Red & yellow believe orange is a combination of the two of them
But what does orange believe?
Ghost train
On the tracks of an old railroad i sat
near the warehouse covered in tags
with the missing doorknob through which i spied
a kingdom of mischief i long to tap
(and I will… in good time)
The tracks were grown over—
long out of use, phantom rails
yet as I sat there in the morning sun
leafing through the halfbuilt cities
and frozen fossils of
my raindamaged, dogeared notebook,
I heard, or imagined, a train whistle;
sensed, rather than saw, the train rushing towards me
(In the timeless atemporality of the implicate order,
all timekeeping ceases, all moments
superimposed upon one another like infinite Photoshop layers;
deliquesced in this “forever soup,” we know
what Vonnegut meant about becoming “unstuck in time”)
Considered fleeing, but stayed put
(“TRAIIIIINNNNN!!!!!!!!” yells Gordy, the lagger, in Stand By Me, the film which, more than any other,
captures the desolation of myself at age twelve),
braced myself for the oncoming
closed my eyes as the roar of train
and warning whistle waxed from stentorian to deafening,
thought “this could be it…”
gripped the rail with my hands…
one split second from impact…
the train crashes through me like a ghost;
I breathe hugely, & let go
My pen divulges snapshots:
Colognes of a girl
Breezing
Buried in swarm of handouts
‘You are beautiful’ I say
But words choke through windpipes
And chew as a ruminant.
Instead:
‘This course is boring’ I whisper.
I no fit wash you
Fingers browse catalogs of acclaim
My heart wrestles with my tongue to
Resist and arrest whining thoughts
Not to sprinkle too much doses of praise
And adoration.
“Your beauty makes my heart
Catapult and summersault
Pyramids of love in sands
Dunes, hills and mounted valleys
No matter how much I restrain
Your voice augments my heartbeat
With spells of laughter like breached pebbles
Yes!
Soothing flesh perusing tones
Like fire burning through your throat
Makes infinite pieces of joy
Gush on tarmac of my eyes”
All these asleep on roof of my mouth
I do not say because, true, true
I no fit wash you
This one no be wash
When your laughter departs
Your smiles drift away
My heart is vacant
Like a school theatre
When souls clutching books
Depart
Lights dim
Seats lonely
Dust floats
On boards
Embossed with chalks of silence
So I gaze to bottomless pits
Clusters of empyrean full moons
Focused slides under microscopes
To magnify holes I hid
All the wash I dey give
Because here Nafeesa
Is sipping poerty
And the earth is tilting
A little to the right
To contain all her smiles
Broader aboard the left cheek
Caressing her eyelids
My lines click a snapshot:
She teaches me boundaries
Between dem truth and dem wash
But even petals of flowers
Will blush rosy when they hear
Drizzling truths of my heartbeat
To wash na just to make noise
Please do not trust me!
I can write of slim
Torso
Flashy eyes
Carved rose of your lashes
Erect dancing tresses
Charming lips
O! You fruit of the valley
Contours of waters of paradise
I no fit wash you
Let me weave and entwine
Halo truths
Of my glitzy poem
Through my burning voice
Forever singing
Cascades of a dazzled
Beauty
Before you pause me
To say
Na wash I dey wash you
I want to confess
without remorse nor
Shame
My slimy treason
But my tongue lolls
And battles my throat
Then my half tooth
Yes! I am guilty
Today I go wash you
In scents of Arabian poetry
The author Sada Malumfashi is a writer living in Kaduna, Nigeria. His works have appeared in The Deepwater Literary Journal, Bombay Review and Jalada Africa. He participated in the Ake Arts and Book Festival Creative Writing Workshop 2015.
Gratuitous piece of poetry from a regular contributor, posted today in preparation for the upcoming January issue, which goes live at midnight PST tonight. Please enjoy!
Last Day of 2015
By Christopher Bernard
As in any other year
each day the sun rose, it set.
Mothers, friends, partners, lovers,
after laughing at us for longer than we cared to remember,
vanished overnight.
Where they used to be now is a hole in the air.
The monarch butterflies move in mists of wings
across the plains between Canada and Mexico,
rain takes a stroll across parched California,
and the moon glows down on everything on the earth.
The snow lines the pockets of the mountains with rebukes
as sharp as memories of kitchens on winter mornings.
A crocus breaks through the whiteness, a small pink fist,
sleek as rebellion, calm, deceptively delicate,
wagging in the wind.
Your partner is ice, hollyhocks, poppies.
Your lover is a fox hiding under a felled cedar.
Your mother is the wind.
Every day the sun set, it rose.
_____
Christopher Bernard is author of The Rose Shipwreck: Poems and Photographs. His poetry can be read at The Bog of St. Philinte.
This is an interview with Sebastian Lokason, jewelry artist and craftsperson with a full-time business on Etsy where he earns his living by designing and creating various pieces inspired by his faith. He talks about the life and practice of being an artist and a business person, how to integrate work, life, creativity and personal values, and the value and beauty of pieces with genuine stones.
How did you scale up your business over the years? Plenty of people start off making and selling crafts, how do you go from a hobby to a business? (i.e. finding customers, managing your time, making sure you’re getting enough of a profit margin, etc)
I started beading in my early twenties, and people would comment on my jewelry and I would make stuff for admirers at a very low price – much lower than what I should have been charging, but back then I didn’t know what a fair price was and I was happy to get any “extra” money at all. I started on Etsy in 2011, when I was thirty-one, as a hobbyist seller. I had literally no idea how to market my items – for example, I didn’t know you’re supposed to use tags on Etsy so people can find things – and I also had very, very few items ready for sale. I made less than a dozen sales prior to August 2014, which is when I got serious about Etsy and re-evaluated my business strategy, with help from someone who knows more about how to sell things than I do. I found a customer base through blogging about Pagan spirituality, though the time eventually came where I had to choose between blogging and crafting, and I was lucky that people who found my store via my blog mostly stuck around after I stopped making content posts – perhaps in part because my message was “be authentic to yourself, and your Higher Purpose is what you love”, and by focusing my attention on my art I was doing just that.
Welcome readers to December 2015’s edition of Synchronized Chaos Magazine. This month’s contributors deal with questions related to the individual’s connection to and responsibility toward the larger human or planetary universe.
Elizabeth Hughes reviews a set of novels in her monthly Book Periscope column that grapple with loyalty and independence. Hannah in Adina Sara’s Blind Shady Bend finally lives for herself and sets up a new and unexpected life in the California gold country and finds connection to others along the way. Most of an entire family throws off selfishness and dysfunction and learns to come together and use their creativity and gifts for good to help heal a sick teenager in Rea Nolan Martin’s The Anesthesia Game. Through helping Syd, they discover other ways they can make choices that enhance their own lives. In Joy Brown Coates’ Integrity: An Obsidian Guardian Novel, Audra and her guardian Castile find each other and realize their mutual roles in a shared destiny while both try to hide from past failure.
Charles Markee’s Maria’s Beads presents a very young woman who must defy the adults in her life to save her dying best friend. In her case, her loyalty motivates her independence. In Jennifer Ott’s Desperate Moon, a medical researcher and natural philosopher’s rational approach to life leads him to see a female vampire as a natural living creature rather than an esoteric monster, which leads to a truly loving relationship. The novel shows her growing openness to mutual friendship and respect after a lifetime of survival through seeking power and protection.
Finally, Joan Beebe’s poetry celebrates Christmas traditions: carols, nativity scenes, church services, presents, snow, sleds, children and families together. At its core the Christmas story in the Christian faith depicts an individual in relief: the incarnate Christ within an ordinary universe of people, plants and animals.
We encourage you to read this issue and see where you fit amid the backdrop of these contributors and their pieces. We wish you well and thank you for including our publication in however you choose to mark this season.
Public domain image from Marina Shemesh. Viewable and usable free here: http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=17409
