To the black letters of recorded time, which boils in fame.
To the prayers of bullets, mother
fired when age first brewed the wine
of maturity upon my lip.
My soul is a remainant of solfas,
Carving notes in this arm eaten by the
Virgin fangs of Needs.
Whenever we withness the harmonic weaving
Of flame on wood, we shall wear our anthems
Like skin,
For that black boy opposite our hut
Has learnt to recite the slogan of success
Where fear and failure brew dreams
upon the podium of regret.
An Igbo writer, a member of hilltop creative arts center, a lyrical poets who writes about the constant changes of emotions. My works have been published on synchronized chaos, poetry parliament, and my poem (virgins pride) and (symphony of love) was shortlisted in the 2023/2024 annual nature poetry contest.
Turning 75 Three Times
1-
Self-portraits by Picasso:
elbows where the head
should be, mouth and eyes
randomly scattered,
a mass of color;
body parts trying to connect
2-
Novels in three lines
like Japanese death poems:
a few words summing up life-
more than enough
3-
Remembering morning at
a still lake: false dawn
suggesting light with a
persistence of fog refusing
to lift-lines written in lieu
of mourning.
White Noise Twice
1-
Woman in white-
pale skin and alabaster
eyes, a white room
wraith, a scatter of
dried flowers, herbs;
Emily Dickinson dreaming
2-
Open Mic with thunderstorm
with unexpected static,
dimming house lights
then total darkness;
an apology for reading
a war poem that ends
in thunder
Kawabata Six Times
1-
At peace pagoda-
wrought iron character
for peace. At dusk
a bell rings
2-
Clear summer night.
Where are the fireflies?
3-
Still Life with Flower
Arrangement-
single long stem Iris
in clear glass vase.
Shadows cast on
white interior wall;
perfect symmetries
4-
Still Life with Waterfalls-
Summer drought reduces
flow. At the crest,
sleek stepping stones-
still a long way down
5-
A trick of light
on lake reflects
flocks of birds
6-
Folding origami cranes
for peace and releasing
them into rivers, ponds,
lakes- a thousand is
never enough
Flood Tides Five Times
1-
Cornfields on a flood
plain-only the tops
of stalks visible
2-
Light through spider’s
web between two trees;
a world about to end
3-
Found, barely visible
in receding tidal pool,
between a scatter of rocks,
a whale’s rib
4-
After the flood,
gray morning sky;
a broken tree limb
with one bird on it
5-
Weeks of rain then clear
and warm. The sun feels
strange, out of place
Seeing Sleep Four Times
1-
Looking up from under
water, the movement
of clouds
2-
Sleep-letting go
of the body,
the mind moves on
3-
Light through gaps
between broken trees.
New day colors-
blue sky and rising sun,
almost liquids
4-
Bone white trees-
moon shadows on
still water.
Nothing moves
White Symphony Three Times
1-
Young woman in white
gazing into a mirror-
reflection in half tones
and light
2-
Woman seated on piano
bench facing away from keys,
an annotated score open
to a piece for four hands,
two hands missing
3-
Dreaming woman sleepwalking
in white, silk kimono empty
tea cups in each limp hand;
rice paper walls dissolve
around her.
Tone Poems Three Times
1-
Outdoor concert at
night, Les Preludes
with moonglow and
meteor showers; a tone
poem with stars in it
2-
November evening
with freezing rain
Cars sliding
on black ice
Inside a Schubert trio;
safe at home at last
3-
Stained glass sonata:
musical notes as pure
as light through
colored glass
1
crow’s feet
each year
closer to a murder
lag time
Shane Coppage
& Jerome Berglund
2
leap of faith
what kind of present
does an artist give
Kilroy
Shane Coppage
& Jerome Berglund
3
fiddlehead
joining the last place
to permit entry
no refunds
Jerome Berglund
& Shane Coppage
4
pink corvette
there are no wrinkles
in her skirt
orthodox church
Shane Coppage
& Jerome Berglund
5
Dr. Feelgood
ruck pack
Atlas eat
your heart out
Jerome Berglund
& Shane Coppage
Jerome Berglund has worked as everything from dishwasher to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. Many haiku, haiga and haibun he’s written have been exhibited or are forthcoming online and in print, most recently in bottle rockets, Frogpond, Kingfisher, and Presence. A mixed media chapbook showcasing his fine art photography is available now from Fevers of the Mind.
Shane Coppage is a poet and artist. His poetry has been published in Prune Juice, Whiptail, Humana Obscura, dadakuku, Trash Panda, The Heron’s Nest, Modern Haiku, Wales Haiku Journal, The Wee Sparrow Press, and Cold Moon Journal, among others. Coppage lives in Cincinnati, Ohio with his growing family.
trajectory will undoubtedly be indelibly rewarded.
I am a rare sight to behold, and the melting pot of the red dragon, the golden sparrow, the thunderbolt, the incredible land of the gods, and Ali Jinnah’s carved out jewel.
Synchronized Chaos Magazine expresses compassion for all those affected by the wildfires in L.A. and support for those who are fighting them.
You may send cards here to be delivered to firefighters who are part of a program where incarcerated people in California may spend some of their sentences assisting fire crews.
Green Engines
Where data rings around the poisoned
fruit coiled like the
Original sin bacillus but we're not quite
dreaded out
Yet, foiled the plans of egomaniac
gods with blackened
Wings flapping like a cyborg fan-machine-man
over the
Tweaked and roiling
abyss of
Scissors, there remains
a system of drillbit girls with heads like
Hammerhead sharks wearing
Polynesian skirts around the issue of
Unholy orders, fringed, frayed, stripped
Boredom town
Cross-hatchings in an
addled adult
Comic type
Stripped to
Ill
Regrets over recent long agos, in the winds and in the sun, regrets over the lost and missed. Appreciation of some pasts, nostalgia for the futures.
Wharf odors of salt and gutted fish. Paint and bait, oil and rust. Clouds scudding overhead, heat miraging up.
Channels’ changing, the bedlam of soundtrack evolutions.
Limbs and torso shake and stretch, my body hinges into starting block, toes knuckle against chocks, fingers pyramid on starting line to lift the earth on edge, ears alert themselves and eyes ahead; a gunshot accordions our tsunami of feet forward, bellow elbows explode intense rhythms in lungs and heart like heated Bismarck batteries firing from iron ribs. And. then. finish line. Momentum ends, and the broader world returns to regular order and the runners pant and slow.
Baby’s first words and steps, crushes explored and wrecked, defiance and surrender on every side, alliances of privilege and power shift from This to Tomorrow.
Geographies of hills and hollows / skin on skin, lips on lips and nipples, tongue on organ / the old cock and pussy polka to the strain of gasps and moans.
The Grand Canyon oranging dawn from rim to bottom. Frozen Niagara’s cinder mist.
INHERENT
Your universe is no anarchist,
absolute liberty is a myth.
So cherish the space among those chains.
Infinity also has limits.
So treasure your time in the gibbet,
embrace your inch before that flame.
Though existence may be flexible,
shackles, ropes, and fires are metaphors
for reality’s innate constraints.
YOU ARE DECIDUOUS
Your branches in winter
spider like wrinkles.
Where’s
your paper birch skin
with its inner pink,
your spring
-leafed hair?
HUNTERS
My bridge is narrow, but your park is lush.
There is a peril for the ones who rush.
A hundred hungry hunters got lost in your bush,
their thousand-throated thunder silenced by your hush.
There is a peril for the ones who rush.
My careful arrow finds your hiding thrush.
LIQUID
I thought I was lucid in Patpong, though maybe I was hallucinating when I thought I saw this maiden blowing the vagina smoke ring blues. She came up to me when she was through and said, “Do you smoke?” and I said, “Well, not like you.” And then in my ear she whispered, “Let’s get liquid. Ooh ooh, let’s get liquid.” So we went to her pharmacy upstairs. She took my prescription and filled it.
She had that electric texture of velvet when rubbed against the grain, and I felt it.
The room filled with her flower and I inhaled it.
Lance shivered against shield as we tilted.
My farmer found her furrow and tilled it.
I opened her book and I shelved it.
Her passion a pink open pistachio, I unshelled it.
My sausage she fried in her skillet.
She made my Johnny Walker Red and then she swilled it.
She raced my engine and derailed it.
She measured my beat and she held it.
She climbed my steeple and she belled it.
She stamped my package and she mailed it.
She blazed my sequoia and she felled it.
I plugged in my tool and I drilled it.
I hammered her board and she nailed it.
She read my fantasy and fulfilled it,
applied my blueprint as she built it.
She fitted my Nino and she sailed it.
over the edge of the sea, she propelled it.
Oooooh ooooh I heard her shout it
(or maybe that was me)
and then our substances melded,
congealed together, we were welded,
but that was the moment we melted.
The orchid exploded and wilted.
And she slid loose, she slipped free.
And we drifted. Oh, we were liquid!
And I thought I was lucid in Bangkok. But maybe I was hallucinating.
