Thank you to Jacques Fleury for responding to our request for readers to offer their expertise to assist writers! He has a variety of published writing which he can refer people to on request and is open to being interviewed on these topics:

-History of Haiti, as an author on the subject & as a Haiti born  American citizen 

-Black/African American History, as a “black” man who grew up in America & as an author on the subject

-Race and Racism, as a Person of Color having survived & thrived despite lived experience of racism & as author on subject

-Mental Health/Illness/Wellness & Recovery, having had lived experience & as an author on the subject

Everyone else, if you have an area of knowledge where you’d be glad to be interviewed to help people who are writing about that topic, please reach out to us at synchchaos@gmail.com.

Also, our contributor Abigail George’s book When Bad Mothers Happen, released January 2024 from European publisher Morten Rand, is available for Synchronized Chaos readers to review. Please let us know if this interests you and her publisher can send review copies (and we can publish reviews!)

It is available on Amazon here, and here is a link to a promo video.

This month, our contributors figure out how to make sense of the universe, piece by piece.

Alan Catlin renders lists and catalogues into a form of poetry, building up objects from their components, like a brick tower or a floral arrangement. J.D. Nelson crafts auditory and visual snapshots that can stand for and evoke an entire scene.

Soren Sorensen contributes mixed media alterations of reality and existential poetry on making sense of the universe. Mars Brocke’s mixed media artwork plays with reality and perception in a nod to Alice in Wonderland. His poetry, also surreal, evokes memories and states of mind. Martha Ellen conveys the psychological changes induced by benzodiapine medicine and the fluidity and vulnerability of the human brain and mind. Mark Young creatively defines concepts through descriptive words that once explained something.

Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam’s collaborative haiku focuses on and thus highlights the value of noticing small and in-between moments.

Saidova Mahzuna outlines methods for learning and teaching vocabulary. Mo’minjonova Diyora highlights the benefits of continuing to read and learn throughout life. Sevinchoy Sanat outlines ways to enhance education through technology as Ibrohimova Durdonaxon outlines different areas to focus on when improving childhood education. However, sometimes the old ways still hold wisdom: Daniel De Culla relates a humorous tale of a modern woman who chooses to go with folk wisdom regarding her health. Gregg Norman presents a poem from the point of view of a character who’s living life to the fullest, with health benefits as incidental.

Noah Berlatsky muses on the identity of Spock and on what makes intriguing literary characters. Jacques Fleury reflects on his personal and cultural identity. Mesfakus Salahin speaks to life, death, and personal accountability, redemption, and the meaning of one individual life. David Sapp relates a tale of responsibility, honor, and mailboxes. Ranjan Sagar reminds us that others’ poor character need not diminish our own. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa addresses the tension between roots and wings, needing to fly free and wanting a stable nest, and reflects on the end of life. Paul Tristram speaks to personal growth, strength, and self-discipline while Sarvinoz Mansurova shares her family’s dreams for her and her own aspirations. Nigora Tursunboyeva’s short story celebrates adventure and finding one’s own way in life.

Gaurav Ojha reflects on how he will take nothing with him when he leaves the earth. Graciela Noemi Villaverde expresses the exquisite anguish of losing someone close to her. Engin Cir speaks to the grief, but also the indignation, of romantic heartbreak. Faleeha Hassan evokes the feeling of anxiety, being exposed and weighed down. Mykyta Ryzhykh conveys alienation, cold, and a halfway state between life and death.

Duane Vorhees speaks to creativity, sensuality, and history, evoking major and minor apocalypses that occur when people cannot or do not adapt to constant change. Taylor Dibbert reflects on how creativity can help him weather, if not avoid, his struggles. Z.I. Mahmud links the expectations of Samuel Beckett’s characters in Waiting for Godot to those of broader Western religious and cultural traditions.

Adam Fieled writes of our twin natures, the balance of masculine and feminine. Z.I. Mahmud examines the family relationships in D.H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers through a Freudian psychoanalytic lens. Karimova Sarvara Karimovna crafts an elegant and highly personal love poem. Kristy Raines speaks to the joy of a close loving relationship. Aytuvova Khurshida shares a love story that gets interrupted by life, but where the former partners always remember each other. Numonova Khonzodabegim poignantly shares the challenges and risks military families face.

J.K. Durick speaks to the harsh realities of aging and death and hunger, which can be eased, but not completely erased, by modern culture. J.J. Campbell’s poetry addresses aging and resignation while Dildora Toshtemirova reflects on the loss of a close friend or lover. Nosirova Gavhar’s short story combines two great human passions: love and grief.

Paul Callus and Christina Chin collaborate on a wide-ranging haiku collection evoking home, place, and time. Stephen Jarrell Williams captures many of summer’s varied moods in his haiku. Steven Croft watches a Civil War reenactment through the eyes of a modern veteran. Brooks Lindberg speaks to what we remember and what we forget, of grasping happiness despite reality. Rustamjonova Nodira celebrates the perseverance of Uzbekistan’s founders, leaders, and people, as Nuraini Mohammed Usman urges her society to carry out collective housecleaning and purge old enmities.

Murodova Sitora urges teachers to continue to learn and develop their skills and be accorded the respect and resources in order to do so. Abduraximova Muyassarxon relates how a dedicated teacher helped her regain her confidence. Rukshona Qiyomova outlines the many responsibilities of a teacher and the value of the teaching profession. Sevinch Saidova reflects on the value of education for personal development. Sushant Kumar highlights the need for teachers to serve as role models as well as impart intellectual information.

Majidova Sevinch pays tribute to the many dimensions of a mother’s love and care. Sobirjonova Rayhona offers a tribute to her sister’s care and friendship. Ilhomova Mohichehra takes joy in her friends and her lovely homeland of Uzbekistan.

Brian Barbeito revels in the easy intimacy of the conversation on a summer hike. Salokhiddinova Mohichehra examines the structure and function of nature close to home, the human kidney. Isabel Gomez de Diego contributes visual poetry of everyday life: dinner with family, a visit with a grandson, a tree in the yard. Kylian Cubilla Gomez takes closeup peeks at backyard chickens.

Sayani Mukherjee recollects a quiet morning outdoors under the blue sky, smelling the scent of trees with her child. Maja Milojkovic yearns for and finds reminders of her lover in every aspect of nature. Intizor Samandarova evokes the sky’s expansive emptiness in her poetry as Don Bormon poetizes about the vast variety of clouds.

However, nature is not always calm: researcher Les Beley speaks to the ecological impact of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. Mahbub Alam describes the recent flash floods in parts of Bangladesh and the loss of life and property.

Farida Botayeva reflects on how quickly our circumstances and emotions can change. Ziyoda Murodilova considers how she will persevere in her life despite unpredictable feelings.

Finally, Christopher Bernard presents an old-style lyrical recipe for preparing hope in the kitchen.

DECREATION

It is one moment past midnight

on the 8th day of morning.

Our Styx ferries become consumed

with the burning of bibles.

Seven heavens eighten themselves

and shrink and infinitize.

In this silent Babel

the sciencemagic we learned

while head over heels upside down

from hanged Marut and Harut

is finding and losing its feet.

Apocalypse collapses.

Ahuramazda unities

vanish darkness into bright.

Medusa’s pale horse Pegasus

comets Quetzalcoatl;

Fenris swallows the Eighth Archon

and then pukes and pukes him out.

The set sun eludes prediction.

No west exists to rise from.

CARNIVAL OF LOVE

The bearded lady

has two lovers,

the apeman and the geek.

Their sex is crazy,

peeling rubber

on high wires and the street.

When bearded lady

becomes mother

to a new circus freak,

the lucky baby

has two others

to help him feel unique.

FOWL WEATHER

Six ducks in a pond

swimming through a warm sweet spring rain–

pond is duck is air.

STILL STRANGERS:

EROS

IN EROSION

After years

of wear, she would sew

with those sharp dead

beads, new thoughts

into the threadbare pattern of memory,

and he solder

his older, darker, thoughts into place….

… Long ago…

they learned to slaughter

their eager laughter and tear

their deepest tears out of each’s other,

they taught themselves to utilize their exquisite words

like hamhamhammers and broadswords–

then, their mutual wounds

they wound all about their lives like poison ivy.

(Each just one more bothersome

clone to the other…)

But

There had been a time

,once,

before the tiny

mutiny,

when they were still strangers

to anger,

when they could lie naked,

sun-baked upon the jurassic sands

or beside the slow hearth,

unearthing new treasures from their together,

when, in some safe

cafe, their yes

-eyes could swallow entire

their sweet menus

of Venus

and for many an hour

pour their love

from lip to mouth like milk from a pitcher to a glass.

But that time passed…

Strangely

angel-like, two

naif

waifs

blown

down,

unable to unwind all the ivy accumulation

in a rugged wind – they just

shrugged, unable to face down

the demons of their facetious selves.

(This is not simply

to imply that they weren’t determined.

But, over time, stubborn assiduity becomes undermined,

especially when connubial cement lacks

reinforcement.

So, by fragile grapevines, over

tangled ravines,

the values they were hanging onto

kept changing.

They were unable to forge a structure anew

or to forget old collapse.

Neither the heights of their dear science nor

the weight of alerted conscience,

And not Keats, and certainly

not Yeats,

could keep the crevices in their isolate selves

from inventing the devices of their together’s undoing.)

Beached,

they discovered the sea:

inequal parts nausea and mystery.

HIGH COUP

O moon, so distant…

I’m not smokin’ in Tokyo,

my poem will not fire.

“Revolution bursts

sunlight on stained stainless steel:

your yolkcolored hair.”

Night’s vaunted Shakespeare:

just flaccid Little Willie,

cold to geisha stars.

“Nestraw hair – egg’s eye

blue – honeyed limbs; trunkhugging

bearcubeMe:     climbing.”

Sake enflames verse

(you say), arouses rhythm,

kindles rhymes sublime–

mine (old drunken whore)

fires up unsuccessfully,

sucks relentlessly,

till we fall asleep.

And Basho the monk remains,

red raw poem limp, still.

…

IN SOLITARY 

1. SAMIZDAT*

 Writer’s craft: manacled to conviction 

           like any zek to his sentence, 

            like a blatnoi to a pen

: assaults its own position 

: like a gaybist missionary, assassinates its friends

: like any other virgin –

just another bloody period, 

and another conception ends.

2.  YOUR BODY TELLS THE HIGHWAYMAN 

If prose is just a page running across your face, 

poetry is the line lying between your thighs.

Your body tells the highwayman’s short story life:

The drama of poems at the point of conception, 

but just one more hackneyed form in execution.

3.      LIFE/SENTENCE

 key in the cake –

(in music, truth hid?)

oh,

the poet’s prison is 

the rhythm of his

poem 

                        starved, 

                        scarred – 

he makes his

break

*inspired by Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago

…

My dear sister

He filled my beautiful life with joy

He brought meaning to my life

Dear sister like my mother

He gives love early and late

She always held my hand like a sister,

My umbrella is my sister, my shield is my sister

Have a little laugh because of me

Dear sister, dear sister.

he asks me every day

how are you sister

She is kind like my mother

And he looked at me day and night

Beautiful faces like my mother,

Dear sister, I have

Sweet words like my father

My supportive sister, dear.

Sister Dilnoza, stay healthy always

Be a legend to the world

Let everyone know you, Sister Dilnoza.

May their names spread throughout the world.

Let the whole world know, my beautiful sister,

Let them feel your sweet love

You fill the whole world with joy,

May those who see us be envious.

May God protect us always

May we have many sisters like you

carrying you on my shoulders

I will take you on a pilgrimage.

You just laugh with joy, that’s all

My beautiful sister is the light of my life.

Remember me once a day

My life is beautiful sister.

Thank you dear Dilnozam 

i love you 

He always protects me

His kindness shook the world

I am Sobirjonova Rayhona, a 9th-grade student of the 8th general secondary school of Vobkent district, Bukhara region. I was born in December 2008 in the village of Chorikalon, Vobkent district in an intellectual family. My mother and father supported me from a young age. I am also interested. I started writing in my 3rd grade. My first creative poem was published in “Wobkent Life” newspaper. In addition, many magazines were published in America’s Synchaos newspaper, India’s Namaste India magazine, Gulkhan magazine, Germany’s RavenCage magazine and many other magazines and newspapers. my creative works have come out. I actively participated in many contests and won high places and received many gifts. Creativity is my precocious nature. I am very interested in creativity and enjoy every line. Of course, I will become a great person and bring the name of my country Uzbekistan to heaven, God willing!!!

FIT

A cocktail party cruiser,
a broker working the room, 
cornered me and asked,
“What do you do to keep fit?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m active
but not for the sake of fitness.
I hunt and fish.”
“Oh,” he replied, “I run.”
He looked at his watch,
touched his wrist as if
to check his standing heart rate,
already looking for another prospect.
“For What?” I asked.
“To keep fit, of course.”
“For what?” I repeated.
He paused, smiled nervously
and cleared his throat.
“So I’ll live longer.”
He was ready to bolt.
“For what?” I asked again.
He drifted off, shaking his head.
He only had wrong answers


Gregg Norman lives and writes in a lakeside cottage in Manitoba, Canada, with his wife and a small dog who runs the joint. His poetry has been placed in journals and literary magazines in Canada, USA, UK, Australia and India. 

Mailbox                                                                                             

On occasion this distant memory surfaces at curious moments. I’m unsure why. However random and peculiar, I suppose the event, over fifty years ago, had some significance for my young mind. One night when I was six or seven, in my pajamas after my bath but before bedtime, close to Hop on Pop and Green Eggs and Ham, we are all in the kitchen, Mom, Dad, me. I’m eating either cereal with six teaspoons of sugar or Nestle’s Quik chocolate milk and Oreos with even more sugar. There may or may not be a brushing of teeth soon. There’s a knock at our door and there’s the neighbor kid, the Klines’ oldest teenager sheepishly apologetic, informing Dad that he just hit our mailbox with his father’s car at the end of our long, washed-out lane. I worry about getting a letter tomorrow from Patty, my girlfriend. He is opening his wallet offering to pay Dad for the damage – the few dollars he has now and the rest on payday.

Dad said later that he could have kept on going and no one would be the wiser, except maybe the father if he looked closely at the fender or grill. But he stopped and did the right thing. This made an impression upon Dad and apparently it made an impression upon me as at that age anything that would impress Dad was certain to impress me. Here was the outset of an honorable young man. Dad told him not to worry about it – to put his wallet away. The next day Dad and I went to the hardware store, bought a new box, and affixed our numbers to it. Dad showed me how to dig a post hole, setting a flat stone in the bottom so the wood would not rot, righting the post with the level, then tamping the dirt down around the base to firm it up. I used this knowledge a few times for my own mailboxes at the end of my own driveways. When I began driving, I was lucky not to destroy any mailboxes, although I do recall scraping against a city limits sign on the way to school – but there was no one handy to confess to. And fortunately, so far, none of my mailboxes have been demolished by a neighbor.

When a person comes into the world, he should take the wise word “seek knowledge from the cradle to the grave” as his motto. It is this knowledge that saves humanity from destruction, preserves the decadent, and determines its prestige and influence in life. I remembered his wisdom: “Be angry without enthusiasm, be a lover without sorrow, be a scholar without a student.” Indeed, the work of my parents and my first teacher is immeasurable in helping me to reach these days. My parents taught me humanity. “if they taught me, my teacher brought me up with the knowledge of education and morals. When a person comes into the world, he is a cave baby who does not know anything, if he thinks with a real life example Just like a small and delicate sprout, if we take good care of it, we can get fruit from it, we can enjoy its scenery, if we don’t take good care of a small sprout, we can’t get fruit from it.

If you don’t get education, it won’t help you to study a thousand times. The first person who encouraged me to love the country, to love books, and to study science is definitely my first teacher. I am studying in the field of science. About ten of my stories have been published in foreign magazines, I am working as an international ambassador in two countries on behalf of Uzbekistan, alhamdulillah. I am a member of the Volunteer Academy of Uzbekistan, I regularly participate in the “Legendary Youth” forum, in a word, I am slowly taking steps towards my goal, the “Zulfiyakhanim” award. All this is my tireless work and knowledge. I can say that it came from behind.

As I mentioned above, these achievements are due to the hard work of my mentors and coaches Hasanova Tursunoy, Boronova Aziza, Teshayeva Dilrabo, Talibova Muhabbat, who taught me. Not only me, but my classmates who studied with me, fought and fought at the same desk for eleven years, are also achieving the achievements they were looking for. First of all, it is not an exaggeration to say that our first achievement was that we earned the happiness of being a student by justifying the trust of our teachers. Each of us was honored and dear to our teachers. When I remember my school days, the times when we did not listen to the teachers, when we ran away from the class, when there were competitions, when we argued with parallel classes, all this has become a thing of the past. It’s been more than two years since we heard the school bell, and those who said “I don’t miss school” are now walking past the school gate in a whirlwind of memories.

We have found our way, we are slowly flowing from our own tributary like a spring water from a mountain, but I must say that without our teachers we are absolutely nothing. We would be an example of a creature that does not understand anything. That’s probably why they say that the teacher is as great as your father. As much as our father thinks about us and gives us advice, our teachers see only good things for us in the same way. Thank God that after me, my brothers and sisters will pass through the threshold of the school where I studied, and the teacher who taught me will teach them. My teacher Hasanova Tursunoy, if you are reading this article, I would be very happy. May your students always be healthy and happy, your student Sevinch who loves you. This poem I wrote is dedicated only to you.

                             My teacher

The first day I went to school,

I remember every moment.

My first note in the notebook,

Tursunoy is my teacher

No matter how much I thank you,

It is true how much knowledge you have given.

The lesson we learned for life,

It is an unpayable debt for us.

Pupils of my teacher

As if they are lovers.

Like their children,

Children seeking knowledge.

Every day I go to school,

I spent the whole night studying.

My achievements

The reason is my teacher.

No matter how much I do, I bow down.

A word that cannot be described.

This poem is for you,

MY DEAR TEACHER.

Nothing

I have never existed

Before

Being Here

I will never exist

Here again

After this

Everything else is just

Something that happens

In between nothing

When life takes an empty turn,

The performer collapses off the stage

The fire put on for the cremation burns down the script

The actor has nothing left to do in this drama

From all the glories of human pursuits,

Each of us can only take our portion of nothing

Gaurav Ojha

Kathmandu, Nepal