a rainbow halo
around the bright moon tonight—
somewhere, a dog barks



neighbors’ Christmas lights . . .
Orion reclines as he
rises in the east



cold, dark December—
is that a jet way up high
or the space station?



power lines ripped down
by high winds before the storm—
first day of winter



eleven below—
the two chickens have to sleep
in the humans’ house



silence at midnight . . .
six inches of heavy snow
weighs down the tree’s boughs



-------------



bio/graf

J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poems have appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of ten chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s first full-length collection is in ghostly onehead, published by Post-Asemic Press in December 2022. Visit MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.

I Do Wrong


I do wrong while going to draw a rose every time
Every time my absent mind flickers and falters
Back to the darkness
Swim on the bed
No sight of night queens
No scent of tuberoses
Touch my head or mind
Only in the vacuum I watch and fight
I do wrong every time, no chance of drawing my love bird
The light of the day sometimes covered with
The brown ashes of gunpowder
No greenery getting the pass
I'm standing here for long in chain
Can anybody come forward to free my chained condition?
Oh! The beauty I like most.  


Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
30/12//2022



Riot

That started years and long years or decades ago
The insect never permits to bloom the flower
You can see no bud having any fruit
We live in such a place where we cultivate the land
But without any harvest back to home in silence
Not that the land is barren, watered or desert
Something unexpected always harms the crops 
We frustrate and blame our fate
How should I go on such hungry life?
Life spoils the lives staggering on.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
30/12//2022

Arti-Blog Title: *Medway International School* #MIS  – *5th Anniversary* & *1st Major Graduation*.

Program / Event Date: 10th December,2022. 

Time / Durarion: 10AM To 3PM 

*Program Outline Or Order Of Program As Follow*:   

MC: *Ike Boat* 

Opening Prayer: Reverend *Prince Ampaapeng* Of *Fire Of Favour Chapel International* #FCI 

Purpose Of Gathering #POG : Proprietoress Madam *Araba Baidoo* #HeadMistress 

*School Boys And Girls Performances As Follows*:

* English & French Recitals By The Pre-School.

* Song Ministration By The School Choir.

* 12 Days Of Christmas

* Dance Craft By The Nursery 2 Pupils

* 16 Regions Of Ghana

* Ballet Gig By The Graduants

* Melodrama Dubbed *Birth Of Christ* 

* Drama By The Basic 2 Pupils

* Cultural Dance, Ethnic Related Coupled With Local Dresses Put On The Pupils.

* Choreography By The Pupils.

* Modelling By The Pupils.

* Presentation Of Certificates – By The Head-Mistress / Proprietoress – Madam *Araba Baidoo*. 

* Vote Of Thanks – By *Blessing Adwobah Nda – Ackah* #SchoolGirl 

* Closing Prayer : Apostle *Lincoln Asare* – Founder/Head-Pastor *Fire Of Favour  Chapel International* #FCI 

* Conclusion: Refreshment As A Means Of Merriment Or Merrimaking,Thus Food And Drinks Served By The Teachers Of *Medway International School* #MIS. 

Sound System Equipment, Provided Courtesy Apostle *Lincoln Asare* Who Doubled As DJ Or Music Controller Whilst Yours Truly *Ike Boat* Did Most Of The Speaking As *MC* Job Entails. 

Kindly,Note And Publish The Descriptive Poem Titled *Medway International School – MIS* On Top Of It. Also,Use The School Crest Or Emblem On As Part Of Pictures. Thank You. Yours In *Synchronized Chaos International Magazine* #SCIM – *Ike Boat* 

 Kindly,Fix The Following TikTok Web-Link Into It Respectively.  

*Ike Boat* On A Promo-Vlog Of *Medway International School* #MIS – Motto: *Nurturing For Excellence* . Location: *Blue Top Estate* Of Kasoa,Central Region Of Ghana,West Africa. To Enroll Your Wards/Kids,Kindly Contact: *+233267580333* Or *+233244617556*. #DayCare #Creche #Kindergarten #Primary #Admission #Good #Teachers #Better #Compound #Best #School – You’re Welcome To *Medway International School* – MIS #NurturingForExcellence

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMFbpSFg1/  #Click #Follow #Comment #Share #Repost #Thanks 

Wheelchair

"Afia! My dear, why are you sitting in the dark room? Ayesha said while turning on the light in the room. "I love being in the dark, Mama!" Because this darkness hides my disability in itself.” Aafia said while turning her wheelchair towards Mama. 

Mama, why am I like this? Why can't I run like other kids? I also want to play hide and seek like Raima, Ayeza, and Ahmar, ride a bicycle, play badminton like them. Aafia started crying about her disability while mentioning her brother and sisters. Ayesha quickly moved forward and hugged Aafia. Ayesha herself was saddened.

Twelve-year-old Aafia was the eldest daughter of Shahbaz and Ayesha. Aafia's parents were very happy when she was born. Allah Ta'ala blessed them with the happiness of children after five years of marriage. On Aafia's birth, sweets were distributed throughout the neighborhood. Aafia was the star of everyone's eyes in Dadhyal and Nanhyal. She used to walk around the house. When Aafia was two years old, she fell victim to the polio virus, due to which Aafia was destined to be disabled for life. Undoubtedly, it was a great test for Shahbaz and Ayesha. With the passage of time, Shahbaz and Ayesha had accepted the bitter reality that their beloved daughter Aafia could not walk again for the rest of her life, but Aafia was still unable to accept this fact. Aafia's uncle, who was a school teacher, started taking Aafia to school with her. In the beginning, Aafia was very excited to go to school, but gradually she started shying away from going to school. Now she used to try to skip school on some pretext.

"My dear daughter! If you don't go to school, how will you get an education? Ayesha said hugging Aafia. 

"Mama!" 

All the kids in school look at me strangely. Sometimes they make fun of me. Sometimes they copy me. No one wants to be friends with me because I can't run like them," Aafia said while crying. 

"Hey! My daughter is very brave. Brave people face their circumstances bravely, they don't cry. The day you stop considering yourself disabled, people will also stop considering you disabled, and then every human being is tested by Allah Ta'ala. Allah Ta'ala wants to see whether His servant fulfills the test given by Him or not. Ignore the visible flaws and look for the hidden qualities within you. Then one day everyone's tongue will not mention your disability but your virtues," Aisha explained to her daughter.

Aafia also understood this very well. She had accepted the fact that this "wheelchair" was now a part of Aafia's life. Now Aafia not only started going to school regularly but also started participating in various academic and literary programs. He no longer cared about people's attitudes. Aafia had learned to be happy and contented. Day and night she started thanking Allah Almighty that Allah Almighty had blessed her with the ability to think and understand. He had given wisdom and consciousness. Aafia's painting won the first position in the International Painting competitions, and Aafia got a lot of recognition in the domestic and foreign media. Now everyone wanted to meet Aafia. Wanted to talk to him. Undoubtedly, the words of Aafia's mother had been proven true that one day there will be a day when people's tongues will mention Aafia's performance.

Welcome to mid-December’s issue!

We encourage you to come on out to Metamorphosis, our New Year’s Eve gathering and benefit show for the Revolutionary Association of Women of Afghanistan and Sacramento’s Take Back the Night. This will take place in downtown Davis, CA, at 2pm in the fellowship hall of Davis Lutheran Church (all are welcome, we’re simply using their room as a community space). 4pm Pacific time is midnight Greenwich Mean Time so we can count down to midnight. Please sign up here to attend.

The theme “Metamorphosis” refers to having people there from different generations to speak and read and learn from each other, challenging us to honor the wisdom of our parents and ancestors while incorporating the best of the world’s new ideas in a thoughtful “metamorphosis.” We’ve got comedian Nicole Eichenberg, musicians Avery Burke and Joseph Menke, and others on board as well as speakers from different generations.

Second, our friend and collaborator Rui Carvalho has announced 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!

This month explores various forms of life and death, and how and when we pass through the veil or cross the famed Styx of Greek mythology. Our theme is quite appropriate for the solstice a week after this issue’s release, a time of natural passage from one season to another.

Natasha Leung explores the impermanence of seasons and sensations through a meditation on a burn from a candle. Chimezie Ihekuna’s poem celebrates the festivities of Christmas along with the opportunity for renewal presented by the new year.

Sophia Fastaia shows the sun and moon finding each other’s light in a joyful, childlike encounter.

Mary Croy voyages through the vastness of nebulae in space and also fields and meadows here on Earth. Channie Greenberg presents images of trees, a mashup of vista shots of the whole tree and closeups of a few branches or trunks.

Robert Stephens highlights the power of memory to contain a lush panoply of disparate scenes and to bring life to the dead. Norman J. Olson reflects on appreciating centuries of human history by traveling with his wife.

Lachlan McDougall sends us atmospheric moments of subtle natural or supernatural tension. Fernando Sorrentino crafts a compelling caricature of a man immobilized and slowly decimated by fear.

Ashley Mann’s pieces lament the artificiality of the culture that she sees as replacing whole natural foods and authentic human connection. J.J. Campbell reflects on the ways we anesthetize ourselves in an uncertain world: substances, eroticism, fantasy, perhaps even cynicism itself.

Marley Manalo-Landicho mentally dissects himself, wondering who he really is under the constructions of his ego and his physical body. John Culp’s poem describes the dissolution of ego to make way for loving connection with another person.

Vernon Frazer’s poetry pans out to the edge of human consciousness with a dizzying array of linked words. J.D. Nelson arranges words and syllables to evoke and distill meaning and thought in pieces specifically designed for our publication. Sayani Mukherjee draws on mythology, fantasy literature and nature to conjure a wild dream. Alan Catlin’s characters and settings teeter in and out of sanity, drawing on Ouija boards, psychedelics, fevers and outer space.

Jim Meirose’s surrealist piece draws on a children’s trope, with an anthropomorphized rat and mouse loose in the library, but then goes in a more adult and ludicrous direction. Daniel De Culla contributes his signature earthy humor to the issue, with a story of a gentleman’s bodily functions.

Beth Gulley renders ordinary life in short haiku-like poems, exploring weather, public swimming, and home repairs through wit and careful observation. Damon Hubbs sends up scenes of imaginative speculation and drama within domesticity, characters who stand out in pink earmuffs or flowing robes amid their daily environs.

Peter F. Crowley harnesses only slightly exaggerated humor to describe the end of dysfunctional relationships.

Z.I. Mahmud laments the tragedies of both Creon and Antigone in Sophocles’ famous play, highlighting the quixotic quests of each character for law and order or romantic or familial love.

Exploring family tragedy in a different way, Jaylan Salah probes the power of the calm, understated themes of loss and mortality in Satish and Santosh Babusenan’s new film The Husband, The Wife and Their Dead Sons.

Mykyta Ryzhykh’s poem illustrates how war steals a society’s innocence as well as its people’s lives. Ahmad Al-Khatat’s dark piece also mourns wartime losses, so extensive the sun itself could lose its fire.

Alison Owings’ piece highlights the small and large hopes and dreams people have for a better world. Jeff Rasley looks to the work and lives of gifted but tortured writers and artists to explore how ordinary people might resonate and ultimately find their way to wholeness. Charley De Inspirator shares his journey towards spiritual healing and salvation through religious faith.

We hope that this issue represents a way forward for you, through curiosity, wonder, healing, dreams, connection, or transformation.

On their after work Thursday TGIT happy hour (Friday was too crowded to bother), Ginny and Tina sat at their regular places in the Fiasco and conjured their regular theme: perfect lives. The Fiasco reigned as their perfect bar, and for several reasons. The barstools had backs. The peanuts were free. The bartender, Maribel, was strong. 

She began working the Fiasco’s happy hour shift almost the same week Ginny and Tina showed up on their search for a perfect bar, two years earlier. Now, without being asked, she brought their usual first drinks, Bloody Mary for Ginny, club soda for Tina. 

“Priming the pump,” said Tina every time. 

By their second sip, the two friends started on what Tina called their “topic de jour,” a specific category that would contribute to perfect lives. This week was Ginny’s choice. “High end motels,” she announced. Or better than ones she had experienced, she added. “Where the fitted sheet, you know, the bottom one….”

“I know the fitted sheet goes on the bottom,” interrupted Tina, getting ready for her stronger order.

“… where management ordered the right size, not too small, so a top corner doesn’t creep off the mattress in the middle of the night and whack you in the mouth.”

Tina nodded. “I hate when that happens.”

Ginny smiled wanly. Tina and her clichés.

“Once,” said Tina, “I encountered someone’s sock.”

“Ewww,” they said in unison, drawing the attention of Maribel, who walked over and put out a second bowl of salted peanuts. “The theme tonight is perfect what?”

“Motels,” said Ginny. 

Maribel, nodding, leaned on the bar briefly, stretching her Achilles tendons, first her left, then right “What’s with fluorescent lights by the bed?” she asked. “I’m all for lowering my carbon footprint, but can anything make you look uglier?”

The two women shook their heads. 

“My least favorite kind of motel,” said Tina, “has the outside hallway by your door and the window, the only window, next to it. So if you open the crappy curtains an inch, anyone can see in.”

Ginny announced, “Perfect motels have windows, plural, overlooking a real view. That is,” she added with some passion, “a window that opens.”

“Bliss,” said Tina. “Bel, when you get a chance? Bloody M now for moi?”

  Tina was using bliss often these days, thought Ginny, rattling her ice cubes in irritation and watching the drink disintegrate into an unattractive color. A perfect world would have Bloody Marys made with frozen tomato juice cubes. 

As Maribel prepared Tina’s drink, Ginny whispered, “We could ask Bel about her new tattoo, back of her neck, looks like. But that would be off topic.”

“Agreed,” whispered Tina. “And would a perfect world have tattoos?” 

Maribel returned. Placing Tina’s Bloody Mary down, she said, “How about, if the motel advertises `continental breakfast,’ it’s not the phony kind.” 

This prompted Tina to part with another cliché that annoyed Ginny. “Tell me about it.”

“Fake orange juice, bleh,” said Maribel, “Brown liquid labeled coffee.”

Ginny, wishing to escape the imperfect for her weekly dose of perfection, spoke up. “The perfect motel, let’s even say hotel, has fresh squeezed o.j., real coffee, and a great carb whatever. Not one of those pop tart things.” 

“Under duress,” asserted Tina, boldly, “They do the trick.” She returned to her drink. “Actually, this motel one is even more challenging than last week’s.”

Ginny winced, remembering. A perfect world meant that the things you pick at get better. “I liked the one a month ago,” she said. “Non-medical behavior by doctors in a perfect world.” 

Tina swirled her drink briskly, quoting the clincher. “Doctors who do not pat us on the head.”

“If only,” said Ginny. “Like employers who don’t make you feel all affirmative actiony.”

“Amen.”

“Affirmative actiony. Cool phrase,” said Maribel smiling, as she moved off to open someone a beer.

By the time Tina finished her second happy hour Bloody Mary, a virgin for Ginny on round two, and Tina paid and tipped their agreed upon 50 percent, for it was her turn, the two friends had conjured a perfect world’s motel. Its wide entrance door opened automatically, real plants, even if they were ficus, lived in the lobby a perfect continental breakfast was available as room service, the room’s carpets were not too dense and very clean, the bathroom, like the room, had a wide door and lots of space. Good soaps were provided and the motel’s notepads had more than two pages left on them. 

The fractionated piece of a perfect world complete, Ginny and Tina clinked their empty glasses in accord, and said, “Done!”

At the familiar signal, Maribel excused herself from other customers, came around the bar, and unfolded both women’s wheelchairs. With practiced motions, she helped Ginny and Tina descend from their stools and land upright, as earlier she had helped them ascend.

“Thanks, doll,” they chorused.

“Decided next week’s topic?” she asked, leaning down to adjust their footrests. 

“You give us one, Bel,” said Ginny. 

“How about,” said Maribel dreamily, standing back up, “in a perfect world men have a sense of humor about themselves?”

“Be still my heart,” shrieked Tina, as she rolled toward the door, which opened automatically, another positive feature of the Fiasco.

Ginny shook her head, hearing echoes of Be still my heart, I hate when that happens, Bliss, Tell me about it. Tina also had taken to saying, “It is what it is.” In a perfect world, thought Ginny, people would invent their own expressions.    ###