These are photos from Jerrice J. Baptiste of a school in Haiti run by the Souvenir Children’s Foundation where her aunt is volunteering. Jerrice is the niece of poet Roodly Laurore, whom we have published several times in Synchronized Chaos.
Please visit here to learn more about the Foundation’s primary schools and other humanitarian projects in Haiti, and please consider supporting them!
I Need A Lover When you give me that Yes, I approve of your fragrance look, that flash tilted stare you so carefully hid from others, you gave me the courage to send you a drink. I wasn't ready to give up and go home alone. For years you gifted me snippets of myself, happiness I will always remember. Even when I forget your last and first name those pictures won't vanish. Driving you home on those treacherous Puerto Rican mountains was like discovering a stolen Van Gogh, a universe of revolutionary starry nights and wild irises. A place where nothing and no one could touch us. It had to end. I wasn't ready to settle, and you insisted on hiding from macho eyes and their complaints. But what the hell, it wasn't all a waste. There was a lot of good sex and beer. Photographs I keep getting ass pics when what I want to see are you and me old together like stale breadcrumbs I gaze at the man I'm with, my summer climb, nothing to stop us from trailblazing joy We listen to a song from Camila, caliente, caliente frío y caliente Hot, hot, cold & hot The beach & the daiquiris are amazing The Myth of a Piece of Paper I never married but yes, I'm divorced. Same-sex marriages were not allowed in my time. My Lord the Moon painted lust on my face three times. Mr. Moon knows I cannot manage tempests on my own. He sends them to Her Majesty the Sun who then lights up my thirst-filled lips with fire & water. In the garden of faith & trouble all of us tread uncertain of the hazards lust might avail. No celebration, naive beliefs blown away. A mixture of dirt, wind, & rain. moon's glint the sun above my ghost The Stillness of the Moment It's time for lunar silent men to strike a pose. The ivy covering men's eyes must come off. The hour of kisses covered with mud has ended. Dogs scurry, hide in deep water. Sleepwalking cats made of glass perched on the tree of my remembrance shatter. Boys and girls without wings or halos vanish. I sit on a high chair wearing crocheted roses like the ones stretched out on the skin of my drums. Your ghost, clothed in musical silence, watching. Your conscience, a sore that sways through Cocytus staring at my face. Sergio A. Ortiz is a retired Educator, Bilingual-Gay PRican Poet, Human Rights Advocate. Pushcart nominee, Best of the Web, Best of the Net. He took 2nd place in the 2016 Ramón Ataz annual poetry competition, sponsored by Alaire Publishing House.
I thank to independence There are no sadness in the heart, only happiness, The spirit of people rose from joy. Their sorrows turned into blessedness I thank to independence! Gardens thrive in various streets, The mountains are amazed at the patience of my nation. Even the spot of moon disappeared from the face I thank to independence! We gratitude our president, Our heads always be safe. We are united, come to our weddings I thank to independence! My words are endless to describe my country, My eyes shine with happiness every day. My friends, protect our motherland like heaven I thank to independence! My Uzbekistan, you are new, raise your prestige, You are my golden cradle, my heaven. You are dear to my heart, every moment in my soul I thank to independence!
The Music Inside Is the Same Paul* had signed up for piano lessons earlier in the year as a complete beginner, hoping for a creative outlet that might balance his academic work. He had progressed fairly quickly at first and showed quite a bit of potential but became increasingly distracted and had less and less time to practice. I had agreed reluctantly to be an itinerant teacher and come to his apartment, only because he pleaded that he couldn’t come to my studio for lessons and leave his two young children on their own. One week, he did not answer my knock at the door, so I headed back down the hallway to the stairs. Suddenly Paul burst through the stairwell door dressed in full, flamboyant drag, pulling off his wig as he approached. We both stopped and exclaimed, “Oh!” at the same time. I said, “I was just leaving. It looks like it’s not a good time for your lesson.” He was most apologetic about having forgotten and said he had just come from the big city three hours away, adding unnecessarily that he had a lot going on and would have to stop taking lessons. I knew he did indeed have a lot going on, between the children and his doctoral program to finish in the spring. Now, he said, he also was in transition to become “Paulina.” His ex-wife didn’t know yet. He hadn’t planned to tell me this soon. I heard later that Paulina had graduated with a PhD and moved away. Wherever she ended up, I hoped the digital piano had come along too, and that circumstances worked out for piano lessons to be an option again. Whether Paul or Paulina, there is music inside, and it only needs a chance to come out. *Name changed. Willow in June, Millhaven Creek Smashed on the rocks near the old mill and basket factory lies a white ceramic plate with black script that would have spiraled to the center from the outer edge. It seems poetic somehow, the general sense of the words I see while walking past and trying to resist the urge to gather the fragments and make sense of them, as well as the fact of the plate having been thrown with force onto the ground. Someone’s dignity, stolen by anger or despair. But my destination is the willow tree beside the creek with the wide cascade of rapids no more than half a meter high, so I keep walking. There seems always to be a willow near an old mill. The composer Rachmaninoff took care to plant willows at his secluded summer estate but only enjoyed them for seven years until 1917, when the place burned during the revolution and he fled by sleigh over the border into Finland. His dignity—and that of the willows—stolen by war. Willows grow quickly, anywhere from two to ten feet a year. The trade-off is that they only live for 20 to 30 years, but one can propagate more trees by taking “switches” from an old tree in the spring, placing them in water, then planting the rooted cuttings in the fall. One of the blessings of willows is that other species of trees can sometimes emerge from a fallen willow. Thus the life cycle continues, as does the dignity of the gentle elder.
now
i adjusted my attitude
in a quick thought this morning
as i’m one for immediate changes
slowing down new directions
is a waste of time usually
when enthusiasm is exploding in now
i’ve been thinking lately
about how quickly time departs us
another year is now nearing its end
and with the speed that it’s travelling
paired with a major new issue
my life could pass by fast as well
i sit outside under a kind sprawling tree
and chat with a magpie now my friend
we share our dreams with the sky
as the wind blows out tunes
while a parrot watches closely
with interest
in a house nearby i hear people fighting
screaming loud is now not what i need
traffic speeds past me
hip hop music beats blast
a kid dances
and people gather and clap
a skinny guy at a café
who i’m getting to know
says things aren’t too good for him now
i show concern for his angst
so he asks me to sit down
and shows me photos of his cheating lover
a musician and i chat outside of the cafe
and have coffees i buy now’s my shout
we laugh at stories we make up
share some secrets we’ve kept
the skinny guy joins our table
and cries
Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s had 20 plays produced with many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts, and an Asialink India literature residency. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His next book drops soon. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely. Stephen’s play, ‘Johnny Chico’ ran in Spain for 4 years.
young lost men demons lost angels left to dangle in the wind they find homes in the brains of young lost men a simple host that provides everything a demon needs until a woman comes along some maturing happens and then all hell breaks loose the rebellion resembles a prison riot of sorts and from experience soften and give in ----------------------------------------------------------------- be one with your desire a passing rain shower your beauty as easy as the pain dance naked in the shadows regret, the last thought that enters the brain don't try just live be one with your desire close your eyes and let forever grasp your will to live no one knows the future even the gods you talk to every night before bed just don't pick the shortest straw ----------------------------------------------------------- tennis do any of your dreams come true does that beautiful woman ever say hello do those legs go on for miles and miles does the moon howl at anything do the flowers still grow this late in the year does she ever kiss you goodnight do the ghosts visit you as well does this music mean i'm going to hell do you understand what pain really is does the drugs even touch your soul do you know when the game is tonight does your favorite team ever win do you ever gamble on cricket does this poem make any fucking sense do you even care does it matter do you know the answer does anyone ------------------------------------------------------------------------- still feels like fucking summer here come the ghosts, slutty nurses, witches, ghouls, goblins, awkward superheroes and red wagons full of candy when i was a kid, it was always cold on halloween now, it still feels like fucking summer just my luck i'm old, diabetic, and none of those "cool" costumes will fit all that candy would probably kill me anyway there are certainly days where i'm willing to take the chance ------------------------------------------------------------------------ a lost soul that looks like i see a young woman in glasses looking over at me i've been told that my flirting is going to get me arrested one day don't let these intense, murderous eyes fool you i'm just a lost soul that looks like a creep a child that was never loved enough a poet, a hopeless romantic that wants to believe in a world that constantly says no
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Disturb the Universe Magazine, Carcinogenic Poetry, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him on most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
In My Dreams
In my dreams I welcome you, but sunrise breaks the spell.
The reality of life is too much for my mind to endure.
Only in sleep, when my soul is quiet, can you move freely inside of me without waking the demons...
We can laugh, birds can sing, and flowers can bloom as you cool my soul.
For when you walk softly in my dreams, you bring peace to my inner being as you tame the beast that lurks within my depths... Relieve me of its merciless screams in my chest...
Just make sure you close the door to my heart when you leave before dawn.
My eyes are not yet used to the beauty of your sun.
UNCONDITIONAL ARMS OF LOVE
(A Love Letter)
My Dearest One,
If there was ever a time that I broke your heart
or made you suffer, Please forgive me.
Because you always showed me unconditional love.
There have been many who have pledged their love for me,
but never the way you have.
Even if the beautiful Lotus bloomed for me or mirrors
were intimidated by me, there are conditions with those types of love.
They fade and shatter in comparison by
the way you look at me and love me.
When the world starts to leave me, I have no doubt that you will be right there with open arms
that will always accept me, comfort me, and hold me tightly.
Yes, there are no if, and, or buts when it comes to your love.
Your love has always been unconditional when it comes to me.
And I thank God above that He gave me your unconditional arms of love to hold me... always.
Love Always,
Kristy...
THE HEART NEEDS NO PEN AND PAPER
You are there and I am here
We write to each other everyday
It's second nature now to pick up my pen
but today no new words come to me
I know my heartbeat leads to you
And no doubt that yours beats for me too
Sometimes we need not even speak at all
For what is in the heart needs no lines
It beats without effort as does our love
But you're still in my every thought
And when I wake, I know you are still mine
If I get no letter from you today, I do not fret
For a letter can't take the place of what is in your heart
And what is in your heart needs no pen or paper
I can always feel your love, regardless... And I smile.
Bio from Kristy Raines:
A Poet, Writer, and Author, born in Oakland California, in The United States of America.
Kristy has six books getting ready to publish. One anthology with a prominent Poet from India, which will launch in December 2023 called, "I Cross my Heart from East to West", two fantasy books of her own called, "Rings, Things and Butterfly Wings" and "Princess and The Lion", an anthology of poems in English," Walking Without You”, one in French, "Little Rose Poetry", and one in Arabic called," Jasmine and Roses". She is taking a course in Arabic to write this book. And one surprise coming very soon with a prominent poet from Saudi Arabia, to be announced. Kristy has received many literary awards for her unique style of writing.