Welcome, readers, to the first Synchronized Chaos issue of November 2025. First, a few announcements.

This issue was edited by poet Tao Yucheng, who has been published several times in Synchronized Chaos and in several other publications.

Contributor Kelly Moyer has launched a blog-style journal, Circle of Salt, a simple blog-style journal for all things esoteric. Potential contributors are invited to send up to three unpublished pieces of magickal poetry (including esoteriku), prose, personal essay, original art, reviews, recipes, tips, etc. to Kelly Sauvage Moyer at unfazedmoon@gmail.com. The web address is https://circleofsaltmag.blogspot.com/.

Also, the Naji Naaman Literary Prize is now open to emailed submissions from around the world.

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Now, for this month’s first issue: Sip and See.

A sip and see is a meet and greet party popular in the southeastern United States where people enjoy light snacks, drinks, and the chance to meet a newborn baby. In a way, Synchronized Chaos Magazine’s issues are global ‘sips and sees,’ celebrations where we may meet newly emerged bursts of creativity.

As we would when encountering a new baby, Priyanka Neogi revels in life’s joy.

Teresa de Lujan Safar’s poem celebrates the delight a mother takes in her children’s appreciation. Graciela Noemi Villaverde remembers the daily love and care of her deceased mother. Rakhmiddinova Mushtariy Ravshanovna pays tribute to the presence and care of her mother.

Bill Tope and Doug Hawley’s short story “Evergreen” portrays quiet familial concern, capturing the subtle tension and affection between siblings as they notice their mother’s unusual, tender attachment to her garden.

Mahbub Alam takes joy in nature and the brilliant sunshine. Timothee Bordenave’s essay explores permaculture, advocating livestock grazing on fallow land and urban fruit tree forests. Genevieve Guevara playfully links weather patterns and emotions. Walid Alzoukani revels in how the rain enriches his spirit. Brian Michael Barbeito’s “What is the Meadow and What is Love?” finds love and presence in the quiet endurance of nature. Bekturdiyeva Nozima’s essay examines the urgent need to cultivate ecological consciousness among youth, emphasizing education, family, and practical engagement as keys to a sustainable future. Jack Galmitz’ poetry speaks to cultural memory and our connections with nature. Brian Barbeito’s work reflect the relationship between human beings, nature and animals, which is even more important in the current Internet age.

Paintings from Srijani Dutta reflect hope for the return of spring, drawing on images from an Asian mythological system. Eddie Heaton guides us on a surrealist romp through a colorful universe. Mark Young speculates through found and created poetry on how human art can coexist with science and technology.

Federico Wardal highlights the work of holistic physician Dr. Antonello Turco and how his medical practice is a work of art. Nidia Garcia celebrates the creativity and insight of a weaver who tells the story of her people in cloth. Taylor Dibbert shares an amusing anecdote about sartorial fashion choices and lost luggage.

Jacques Fleury’s “The Color Purple” is a vibrant meditation on heritage and symbolism, exploring how shades of purple evoke nobility, spirituality, emotion, and the richness of human experience. Normatova Sevinchoy reflects on the nature of beauty and finds it through elegant simplicity. Kelly Moyer’s films explore the relationship between life and all things through the disposal and dissolution of human-built objects.

Literature and writing are integral parts of human creative culture. Contemporary Uzbek literature blends tradition and modernity, emphasizing national identity and the Uzbek language. Abdulazizova Nigina Faxriddin qizi’s article “Developing Speech Culture of Primary School Students” examines methods to enhance young learners’ oral and written communication, emphasizing interactive strategies, cultural awareness, and the link between speech skills and social participation.

Zuhra Jumanazarova expresses that preserving the literary quality of the Uzbek language is integral to preserving Uzbek culture. Muhayyo Toshpo’latova’s essay explores how contemporary Uzbek literature balances tradition, national identity, and digital-age innovation. Nilufar Yusupova discusses advantages and challenges posed by online education. Masharipova Unsunoy outlines strategies for improving student public speaking competence. Dilafruz Karimova evaluates various methods for teaching English as a second language. Rashidova Lobar’s “Mother Tongue” is a heartfelt tribute to the Uzbek language, celebrating it as the nation’s soul, heritage, and eternal source of pride and unity.

Mickey Corrigan’s poetry honors the survival, grit, and literary mastery of novelist Lucia Berlin. Grant Guy’s artwork evokes the creative spirit of decades-ago absurdist No! theater. Christina Chin and Kim Olmtak’s tan-renga poems promise adventure on the horizon. Scott Derby’s poem draws on The Odyssey, exploring a journey of trials and self-discovery, ultimately evoking a return to faith. Inga Zhghenti reviews Armenida Qyqja’s collection Golden Armor, about the quest of the human spirit for survival amidst adversity.

Peter Cherches’ vignettes explore through gentle humor how we make decisions and set up our lives. James Tian reminds the faithful to use their God-given brains, even in church.

Janna Hossam’s essay explores the fleeting nature of achievement and the trap of “fast dopamine,” urging a shift from chasing external validation to finding lasting fulfillment in steady, meaningful growth. Sharifova Saidaxon advocates for balance in the use of social media and online entertainment. O‘rozboyeva Shodiya’s essay “How Social Media Affects Young People” reflects on the dual impact of social media, highlighting its benefits for learning and reading while cautioning against distraction and over-immersion in the virtual world.

Brooks Lindberg’s poem wittily questions the nature of facts, blending philosophy, mathematics, and law with humor and skepticism. Candice Louise Daquin reviews John Biscello’s novel The Last Furies, which evokes themes of tradition, vaudeville, religion and mysticism.

Turkan Ergor reflects on how people’s strongest desires and best-laid plans don’t come to fruition. Dr. Ashok Kumar expresses the peace found through surrendering to what we cannot control.

J.T. Whitehead’s Nocturnes are haiku-inspired reflections on art, history, and personal experience, capturing quiet joy and solitude. Christina Chin and Marjorie Pezzoli’s collaborative renga blends fragmented, stark imagery with a conversational, experimental flow, exploring tension, vulnerability, and the raw textures of experience. Derek Dew’s poems “To Come” and “What is Ours” delve into language, memory, and moral stillness, blending abstraction and lyricism to explore identity, silence, and the elusive nature of meaning. Sayani Mukherjee’s “God’s Hands” is a dreamlike meditation on time and memory, shimmering with blue skies and fleeting wishes. Vo Thi Nhu Mai’s “Harbour of the Changing Season” is a tender, reflective meditation on love, loss, and the passage of time, finding beauty and peace in the rhythms of nature and the flow of life.

Duane Vorhees’ poem “ORH” tenderly portrays love as cleansing and transformative, merging identities like rain washing away dust. Amina Kasim Muhammad advocates kindness and humanity. In a similar vein, Maja Milojkovic reflects on the value of a human soul as measured by the person’s compassion and integrity. Ruzimbayeva Quvonchoy Jamoladdin qizi’s essay highlights Uzbekistan’s national values as the enduring heart of the nation, shaping identity, unity, and moral life.

Yodgorova Madina also celebrates traditional Uzbek values such as diligence, hospitality, respect for the elderly, the young, and women, honesty, and compassion and urges modern Uzbeks to pass down those values. Jumanazarova Muxlisa’s essay highlights women as the vital foundation of Uzbek society, shaping history, education, and leadership. In the same vein, Egyptian writer Adham Boghdady’s poem portrays a woman as a radiant, inspiring presence who lights up hearts and the world. Dildora Khojyozova’s essay “Kindness and Humanity in the 21st Century” emphasizes the enduring importance of empathy and compassion amid technological and social change, arguing that true progress depends on how we treat one another.

Abbas Yusuf Alhassan’s long poetic piece illustrates the different facets of love as expressed through grief. Elmaya Jabbarova’s poetry intertwines love and grief. RP Verlaine comments on what brings people together and what divides us. Eldar Akhadov ponders the mental distance that inevitably separates everyone.

Turdiyeva Guloyim’s “I’m Tired, Mother!” expresses profound loneliness and disillusionment, lamenting false friendships, cruelty, and the harshness of the world, while yearning for genuine human connection. Kandy Fontaine’s “Nepantla, The Tipping Point, Deep Time: A Conversation Between Worlds” examines the intersections of literature, identity, and planetary change, using the concept of Deep Time to reflect on societal fear, power structures, and the urgent need for transformation. Mirta Liliana Ramirez reminds us that powerful people exist who prey on the vulnerable. Patricia Doyne surveys the sentiments at a San Francisco Bay Area No Kings rally. Aubrey Malaya Lassen’s poem “The Call” confronts misunderstanding and oppression, using vivid animal imagery to explore awareness, resistance, and the refusal of power to recognize truth.

Bill Tope’s “The Gauntlet” is a tense short story following Anais, a Haitian refugee, as she navigates an unsettling encounter with police in a small Ohio town, exploring themes of fear, vulnerability, and power. Ahmed Miqdad’s poem reflects on the horrors of violence and displacement, using stark imagery of blood and silence to evoke grief and loss. Emeniano Acain Somoza Jr. writes of humans eking out existence in the shadows of ageless deities and harsh weather. Stephen Jarrell Williams crafts a slow piece on calm preparations as an apocalypse looms.

J.J. Campbell illustrates the lingering effects of trauma on a person’s life and psyche. Mykyta Ryzhykh’s poem juxtaposes stark, unsettling images with fragile signs of life, capturing the raw and abrupt entry of innocence into harsh reality. Alexa Grospe personifies the pain and terror of stage fright and writers’ block. Philip Butera views life from the panoramic perspective of one nearing death. Ablakulova Dilfuza’s essay “My child, if I leave, you won’t find me again” is a poignant meditation on solitude, aging, and loss, vividly portraying the emotional landscape of a woman left alone, clinging to memories as her world darkens. Adewuyi Taiwo’s short story “A Star Called Priye” explores themes of family secrets, grief, and quiet strength.

Duane Vorhees’ review of Taylor Dibbert’s On the Rocks explores his Bukowski-inspired style—plainspoken, raw, and grounded in everyday struggle—revealing a candid search for freedom from pain. Rizal Tanjung’s review of Eva Petropoulou Lianou’s “Freedom” highlights the poem’s haunting imagery of two wingless birds, portraying freedom as both a lost ideal and a visceral, human necessity.

Jabborova Vasila comments on how medicine can address psychological changes in some heart transplant patients. Melita Mely Ratkovic’s poem urges the speaker’s friend to heal and love themselves again after trauma. Ramona Yolanda Montiel wishes all her readers simple joys and gentle comfort.

Eva Petropoulou Lianou’s “Miracles” celebrates everyday wonders, human connection, and the light of faith amid darkness. Jeanette Eureka Tiburcio’s poem honors resilience and hope, invoking golden children as symbols of strength, growth, and the enduring light amid adversity.

We hope that this issue serves as a guiding light as you ‘sip and see’ the many forms of human thought and feeling from around the world.

Miracles 

Miracles happens everywhere… everyday..

Just take the moment to understand and communicate with people….not fanatics… not close minded..

Miracles happens 

I have seen one in my younger age

Miracles are the people who are close enough to understand what is your purpose and your character and will Push you to achieve your dreams 

Miracles happens 

Miracle is your faith and your ability to maintain the Light in the darkness 

Miracles are everywhere 

Don’t confuse technology with faith 

Don’t worry about the fake..rich life..of a man who never tried in his life

Miracle is your inner soul to stay intact from evil attack 

What is Ours

Out of faded afterthought in its spreading yard of white flame

a line of dark that splits the light moves in several directions at once

and before long has left a skyline of hands raised for shade

to better receive the sight of land despite the only definition  

being a debt none of us can afford, though our purpose is the image,

to live in it, to know its glow, know the floor of eternity as the back of the mind

which is the image’s way of ending, of achieving stillness, and further

into the image, sleeves are rendered over the bulk of bare wrists, and we,

we become aware it is us seeing it all, that our silence is always our purpose,

is always to see and refuse what is ours, unable to afford what we’re looking at.

If they are present, the warmth is theirs, so I am still agitated,

wounded even by sleep. Carts of fruit have broken in the street.

Everything cannot form neat little lines; some things must splatter to happen.

The recurring aprons have failed their pledge. The self-checkout is gathering cobwebs.

The menus are blowing away in the wind. A couch in the street is the crested horizon.

But I am still here, shoes and everything, and I am absolutely wasting all of my joke.

I find my truth in what I don’t agree with, and from my seat on the airplane

I hear the flight attendant announce the only missing passenger, and it’s me.

                                                                                                            —The Banker

To Come

We thought we might shut the anthem up good,

so we drank, watched unspeakable joy capsize,

touched burgundy night, were outraged with ourselves

in the morning, and realized our inexpressiveness

was our only morality, the anthem. It came from

the heart of inconsequence, only to be glimpsed while forgetting.

It came from a place of purity, purity that rang like escape routes

from an implacable faith, where scouting was a shout at water

lathered in streaks of ash. The anthem came from a place

people weren’t sure really existed, yet had memories of,

memories that announced themselves like collective hallucinations

in rehearsal of childhoods to come, but in the end, the anthem

turned out to be nothing more than the stale air

shut away in a room that was locked from the outside.

           All the many thin, angled bars of light

           slowly floated dust down the old beer signs.

           The jukebox again repeated the good song

           which spoke clearly in the only voice.

          The bad song does not speak in the only voice.

                                                         —The Drinker

Cop

Soon it will be dark, and in her lack of sight

her ear will supply all the courtyard birdsong

of trickling water in a cold office bathroom.

There will be an elevator shaft, and in the silent elevator,

her ear will supply the sound of a dog walking in circles.

Outside on a park bench will sit a little harmonica

and passersby will invent a child blowing into it.

When we think of the past, our efforts seem silly.

It’s often difficult to decide on a monument

when every single sleep that comes answering is bare.

                                             A god is vice begins and ends vice

                                                                                 —The Thief

The One in Charge

One day the ice in his glass

did not melt properly

and he discovered he was empty.

But when no one can afford

to relax at the top, how to tell

what relaxing looks like?

          We kidded ourselves; we spoke of tar and rain,

          balconies and raw meat, sun on umbrellas.

          But what we desired most could only suffice

          if too much to receive, a place only visible

          from the outside, so we looked all over

          not for what we had lost, but for the moments we lost it;

          we looked for the beautiful ways, the ambitious ways which

          in the past, with far more people to know, we lost it all.

                                                           —The Second Gunman

Coin into Fountain

Like any precise enough metallic

put to milliseconds across a dome of daylight,  

it wasn’t itself as it was happening,                        

as it was happening, it was something else,

it was a flickering jewel between towers   

in shaky blue sky above city traffic,

then the slap of the surface, water closing fast

the circle by mimicry of shape and rushing

across the engraved profile toward itself

until a clash spiraling finger oil upward

to dissolve under the surface and its dialogue

which was then the intact hum of the buried above

while the bottom was struck and all the other coins

already installed long enough to bear small life

fell storied into their own respective borders,

and the dialogue above the surface continues;

who is there left to abandon?  

                                       They learn when they buy.

                                                                   —The Billionaire 

Derek Thomas Dew (he/she/they) is a neurodivergent, non-binary poet currently living and teaching in New York City. Derek’s debut poetry collection “Riddle Field” received the 2019 Test Site Poetry Prize from the Black Mountain Institute/University of Nevada. Derek’s poems have appeared in a number of anthologies, and have been published widely, including Interim, ONE ART, Allium, The Maynard, Azarão Lit Journal, Two Hawks Quarterly, Ocean State Review, and Overgrowth Press.

.

Lucia Berlin
(1936-2004)

Lucia, Daughter

Northern lights in the sky
over Alaska her father
deep in mines, engineer
moving from mining
town to town
to tar paper shacks
to a boarding house
to a log cabin in the woods
long johns and a baby sister
then Father off to war. 

Waiting for him, waiting
under a treeless sky
air heavy with heat, dust
in El Paso with Granpa
the town dentist, mean
drunk and her mother
shut down, closed off
in a dark bedroom
with a bottle. 

Father’s new job: Arizona
a real house in the hills
the bright evening star
in the dark night sky
Mother in pretty dresses
baking cakes, playing bridge
picnics and potlucks
until the next move.

A prestigious position
in Santiago, Chile
a two-story Tudor
green lawns, fruit trees
purple iris, a gardener
Mother in bed all day
with a bottle.

Teenage Lucia the hostess
for her father’s social events
private school, rich friends
skiing, swimming, movies
dressmakers, hairdressers
nightclubs, balls, boys
then a dorm in Albuquerque
her girlfriends still in Chile
married with mansions
busy with children
but after the revolution
all her old friends
murdered
or suicides.

Lucia, Wife

She’s tall, lean, svelte
dark hair, sapphire eyes
at 17 still passive
when her parents reject
her 30-year-old lover
a Mexican-American veteran
throws her out of his car
never sees him again.

A few months later
she marries a sculptor
who rearranges her
hair, clothes, stance
and avoids the draft
with their first son
with a second on the way
he’s off to Italy
on a grant, with a girl
doesn’t see him again
for sixteen years.

A musician called Race
kind, quiet, a good man
talented Harvard grad
from a big warm clan
playing gigs on piano
gone while she’s home
with the babies
in a cheap rural rental
outside Albuquerque.

Dusty, silent except for
horses, cows, chickens, dogs
red chili on strings
drying in the sun
in an old adobe
rounded, wind-softened
the same dirt-brown
as the hard-packed earth
no phone
no stove
no running water
loads of diapers
she’s too alone
this pretty young girl.

Lucia, Lover

Race moves them
to an unheated loft
in New York City
he’s out all night
at his jazz gigs
she’s up all night
typing stories
while wearing gloves
while the kids sleep
in earmuffs and mittens

until a way out arrives
with a bottle of brandy
four tickets to Acapulco
another Harvard man
Race’s buddy Buddy
dark, handsome, rich
bad boy
with a drug problem

offering the sexy allure
of escape to hot sun
sky blue pools
white sand beaches
and crazy love
with a heroin addict.

She bites, writes
bears two more sons
an electric life
flying in Buddy’s plane
landing like crop dusters
for detox and retox
always fearful
of his dealer friends.

To keep him clean
they move away
to another land
live in a palapa
with a thatched palm roof
and a beach sand floor
on the edge
of a coconut grove
surrounded by mountains.

The boys love it there
amidst parrots, flamingoes
spearing eels and fat fish
dark nights in hammocks
swaying under rustling palms
in the soft ocean breeze
heady with gardenias
their paradise life

until Buddy gets bored
and the drug dealers come.

***

Lucia Berlin shared the stories of social outsiders with her own special brand of detachment, humor, and economy, presenting the brutality of blue collar life tempered by her compassion for human frailty. She was relatively unknown until eleven years after her death when a collection of her selected stories hit the New York Times bestseller list.

Born Lucia Brown in Alaska, she spent her childhood in mining towns all over the west. After her mining engineer father got promoted to an executive position, the family lived in Chile in relative luxury. She moved to Albuquerque for college, returning later for graduate school. 

Married multiple times, she lived in Manhattan, rural Mexico, and New Mexico. After leaving her third husband, a heroin addict, she took her four young boys and settled in California. 

As a single parent, Berlin worked odd jobs including cleaning woman, physician’s assistant, hospital ward clerk, and switchboard operator. Her stories were based on incidents she experienced herself in her difficult life. She would type late at night while the boys were asleep, a bottle of bourbon at her side. 

She eventually gave up the booze and remained sober, teaching writing at the San Francisco County Jail, Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, and University of Colorado Boulder. Lucia Berlin died in California at age 68.

Her books: 

A Manual for Cleaning Women: Stories

Evening in Paradise: Stories

Welcome Home: A Memoir

Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan hides out in the lush ruins of South Florida. She writes pulp fiction, literary crime, and psychological thrillers. Her poems have appeared in literary journals and chapbooks. A collection of biographical poems on 20th century poets is in press with Clare Songbirds Publishing.

Awake

You were the one keeping me from wake

As I slept,

your pillowed hair spread

across the skin above my aching chest

and broke my lungs in two

so that I couldn’t just suffer

from long term

asthma,

but that

my voice shook

everytime I spoke a word

that I wrote which felt

familiar to my tongue.

I bite down,

like it stings,

on the edge

of where thoughts

tremble out

and fall

onto solid table and paper and pen

instead of where they once believed they would reside.

When winter mouth veins

reach gray lines of work

they seem to soak

like edges,

attempting to raise

a fallen wood back

from death,

spit,

down,

onto a speaker’s face.

Water can never ease

a pain

so speak up

in the bottom

of one’s throat

God where even is that?

So let my nails dig in

while I choke on

words evenly written

but horribly pronounced-

they cannot hear a shaking song

from a side of the room

in which ink doesn’t rise.

You kept me from waking:

from pain never spoken nor taken

God why do my words shake?

They fall out irregularly

like tongue twisters

or misplaced letters

in my own book.

I cannot

stumble

or trip

over something

I wish was never

put on the ground.

You keep me

from falling asleep

against sound waves,

distorted

in only

my ears.

(Light skinned Central Asian woman with long blonde hair, a headband, a long green necklace, and a black top).

WASTED  EFFORTS 

Human sometimes 

Wasted efforts 

Wants Endless desires 

Loves 

Jealousies 

Even a bird sometimes 

Wasted flat its wings 

While flies in the sky 

Wasted efforts 

Everything as it should be 

Wherever self has to go 

Wheresoever it has to end 

Whatever it has to be 

Everything as it is 

The rest wasted efforts.

Türkan Ergör was born in 19 March 1975 in the city of Çanakkale, Turkey. She was selected International “Best Poet 2020”. She was selected International “Best Poet, Author/Writer 2021”. She was selected International “Best Poet, Writer/Author 2022”. She was awarded the FIRST PRIZE FOR THE OUTSTANDING AUTHOR IN 2022. She was awarded the 2023 “Zheng Nian Cup” “National Literary First Prize” by Beijing Awareness Literature Museum. She was awarded the “Certificate of Honor and Appreciation” and “Crimean Badge” by İSMAİL GASPRİNSKİY SCIENCE AND ART ACADEMY. She was awarded the “14k Gold Pen Award” by ESCRITORES SIN FRONTERAS ORGANIZACIÓN INTERNACIONAL.

Simplicity — the Most Natural Form of Beauty

Beauty is the pleasant and delightful appearance of a person, nature, or a work of art. True beauty lies in a person’s naturalness, simplicity, and sincerity. Real beauty is the beauty of the heart. Everything in this world has its own kind of beauty.

The essence of simplicity is to be naturally beautiful without unnecessary decorations or artificial things. Everything created by Allah in this world is beautiful, and among them, the most beautiful is the human being. To be a beautiful person is indeed a blessed feeling.

Inner beauty is reflected through one’s inner qualities such as kindness, honesty, patience, forgiveness, gratitude, and sincerity. This kind of beauty is not seen on the face, but shown through a person’s character and behavior.

“Outer beauty is seen by the eyes, but inner beauty is felt by the heart.”

Outer beauty fades with time, but the beauty of the heart shines brighter as the years pass. A person with a beautiful heart spreads warmth and joy to others just by being themselves.

The secret of beauty lies in being both outwardly and inwardly beautiful — loving ourselves, the world, and everything around us. Sincerity, simplicity, and kindness are the feelings that make a person truly beautiful.

In conclusion, simplicity is the most natural and genuine expression of human beauty. Sincerity and naturalness bring warmth to hearts, for indeed, simplicity is the highest virtue that adorns a person’s inner beauty.

Normatova Sevinchoy, Uzbekistan