Welcome, everyone, to 2023’s second issue of Synchronized Chaos! In this season of renewed energy and resolution, we are excited and ready to leave our mark on the sands of time.

But first, our friend and collaborator Rui Carvalho reminds us about our Nature Writing Contest for 2022.

This is an invitation to submit poems and short stories related to trees, water, and nature conservation between now and the March 2023 deadline. More information and submission instructions here!

Chimezie Ihekuna poetizes about his quest to leave a positive legacy despite whatever befalls him in life.

Randall Rogers explores our self-concept, how we perceive ourselves versus how others see us. J.K. Durick goes farther with the theme of cultural and personal identity, questioning what it is in a name, a photograph, or a sport that comes to define us.

Channie Greenberg’s photos show off windows on buildings of various sizes and shapes. Leslie Lisbona recollects an afternoon swimming with her older brother, a sibling relationship that expands her view of the world.

J.J. Campbell explores less amusing places where our minds can wander during periods of forced inactivity. Meanwhile, Ubali Ibrahim Hashimu takes joy in books, comparing his earthly love to the joy of learning and literature. Zulfiya Shomurotova relates the mixture of emotions she feels on seeing rainfall and uses that as inspiration for her writing.

Robert Fleming’s art integrates human eyes, mathematical formulas and tree rings to form thoughtful compositions, while Mark Young’s work connects words, form and color, with the letters of the alphabet forming figures of beauty. J.D. Nelson connects real and imagined words to create a sonic experience of form and rhythm.

Stephen House builds his sense of compassion by immersing himself within nature and enlarging his circle of connection to other beings. Z.I. Mahmud writes of how poetry, art, writing and film can help us make sense of and take action on abstract matters such as melting ice caps and climate change.

Daniel De Culla also speaks of other beings in his amusing tale of the relationships among dogs in a Spanish village church.

Jim Meirose contributes a meditative ambient piece on a church receiving a mysterious package.

Donna Dallas writes of the passing of time, what we remember and what falls from the grasp of our minds.

Sayani Mukherjee draws on cultural memory by exploring the history of a sunken ship, viewable only through a submarine window.

Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr. provides a snapshot of a time and place, a convenience store scene in an island locale that endured colonization.

Corey Cook evokes winter, retirement and disuse, and the losses of war in his haiku-adjacent work. Mykyta Ryzhykh touches on the dislocation and disembodiment brought about by war and homophobic prejudice. Chris Butler warns of the destructive and wasteful trends within human society that may bring about an apocalypse.

Santiago Burdon also explores how we process grief, and the need to consider the impact of our memorials on other life around us.

Jelvin Gipson encourages us to love our close family now because death will arrive in the future.

Michael Lee Johnson speaks to the frailty, but also the promise, of the human experience and the creative process.

May we use the time we have on Earth to scratch, not simple dividing lines, but patterns of wisdom, intricacy, and beauty, into the sands which surround us.

icicles hang
from the clothesline
housebound

# # # 

only a scarf
where the snowman stood
incessant rain

# # # 

twilight
school janitor reties
the snowman's scarf

# # #

Ukraine under siege
shelves of toy soldiers
collecting dust

# # #

Corey D. Cook's sixth chapbook, Junk Drawer, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2022. His poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in *82 Review, Akitsu Quarterly, Black Poppy Review, Duck Head Journal, Freshwater Literary Journal, Muddy River Poetry Review, Naugatuck River Review, Nixes Mate Review, and South Florida Poetry Review. Corey lives in East Thetford, Vermont.

Name

What’s in a name? Well that’s simple

enough. Didn’t need Shakespeare for

this one. Think about a name, your

name for a moment. It’s a string of

letters lined up, linked, letters you

recognize on the page in front of you.

They make a sound you know very well

heard it called in school, out in the field

in church, in court. You responded most

of the time, laying claim to it. They say

hey, John, or Frank or Freddy, and you

snap to or groan a response depending

on who was saying your name. It’s yours

and you have woven your life into it, things

you did and still do, places you’ve been, even

the people around you who say your name

whisper it, or shout it or just say it when

they pass you on the street. It was born with

you, in you, you became it, it became you

and now it’s aging with you, got this old

along the way, got tired, and now just waits

for the last time to hear itself called. We’ll

always know what’s in our name – it’s easy.



                 Mid-Afternoon

I’m the older gentleman in the picture

don’t like the word “elderly,” so I am

the older gentleman walking his older

dog, mid-afternoon. It’s mid-afternoon

when older men and dogs have time

for such things. It’s mid-afternoon and

the kids are just getting out of school,

some excited and playful and some are

strangely subdued. The scene includes

the older man and dog and the children.

The afternoon casts shadows and a few

suggestions for the scene. I’m sure that

Hallmark has this on a card, a sentimental

almost scary rendering, an illustrator’s

best effort with the ingredients. The verse

on the inside would make use of contrasts

age and actions, perhaps something about

how, for some it’s the afternoon of a day

while it’s the afternoon of life for some others.


                  Got Game

There comes a point in the game with

both teams bungling, fumbling, acting

as if they forgot how to play, a point in

the game when you start thinking about

your childhood dreams and plans about

playing, thought it out, there you were

catching the pass over your shoulder then

running, zig-zagging, you could hear

the stands, the cheering, the commentators

analyzing your moves, but, of course, you

never tried out, grade school, junior high

high school. You watched from the stands

went to a college that didn’t even have

a team. Plans and dreams disappear like that.

You went on with your life, a watcher, a fan

until one Sunday, today you watched two

teams bungle, fumble, seem to forget how

to play, and there you are again, your

childhood self, that other self that got left

behind, catch a pass over your shoulder and

run, zig-zag, while they all cheered you on

this time.

No New News At New Year

Just a stone's throw away from our porch
We hear the din coming from the corner 
Convenience store—created by the usual clique 
Of third-world louts, termagants and nosey hags
In short, the ne'er-do-well has-beens of internal 
Backwater affairs, here in this fishing village
On this our tiny tropical island called Siquijor,
"Isla del Fuego" by the Spanish Conquistadors
Of epochs past—

They all used to be celebrated for the skills 
That had somehow kept the evolutionary lifeline
Alive of a hardy brown race—still thriving in the fringes
Of urban progress. Somehow we get the feeling
That the collective trip down the abyss of perdition
Might have been caused by the grim realization
That fortune and luck now too have digital passcodes
They can only whine in silence as they guzzle down
Even the dregs of the coconut toddy now souring
With the uneventful setting and rising of the sun

When the store owner tried to shush them 
As a signal for the daily oral newsbreak
In particular the one about a young girl's 
Mysterious pregnancy—they all threw a hissy fit
As they clapped back at the rather late delivery—

"Shame on you, Gorya! Go upgrade
your ears", shouted one of the nosey termagants 
Who was there for the free booze—to the delight 
Of the audience that was now getting rowdy
Especially the hags, termagants, tired wives 
Of the men slowly dying with quiet rage—

Here comes the murmurration of ricebirds 
Hovering above a chaos of thorny thickets
I know I want no more of this sedentary rebellion
But I remember telling myself the same last year

Balloonitarians

      (With Backstory)

Balloonitarian Groups believe when death comes to visit a loved one, the string attached to the balloon of life also containing the soul is released, then slowly there's an ascent delivering them higher into the forever sky, drifting wherever the gentle breeze carries souls,  all  sins are forgiven as they diffuse from the balloon along with the noble gas escaping into the boundless atmosphere, leisurely, lazily moving downward, finally coming to rest somewhere on the surface of the Mystic Ocean, bobbing back and forth to the gentle rhythm of waves, where soon a seal or possibly a sea tortoise, will swallow the polymer remains of the balloon whole, causing it to choke to death.

 

                ***

Backstory to this poem.


I was attending a Grief Support group dealing with my severe grief over my daughter McKenzie's death in a car accident caused by a careless driver. The Therapist group leader announced that next Saturday we will be attending a multi-group event to release balloons into the sky in memory of our loved ones that had passed.

I told the group leader I wouldn't be attending the event. She attempted to change my mind telling me it was time to face my grief and this event is designed to release that grief. I explained my reason by telling her this story;


Years ago when my daughter McKenzie was at the age of just nine. We were enjoying a carnival in Tucson with the entire family. McKenzie began crying for no apparent reason. When I asked why she was shedding all those tears.

She pointed to the sky where I noticed a red helium balloon sailing into the blue Arizona sky. 

In a sincere voice she said: 


"Look at the balloon flying away.

Now a Seal or Sea Tortoise is going to die."


I explained my reason to not attend the event by telling the Group Leader the story. I'm not sure she understood.  I never returned to the group.