Moon

Looking your light

Feeling the energy of brightness

Moon

My full moon

My wishes are in your hands

Moon

My moon

Crasy maybe they call me

But deep down 

I see my self in

You

Like a magik mirror

As Hercules

As Zeus

Strong enough

To fight with witches

With giants

And dragons

Moon

Beautiful moon

That you are inspiring 

Poets

That you make lovers

Promise  faith to eachother..

Moon

Full moon

Mother of sky

Sister of stars

In my heart

Whispering the 

Little nymphes

Of night

Moon

Full moon

Unchain my past

Free my future

Today

I become

The Master of my path…

Eva Petropoulou Lianou, international poet and official candidate for the 2024 Nobel Peace Prize 

Somewhere Between. 

*For John Dorsey. 

The dusk and the blanket of night, 

the temptation and trepidation, 

the aromatic handful of fries  

and the grease stained takeaway carton,

the ageing and the attrition, 

the nostalgia and the cautious optimism – 

we write, 

because it’s either that, or go crazy.

The BB Gun War of 2004. 

The greatest shot 

of the BB gun war 

of 2004 – 

was a complete fluke. 

One that at I’d FIRED 

from the top of the stairs,

at my brother who 

was hiding

under my dad’s chair 

reloading,

in the kitchen 

as our old man 

ate leftover lasagne. 

It sailed through 

the air and tiny square on 

the back of the chair 

to pierce flesh. 

Nobody appreciating 

the chances. 

of the shot connecting 

even if I’d tried, 

especially not my dad,

who’d just been shot 

straight in the arse.

A Memory of Basque Summer Rain. 

Sat at the desk, listening to thunder, 

drinking cheap wine – 

once again, I was the boy that nobody 

owned and I was alone in every sense 

that evening.

Through the window – 

a lightning bolt hit the ground and 

illuminated the tops of the palm trees – 

another storm having rolled in off 

The Bay of Biscay. 

The swing windows tapped against the wall, 

the stiff latch mysteriously undoing itself 

once again that evening – 

which only added to the strange series 

of events that had unfolded in that flat. 

I continued to sit there, waiting on both 

something and nothing, 

swearing that the lightning bolts outside 

were inching ever closer – 

certain that change was coming with them.

Why I Took Down The Dreamcatcher.   

I no longer dream about 

the one who got away, 

or the sinking mud that I’d fall into alone 

in that beautiful forest – 

where I’d eventually go down in awe, 

staring up at a cloudless sky. 

Yet, I see now that those dreams 

were the ones that I truly felt alive – 

with everything else 

feeling like a night shift where life 

passes idly by. 

Gwil James Thomas is a poet, novelist and inept musician. He lives in his home town of Bristol, England, but has also lived in London, Brighton and Spain. His second poetry collection The P45 Power Ballad is available from Yellow King Press and his nineteenth chapbook of poetry Until The Autumnal Sundown is forthcoming from Two Key Customs. Some of his poetry has been archived by The National Poetry Library in the UK. He is part English, part Welsh and part wolf. IG: @gwiljamesthomas.

THEN WHEN

Ahmed Miqdad 

Gaza

They are all my brothers and sisters— and yet I am desperate and exhausted, facing my fate, left alone. 

They are billions — a few raise their voices in protest, while the majority stands by, passive, silent, and complicit as I am ethnically cleansed, deliberately slaughtered, and systematically starved to death. 

All the while, the powerful remain almost completely silent, suppressing justice and truth beneath the weight of weaponized lies and propaganda. 

My brothers and sisters are everywhere —like distant stars with fading light, as if long extinguished in the course of history.  

My brothers and sisters in humanity: Be like a tremendous tornado — shake the hearts of those in power and eradicate injustice and inhumanity. 

Do not be like a gentle river, that never floods the occupied land with justice, so that equality and peace may finally grow on that long, violently parched soil. 

Be like an erupting volcano — make the powerful hear your thunderous voice, and make your impact on this earth be felt. 

My dear fellow humans, if you don’t act now — then when?

Unbearable Bearable 

So it began the unbearable bearable

construction on our avenue

November to April

replacement of gas pipes

started with the hushed posting

of no parking signs

Rumbling of diesel engine

air horn sounding

flashing lights

whisky voice on speaker

attention residents

move your cars or they will be towed!

Then … cutting blade grinding, motor

repetitive, a plaintive sound of destruction

staccato of the beep of the backhoe

Cement cutters up and down the avenue

shrill of the cutting blade, grinding of motor

repetitive and then the beep beep beep of the

backhoe backing up scooping up brick mortar

asphalt. Insistent scraping along curb line, dig dig

dig. Scoop up, percussive dump at end of avenue

on and on all day long up and down

Until….

The bucket picks up the pile, bit by bit

howling into the back of the dump truck

once, twice, thrice, multiple times. Trucks

grinding engine, slamming of bed door

over and over through the day, then a

dulcet sound returns until next morning

when the tow truck sounds again…

And again… day after day

Until …

Stacks of pipe placed along curb line

fill with blowing debris and autumn

leaves. Dirt and sand piles appear at the

end the street, small hills atop the

now battered avenue and in winters wind

sand and dirt batter houses and cars. Then

the pipes are placed, lawns dug up for

connection and gas turned off and after 8

hours in the cold of winter, gas turned on.

And so…

The original flyer said there would be a

community meeting and all would be

restored as it was before construction.

Until…

There was no meeting, brick lined gutters

paved over, hack cement jobs replaced

broken sidewalks and curbs, asphalt patches

and pot holes on avenue … and the lawns

left with craters and dirt.

Unbearable bearable it is over.

 g emil reutter is a writer of poems and stories. He can be found at: https://gereutter.wordpress.com/about/

tell the truth

drink enough whiskey

and those bleary eyes

will tell the truth

you always wanted

to grow up and be

coltrane but were

never man enough

for the needle

get lost in the rhythm

of the long lost suicidal

dance of cursed lovers

the mirror tells you

all you need to know

alone is your destiny

you know it, just don’t

want to believe it

tough shit boy

genes at the bottom

of the pool don’t get

to be great

you get to clean toilets

pick the vegetables

or bury the dead

don’t worry, you’ll

never have the money

for anything you will

want

————————————————–

mischief

i lurk in the shadows

peek out the front

window to see what

mischief is happening

across the street

youth really is wasted

on the young

another bottle of vodka

for the floor

these are the nights

where you dream

about a bathtub

full of blood

depravity never hit

like this in your 20’s

start taking care of

the dying and watch

all your friends fall

out of love and get

divorced and you’ll

quickly understand

the underside of

a coin

if someone dares

to marry me

they will stumble

upon these poems

and realize anyone

can make a fucking

mistake

———————————————————

dana

you are the first one

in years to make me

feel like there is a

reason to wade

through all this

shit for yet another

day

i count the days

until we can finally

meet

fall in love again

do everything we

wanted for the first

time

set the world on fire

and go live our truth

of course,

being the old man

i don’t have as long

to live as you surely

hope

the beauty of the

urgency of now

—————————————————–

linger

sometimes the pages

will bleed

pain so visceral

that the stains

linger until they

envelop your

soul

religion left you

naked and alone

yet you still had

to pull yourself

up with no

bootstraps

te amo

we were destined

for failure

but never shied

away from giving

a middle finger

to the world

burn the bridges

never look back

nostalgia is only

there to hold you

in place

dare to be

uncomfortable

and embrace

the pain

——————————————————–

the digital void

faceless lovers in

the digital void

my love rests

in these arms

for the final

time

must reboot to

see all the good

stuff

who wants ice

cream

who wants to

see a dead body

let’s go dancing

with a train

i once slept in

a graveyard

hoping to hear

the dead

i believe they

have an app

for that now

insulated and

safe from pain

i guess life has

fucking passed

me by

it was bound

to happen 

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He has been widely published over the years, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Disturb the Universe Magazine, Misfit Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy and Yellow Mama. His new book, to live your dreams, might be unleashed upon the world soon. You can find him most days betting on soccer and baseball. He still has a blog, but rarely has the time to write anything in it. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Scavenging Peaches in the Dark

My flashlight encircles some peaches

on the orchard grass. Most are impeccable,

although smaller than what sells in stores.

“Seconds” they are called;

too small for market, left behind by farmers.

Where there is a broken bruise,

the ants are taking their share.

The firm fruit, I place in a shipping bag.

The black fabric blends with the moonlessness

beneath the shushing leaves.

The trees, the nocturnal insects, my shoes,

we all smell of sugars. Yellow orange pubescence

rolls in the dry lawn where Mexican migrants worked.

In other rows, downed seconds rot.

The ants are taking their share.

There is no white mold yet, no syrup brown bruises.

A pink cut is open, yellow sunlight pours out.

Hundreds of stars stored banked photosynthesis

and now my flashlight finds coins of the realm.

Elsewhere, food prices soar.

Here are the ants, taking their share.

Scavenging Peaches in the Sunlight

I refuse to swipe peaches from the trees.

The Mexican migrants worked these rows already.

What they left behind, on the ground,

are small orange fires as hot as the sunlight.

I fill a bag. The peaches begin to bruise themselves

by their own touches, so used they are

to hanging alone on a firm stem swept only by wind.

I refuse to swipe peaches from the trees.

No crop failure is because of me.

Sunlight pours everywhere. The shade is heatwave.

The breeze is heatwave. Soil is heatwave.

Sunlight envelops my honesty with brightness,

but there are no witnesses.

There are precious few tractors harvesting this year.

A trade war bankrupts farmers.

Scavengers survive by honesty, broadened by daylight,

the kind of honesty that has no witnesses.

Canadian writer and farmer Terry Trowbridge has appeared in Synchronized Chaos before! He is thankful to the Ontario Arts Council for their writing grants.

Dear Mother

You brought me into the world with hardship, dear mother

Sleepless at nights, whenever I was in pain

I know I still trouble you even now

But, mother, I love you

You have suffered so much because of me

But unlike others, you never gave me reproach

Protecting and cherishing me until now

You care for me even when you’re in pain

Your love overflows in your beautiful heart

You always remember the good I have done

Sadly, you have suffered much from me

Forgive me, dear mother, pardon me

Dilnoza Islomova is from Turtkul district in the Republic of Karakalpakstan. She’s currently a high school student and a future poet, who started writing small poems from a young age. She has read many books and is a curious girl who never stops growing and applies herself in every field.