expresses the hope that can come through simply moving forward with one’s life.

Obirija Somtochukwu speaks eloquently about the nature of grief and of wanderlust. Aasma Tahir contributes elegant prose on love, nature, emotion and Romantic literature.

Gaurav Ojha urges us to live with a balanced perspective, while Osieka Osinimu Alao finds an entire cosmos and all of human history within his solitary bedroom.

Ari Rice imagines himself existing simultaneously as people of different ages within a single photograph, while Gerry LaFemina waxes nostalgic about the Beatles. Richard LeDue draws on artistic metaphors to highlight our mortality and the brevity of our lives.

J.J. Campbell probes how much we can truly change through the generations, what we keep and what we can hopefully leave behind. Nahid Gul celebrates the joy of sharing writing with the generations who come after us. Starlie Tugade relates the thoughts and feelings of a young immigrant woman reflecting on the lessons of her past. Emmanuel Umeji urges youth to learn from their elders and not be cocky about growing up too fast.

Daniel De Culla talks of aging in his signature earthy, physical way. Ian Copestick finds a form of faith in the renewal of blossoms in the spring, while Mesfakus Salahin speaks of the spiritual renewal he finds in nature.

Channie Greenberg captures horses at gentle moments of contemplation. Mahbub Alam writes of the power of the natural world to restore our perspective when we get caught up in human stresses.

C.L. Liedekev speculates on his and humanity’s future as he looks into water. Will we be devoured by sharks or simply drift away along the river?

Maurizio Brancaleoni renders a tourist’s visit to Italy’s historical relics into its own form of art, while Petro C.K. harnesses predictive text to process human history and nature. Andrew MacDonald turns to state parks as a metaphor for the well-meaning desire to preserve some of our ceaselessly changing world. Ryan Quinn Flanagan contributes his signature humor to probe our human condition and frailty.

Irene Koronas forges poetry as if it were metal in a blacksmith’s foundry. Daniel Y. Harris probes Wittgenstein’s philosophy as if Derrida were a hacker presenting his ideas through malware. J.D. Nelson crafts phrases to highlight our often fragmentary, incomplete and mysterious view of our worlds.

Alan Catlin crafts his words and sequences in a logical order known only to himself, while Jim Meirose renders a visit to the barber as a surreal experience. Mark Young sculpts a papier-mache work out of “found words” from his environment. Joshua Martin scrambles fragments and ideas into their own form of meaning.

David Woodward questions whether human justice systems can ever reach the truth, while James Whitehead presents American political satire through dreams and waking reveries. Sevara Gapporova recommends fresh ideas for restitution and rehabilitation within Uzbekistan’s justice system.

Chris Butler speculates about a dystopian future where human thought and connection become obsolete.

John Edward Culp’s poetic speaker harkens to the voice that matters to him after quiet contemplation. Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam finish each other’s sentences in a set of seamless collaborative haikus.

Don McLellan presents a humorous story of culture, intrigue and domestic investigation among South Asian immigrant communities in Canada.

Caleb Ishaya Oseshi presents snapshots of Nigerian city life, people of various ages and genders, all with energy and determination.

Roodly Laurore bears witness to the current violence and tumult in Haiti.

Sandro Piedrahita draws parallels between modern-day political leaders and Shakespearean antiheroes to lament the perennial tragedy of our quest to oppress and dominate others.

Chimezie Ihekuna evokes the physical bliss of romantic attraction in his song lyrics. Ajibola Aljanat speculates how romantic love holds the power to both elevate and destroy humanity. John Tustin renders the grief of losing one’s love, faith, and home into words that dissolve on the page, along with the speaker’s identity and sense of self.

Joseph P. Wechselberger captures the surreal beauty of being caught up in the moment of poetic creation.

Sayani Mukerjee’s poem grants dignity, grace, and beauty to domestic chores. Natasha Leung explores a young woman’s quest for beauty, rendering shaving leg hair as a poetic way to reach softness and grace.

Aloysius S. Harmon acknowledges that boys and men can grieve and feel emotions deeply. Chloe Schoenfeld draws on the language of yesteryear to convey empathy for another’s grief.

Film critic Jaylan Salah describes director Quark Henares’ film Where Is the Lie, a psychological thriller that explores the depths of friendship and gender identity.

We hope this issue is enjoyable and thought-provoking for all.

BAGGY GENERATION

I need no canoe to sail back into

The past, the day my grandfather

Read his adage into every growing ear

Only a puzzle in my brain, & this all

Would re-appear in fresh flesh

We grew up with this adage becoming

The owner of our heart-

The okra herb never duels for height

With its cocky.

As my mother’s tongue has also attested,

My mother’s mother would sew her a cloth

Of pair-able size to her petite nature-

Cutting her cloth in accord with her cloth.

Err NO for this baggy generation

A man’s shoe size is a thousand and two times

Grey-haired than his leg

Every being opine to what isn’t yet

Visible in their weak muscles

A child wants to talk before birth

And run before he crawls

A boy with two teeth is wearing the

Words of fatherhood in his mouth

The beards like scattered mop strands

Beneath the bottom of a child’s mouth

Has been robbed of the esteem of his father.

The baggy generation of

Fat clothing in big thin bodies

makes them another phrase

For a swallowed pill.

Baggy heads yet thin of sense

Everything is baggy! eyes, mind, mouth & motive

On crossed legs, this generation wants

To reach the peak of an alp.

the eiger sanka

thinking tonight
I am not this brain

in the darling garden
eating cowboy bread

in this underlined winter
I am the burrowing owl

scrabble tile: alpha
a noise now nothing


---



plum (understood)

combo

shampoo your skull

I use the same salt as the funneling crow
I am that old gold senator from the moon

combo


--


the promise of a new marvel team-up

the absolute reality

we were
went worm

para
keet

the moss inside
I went through the wrong door


--


crabapple could-be

& yes
I know

bio/graf

J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poems have appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of ten chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *Cinderella City* (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.

Let’s Cultivate

Let’s cultivate life,
Let it grow into a garden,
Let dreams, love, passions,
Emotions and feelings
Continue to be cultivated.

Love Means Nothing to You
 
Can you feel it?
The gentle sounds travel to the far-off temples,
Echoes of the ringing bells summon, 
Living souls dance in ecstasy,
The waves strike their heads against the banks,
And the empty rooms emit light.
The river flows with torrents. 
Ah! My Love, 
You are engrossed in the fairy tales, 
Tales of the moon and tales of the stars.
 
You are truly ignorant of nature,
So, it conspires against you.
Oh! My Love,
You are blessed with innocence.
Don’t change the colors of your canvas,
You are heedless to relaxing cloudiness.
Listen! Cloudiness mourns. 
On the lonely benches of your orchard,
And you read poetry of Keats and Coleridge,
You will never discern the real beauty,
See, the guardians of intellect entangle you.
How can one encage you in the valley of dream?
Oh, my dear Moon!
There comes an afternoon.
You will wander about in the city of stillness,
But you will never find the path of love,
Nor the traces of my footprints.
Under the scorching sun, 
Your emotions will be frozen.
And you will lose yourself in the woods…
 
 
Romance

Radiant moonlight in the woods,
Oozes the blazes out of the dark.
Spellbound rustling of leaves, 
In the winter eves
Blooms the dwellings of romantic souls, 
And somewhere
Nights sleep in the lonely arms,
Caressing the broken hearts of lovers 
And enfolding the melting emotions.
 
Hollow Man

Voices of the hollow door, 
And the hollow phone echoes,
He throws an urgent matter into the basket.
Here comes a poor man,
And begs for at least to heed his request.
The room flashes, 
Odor of a bouquet wafts around the room.
The fireplace warms up the environment
Outside stands a poor man empty-handed
He came just to hear the refusal.
“Hahaha! I already told you Sethi Sahb, 
This is a wrong place”,
He hangs up the phone mockingly,
The time passes quickly…..
Every moment falls into emptiness.
At lunchtime food is served with colors.
“Oh! The gathering awaits,
Let’s go, 
The guests have arrived.”
The night peeps through the window.
The table is full of the undone tasks,
The poor man stands behind the door,
But still in a hope….
 

Breathing in Love

While I glimpsed at you in the tranquil eve,
I saw my real self, unveiling from your eyes.
Can’t you see?
There left only dry leaves in the garden of love…
But your choice was the season of autumn.
My eyes fled from the crowded dreams,
The cruel world tempted me with its feasts.
You bequeathed my heart unknown pleasures.
The clock moved around with its ticking,
The phone rang, evening merged in the castle of night,
Innocent sounds of nature revealed riddles of life.
How exquisitely we breathed in the careless moments, 
Travelling in the land of acquainted souls,
Joyful was the moonlight,
And love twinkled in a mirror of the restaurant.
 
 
 
Poetry is Melancholy

Poetry dwells in my heart.
It shows me the sights of stunning valleys
And the fairylands, 
Sometimes, it turns the light away.
It leaves me alone, in the dark city, 
To roam about the whole night.
It is melancholy of the winter eves,
Sparkles in the eyes of living poets.
Which no one can behold.
It is not me who writes poems, 
But my melancholy.

Oh! Dear Poesy!
Are you acquainted with my lover too?
I ramble, stroll and roam.  
You know the secrets of my heart, 
You tell the untold stories, 
You sing the unsung songs,
How clever you are! My poor Poesy! 
 
 
November Eve

The beautiful evenings of November are lively,
For the first time in my life, 
I feel, I will not be able to touch 
The melting warmth in the cold weather.
Maybe, I would have been unaware of your presence. 
The deep secret of this silence 
Would not have been revealed to me,
Nor was there any fear of scattering words, 
When you were not here, life stopped 
Now that you have arrived 
Life seems moving, 
But it walks backwards, 
Reiterating on the same steps. 
You are in the city, 
However, humidity doesn’t increase, 
Silent winds hum something,
They ask for your real existence, 
That I had in the first meeting… 
But now it is gone with the sunset.
Bottom of Form
 
 
 
 Depression

Something enters in the dark
Turns the room into bloody sight.
Here is the pistol that twirls in his hand,
And a knife lays in front on the table,
Oh, how much burden life has sustained.
 
After all, how long it may stay faithful,
Death is the end of everything,
He must be remembering his family and friends,
Before committing the heinous act,
He might have be thinking,
 “I will meet you the day never come, 
Nature, flowers, gardens, lawns and towns,
All will walk alone in the black gown,
My existence is meaningless to the loathsome life,
I spent it for the abstract rules,
But why I ponder on this trivial matters,
I am the responsible native of my nation,
I have fulfilled the dreams of my ancestors.”
 
Oh, my dear you are so restless,
You may follow the path of leisure,
So to overcome your gruesome gloom
Don’t you have any mirror in your room?
To see an image of your charm.

A short biography of Aasma Tahir

Aasma Tahir is a poetess from Lahore, Pakistan. She is a poetess of English and Urdu both. She has done Masters in English Literature. She is the member of World Nations Writers’ Union. Her writings have been published in several Anthologies and national and international literary magazines and websites. Recently her poetry book “A Lantern in the Forest” has been published.
Her interview alongwith fifteen English poems have been selected in an Anthology “Postmodern Voices” published from India. 
As an internationally recognized poetess, she recently achieved membership of World Nation Writers’ Union, Kazakhistan and an award “Paragon of Hope” awarded by World Nations Writers’ Union.
She was invited in World Peace Summit, Nigeria by World Institute for Peace to present her poetry.

Her English poem “Woman of Art” has been selected in an Anthology of English Poetry ‘Emerging Horizons’ published from India.
Moreover, her English poem “Blood Festival” has been selected in an Anthology ‘Jallianwala Bagh Poetic Tributes’ published from India. Her poems “Daemonic Tales”, “Breathing in Love” and “Imitation of Life” have been published in  BHARATHVISION.INFO (online magazine, affiliated with ‘Motivational Strips’). Her acrostic poem “Romance” got the first position in Tunision Asian Poetry contest and received winner certificate.

Moreover, her English poems “A New Moon of the Deep Chasm”, “Imitation of Life” and “The Lost File of Love” have been published by Sir Sajid Hussain in his book ‘A Bouquet of Triple Colours’.
Furthermore, her several poems have been translated in Bangla language and published in the newspaper ‘The Daily Gour Bangla’.

Lyrical as a Shopping Cart

The truest madness is writing another poem, 

after selling three books in a year,

but the metaphors, similes, personifications

all pile up like groceries

in a cart after getting a new credit card,

and the melting chicken burgers

whisper the inspiration for sympathy cards,

ever as we hold hands,

believing our sweaty palms a love sonnet

while wrinkles and grey hairs rhyme poorly

among friends we haven’t seen in so long,

that they might as well be words

on crumpled paper.

Shorter Than You Think

We want to be a feature length film,

but most of us are snapshots- 

static moments we cherish,

until the names and dates scribbled

on the backs become less than ghosts, 

leaving a shoe box to wait

inside the bottom of a closet

for someone hoping to find forgotten jewellery

or money leftover from paranoia about banks,

only to dump the pictures on the floor,

as if a memory vomited from motion sickness,

while they fail to see

the edges of their own photograph.

i like to think of myself as two people

the day i spent lolling on the couch

wishing for a safety to peel every leg hair off my body

to become curls of rubies atop my head

instead of razor nicks decorating a bathtub

sharp edges picked apart with rusted safety scissors

melting into white tile with the shimmer of saliva

and

the day i chopped apart everything i could find

pant legs revealing scrawny stink bugs wearing cherry sneakers

pencils like baby hairs 

hair alway could be cut without blood

and a fascination with strands on the neck followed

like wisps of water reeds glowing orange in polluted waters