brother charles


should a man wear a smock if not an artisan

walking alone with his spirits feeling

their affectionate regard his shoulders

draped with the black flag of freedom

wise to keep distance from the innkeepers

and townsfolk wishers of ill


should a man wear a large bow tie if he sings

every day in a thrilling voice would he look absurd

in the midst of greatness however briefly

of the bourgeoisie waxing eloquent in a space

of vermillion or possibly amaranth


daguerreotype image ambiguous showing

frustration or pique willing in spite of all

to live in his own times helpful to others

to me certainly in my fragmentation 

my dislocation any brief refuge any respite

from the runaway omnibus


i remember brother charles

and the other brother charles

the teacher opening wide his arms to the

singer the francophone buddhist

nostalgic for salad days at the sorbonne

his reading list dragging behind him


not to forget brother charles the trumpeter 

the messenger the bike enthusiast

who filled his bottle as a boy emptying 

a thousand as a bearded man who

now has gone hence in his winding sheet

hand in hand with psychopomp


where is the bygone man who would beat

another on the street for what had been written

and as the beaten one staggered on

disgusted women would gather their skirts

and spit with contempt fearful of the threat

to polite society and with good reason


yes the silence of my dreams is real

the thrilling voice hallucination

charles my brother gave me

tones of gray for consolation

and raised for me a temple

in the midst of desolation

wisest of brothers stretching forth

a hand in loving valediction

w v sutra was born in Africa and raised in Southeast Asia and the Middle East, borne hither and thither on the surging tides of cold war and soft power. He has been at various times a rock musician, a public health professional, and an educator. He began writing poetry during the Covid-19 lockdown. His work can be found in various online journals and at wvsutra.com . He lives and works on a horse farm on the shoulders of the Holston Mountains in East Tennessee. Twitter @w_v_sutra

Title: MARS

	Factually, nature’s precipitation of down-pour ie(Rains) either becomes beneficial to living things or other-wise when it torrential trend becomes negative effect to others in world of diverse natural disasters. Well, these past few months have left indelible marks on the minds of many individuals, precisely those in the south-western part of the nation, Ghana in West Africa. Indeed, I have been a witness of its happenings coupled with some unbearable circumstances and conditions. The worse experience of deluge on suburban community of Amanful West on 15th June, 2022 as it continues to live folks on tenterhooks due to annual occurrence of heavy rains in the Western Region of Ghana.

	

Reader, this particular piece entitled MARS! It definitely sounds to have connection with or like the Planetary System when it comes to the study of such heavenly bodies, thus being one of the nine planets, specifically the fourth called Mars which is after earth in relation to their order of position, viz the following alphabets in brackets as quiz for you. (M, V, E, M, J, S, U, N, P). Obviously, MARS in this context is the chosen acronym which in full describes or states My August Reflections Story. It realistic recollections as Synchronized Chaos International Magazine - SCIM Submission centered on high-lights of activities or programs which I directly and indirectly got involved in the city of Takoradi, Western Region of Ghana. Truly, still being here all these periods is primarily due to significant studio recording sessions in terms of music and other minor voice-over services. However, the following brings to bear sequential order of activities as far as MARS is concerned. 

	On Sunday, 7th August, 2022 - It’s the final funeral rites of Mr. Joseph Antwi Boateng, who’s popularly known as 1K among the folks and friends of Amanful West community where he served as honourable Assemblyman in times past. Graciously, it’s well organized and attended final funeral rites as first one held at Kumasi in the Ashanti Region of Ghana. This event saw many New Patriotic Party - NPP distinguished ladies and gentlemen as well as other individuals from various political and entrepreneurial backgrounds in attendance. It’s first ever funeral rites I’ve had to support as MC on microphone in this suburban community of up-bringing in Takoradi. i.e.(Amanful West). There’s period of music play, dance as well as cordial interactions, food and drinks sharing to attendees from all walks of lives. Generously, some donated to help the cost of organizing such events as a means of paying last respect to the demise of Mr. Joseph Antwi Boateng, A.K.A 1K. 

One key relative, who traveled all the way from the United Kingdom to support, is Mr. George Adu Boahen, who’s first Assembly-man of the Amanful suburban community. Indeed, in retrospect it’s time of celebration and merry-making among many of the attendees as he made it crystal clear folks should rejoice when he passes away. Later on, in the evening it’s time on Gospel Train with Mr. Gabi Ampiah as the Prime Host and I being Regular Guest as well Co-Host courtesy Radio Maxx 105.1 FM. The following Sunday, 14th August, 2022 around 9am its Body of Christ visitation at a local assembly called Amanful Methodist Church - AMC as a means of follow-up moment due to music video shoot application letter sent there in order to work on motion pictures of the Gabbatha To Golgotha #GTG Single Project. Indeed, it’s interactively first timer introduction as I was given microphone to express myself a bit. After the church service, I was invited to have discourse centered on the request letter to the pastoral leadership. Aside, there’s series of memorable pictures at the temple-auditorium.

On Monday morning, 15th August, 2022 there’s significant spirit-led moment of preaching aftermath song ministration on the street junction of Amanful West as I was invited by Evangelist Isaac Mantey, the undiluted straight on point scriptures preacher. It’s time of singing along the long awaited song dubbed Gabbatha To Golgotha #GTG Single which is still on-going through professional studio production by Mr. Sylvester Brandsford - the Director as well Sound Engineer in charge of Sly Studio located at Anaji, suburban community of Takoradi, Western Region of Ghana. Indeed, it’s thankful heart of worship songs unto the Lord respectively. Praise to God, Halleluiah! Well, suffix it to state (say), that’s often engaged in thus, Ministration Of Songs On The Street #MOSOTS

On Friday night 19th August, 2022 - It’s time of crusade attendance as open-air program made possible by the leadership of Breakthrough Family Ministries International #BFMI led by Bishop Samuel Osei Tutu as apostolic, prophetic and evangelistic head of spiritual affairs in relation to Scriptures. Well, before being present in the evening I attended another event at Akroma Plaza which had Honourable Kenneth Ohene Agyapong as the Prime Speaker, hence he shared his rich entrepreneurial ideas as well know-how with multitudes of attendees who filled both upper and lower space of the auditorium.  

The outline of program of commenced 9am to 1pm but many stayed longer on the aftermath. On the following day which happened to be 20th August, 2022. It’s another attendance of the 6th Western Music Awards #WMA for which I accompanied the legendary Shasha Marley, an Old Saint together with two others at the Best Plus Atlantic Hotel in Takoradi, Western Region of Ghana. The night had both low and highs of happenings but its entirely memorable one as the living legendary Shasha Marley was given Life-Time Achievement Citation Award in honour of his contribution to the music of western origin and global influences through his stage crafts. Remarkably, the creatively designed citation board was handed over to him by the Member of Parliarment for Takoradi as well Western Regional Minister in the personality of Honourable Kwabena Okyere Darko Mensah. 

Well, Thanks for making time to read this My August Reflection Story #MARS.

Ike Boat
#Advertiser #Blogger #Promoter #Vlogger #Songster #Poetrician #MC
Phone: +233552477676, +233267117700

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A Sad Affair For Celluloid

When they can't
see the obvious you
might want to tell them to
move to a new microscope
telescope or a crystal ball
without blemish or cracks.

A young bartender
friend who's cross stitched
her name to private
thoughts with enticing
gold thread talks to me
more than slightly upset.

I see her eyes red
as if she's escaped from
hell or found love
in a fire sale.
I find out the latter is true.

Her boyfriend and another
bartender are involved
in a film noir plot
with betrayal
the smoking gun
in their manicured hands
adding special effects.

Such as big tears
late night calls from hospitals
police stations and a wax
museum where alibis
melt under combined
duress and inspection.
And I hear Vincent Price
say-no one is winning here.

The boyfriend's cute as
a greeting card, living rent
free with her
steals cash too from her
purse while she sleeps
after coming home at
5 or 530 am.

He has no job
though he's been looking
for months-you gotta
admire tenacity.

Yet she doesn't
blame him, she blames the other
bartender saying
"She knew he was mine."
I would ask to see
papers of ownership but she’s
distraught as a dancer
whose music has been turned off.

I could tell her guys
like that don't belong
to anybody. They just take until
they move on to someone else
with more to take from.
I find it all too exhausting.

"How could she do
this to me," she asks.
Once again blaming
the wrong person.
"I thought she was
my friend." Tears
fall from eyes
azure but now dim
and dark as nightfall.

I tell her it all sounds like
a sad affair for celluloid
with actors chosen only
for scandals in their past.

My comment doesn't register
its footprints in water
as she excoriates her former
best girlfriend so fiercely
I can't hear anymore.

Dispassionate, I pay, head
outside to the stifling warmth
embracing me like a desperate
old lover who won't ask much.
Which drained is all I've got
wondering if in Hell
there's a fire sale
for my soul. or
others like it. 


Broken Camera Snapshots

I hang upside down
with my mouth
duck taped
it is our
first date.

Holding a gun
she dares me again
to steal her heart.

Tease of
the warmth of spring
between arguments.

Then love disappears
a butterfly venturing
to wider nets.

A final meeting
lacking even one
moment of grace.

A bouquet of roses
drowned in tears
floats in river.

 
False Fantasies 
 
I just want 
to ravage her madly 
he says. in ways 
far from Orthodox 
on a bed or in grass 
even sand, adding she 
is all he thinks of.
This young movie star 
I'm unaware of. 

I tell him to be real 
as if he could. 
To focus on the 
bartender, both 
cute, young and 
for months now 
giving him far more 
free drinks than me. 
Though I'm a lot more 
generous with tips. 
 
He details a dream 
that follows the 
screenplay of one 
of the starlet's films. 
Where she meets 
him in another 
country, they 
become lovers 
flying to Spain 
where he proves 
his love, killing a 
bull fighter who tries 
to assault her holding 
sword and cape. 
 
Or maybe I just 
made that last part 
up like a poem 
where any ending 
becomes a lie 
or close or… 
 
I go play pool 
returning to 
find him trying 
to convince the 
waitress she should 
go with him to Spain 
where he can kill 
a bull for her. Maybe 
a bull fighter. 
She looks at him 
like he's crazy.   
I do too as I sit 
down next to him 
and switch to whiskey.

Ash

When the tips
No longer sprout 
Leaves
And those clinging on
Curve upwards
Almost drawing
A blanket over
Itself
Means
It is dying
It is easier to bring
Down
A dying tree
Than a dead one
Like transferring her to the hospice
After we had transported her 
From her home
To my bedroom
And then
From the hospice
To the mortuary
To be burned
Amongst tears
And scattered memories 
Of a life
Voiced
By someone else
In my room
Clearing
Magazines
With half finished
Crosswords
And curling pages
I regret throwing out


Pyre

Purity
Rages
Its swollen scent

Sucks
Oxygen inwards
Along with terror

A procession
Of curtains
And burning eyes



Terrarium

A melting vortex
In the shape of understanding
A blind tear

Virulent
Energy blast
Claw scrapes
A cistern 

Spat in
Capped
Shaken

The fizz forms
After it stagnates
Repugnant
Ooze

Bubbles
Joy flicker
In the slime of
Transmutation

Dare you touch the glass?





Plush

A flying
Slug
Torpedoes
Glitter
Trails
Through a
Black
Eco-system
Will it hit?
Will it miss?
Will it be lost?
Will it even be first?



Flirt

Pheromones
Tangle in the air
Ejaculate
A liquid rain
In colour form
Invisible
Tangible
Yet free of fingers
Eyes
Trace
Lines
Minds 
Wish
To caress
Inside a black hole
A claw
Waits
For reckless
Forms
To eviscerate
Or smother
With
Pathogens

Welcome, readers, to August’s first issue of Synchronized Chaos! This month the submissions seem to hold hidden depths, tell stories not always apparent on the surface.

Channie Greenberg sent us a surrealist, painterly photo of a pond, inadvertently in keeping with the theme.

Jim Meirose’s work resembles the submerged elements of a story, as if a child were listening to a tale a bit beyond their understanding. In biology professor Livio Farallo’s piece, complex impulses of thought move as if across synapses, encouraging readers to think.

Alan Catlin sends up loosely connected images of dreams and insects, while Anthony Ward conveys nostalgia through sounds and smells and Chimezie Ihekuna exults in the Christmas season.

Sayani Mukherjee writes of late summer, weather and fauna while Shammah Jeddypaul evokes primeval memory of bones and prehistory.

Mesfakus Salahin ruminates on imperfectly remembering dreams, while J.J. Campbell and Ian Copestick mourn the dull ache of loneliness and the physical weakness that comes with aging.

Richard Le Due talks of losing yourself to age or memory, or forgetting you’re not lost. Chris Butler reflects on the limits of our knowledge and how ignorance manifests through book burning and environmental inaction.

Gaurav Ojha critiques searching for knowledge that is too theoretical and doesn’t apply in practice.

Kahlil Crawford contributes poems of observation: watching and being watched, finding the cultural “bones” of a city.

In his review of Lisa Loving’s Street Journalist, A. Iwasa explores the role of reporters and the question of whether we can or should ever be truly objective.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal writes of our emotional subjectivity, how our unease overtakes us, even in the midst of nature’s beauty. Mahbub grieves with a critically patriotic sorrow political assassinations of leaders of his home country of Bangladesh, while expressing the wonderment and refreshment he finds in nature’s creatures.

Susie Gharib writes of seeking refuge from the world’s dangers through flights of metaphor and myth. Ahmad Al-Khatat highlights the unwelcome persistence of traumatic memory for a refugee.

Mark Parsons’ pieces deal with disembodiment: being alienated from one’s own body and from one’s art, having to do random work to sell out/or in order to earn a living.

In the same spirit, Skaja Evens writes of the struggle of art-making: not only overcoming artists’ or writers’ block to make the art, but the challenge of staying true to one’s craft when one does earn some recognition.

J.P. Lowe’s protagonist realizes after his mother’s passing that she had personal artistic passions which she sacrificed for the sake of motherhood. His piece explores and honors buried identities and what we feel we have to give up for each other.

Jake Cosmos Aller presents various people who vanish or fade from consciousness one way or another, because they pass away or because others choose to erase them.

Mike Zone shares “discarded” movie concepts, ideas he had for movies that sound barely plausible but may never be filmed.

Jelvin Gipson relates the experience of hearing different voices within the spirit and choosing what to follow, having knowledge just out of reach. Timothy Jonathan talks about the ups and downs of life, figuring out who he is and accepting his own complex humanity.

Gabriel T. Saah and Samandarova Barno encourage people to choose creativity and love over simple greed for material objects and money, especially at the expense of others.

Taylor Dibbert expresses resolve at moving forward after a breakup, reclaiming oneself after a failed partnership.

Z. I. Mahmud explores in his literary essay how conscience nags at those who use their will to dominate others in illicit ways. Michael Robinson relates the transcendent experience he has through faith, where in church he can surrender and come close to God and step out of the limits of time.

Nazokat Urinboeva’s parable encourages compassion, diligence, respect, and mindfulness, while Rus Khomutoff speaks of the emergence of something new, the birth and flowering of a new world.

To Declare

I need a chariot with a pair of wings
which won’t be mistaken for nuclear fins,
a name, 
an address,
which will impress
the police and customs at Heathrow’s check-ins.

I declare an independent mind
but lacerated with grief, 
a worn-out body
seeking relief,
some hard-won savings
but not in sterling
which would take me as far as Grasmere  
or Stirling.
 
To Cross or To Cross

You stroll on lawns matted with flowers.
We tiptoe our way with half-closed eyes.
What acrobatic feats could elude timed fire,
waiting to burst from maiming mines!

To cross or to cross, 
no not to bar us
from the traps of death 
that lurk underground.
Some say a prayer. 
Some curse the hour
that decrees the fate of blighted men.

And Diana reprobating such techno-power
that instantaneously severs legs and limbs
could not defuse the flames and horrors
which would erupt from lunatics’ toys.
 
News Headlines

Another peace accord
has brought discord.
Clamors for war
reverberate through the globe.

Human rights issues 
as frail as tissue: 
oceans will seethe 
with refugees. 

Religious error 
is yoked to terror. 
Commercial wedlock 
inducing deadlock.

Straggling economies  
conceiving poverty. 
Desertification 
with certification. 

Ambassadors of mettle 
unable to settle 
where their presence can heal
political disease. 

[Dedicated to Dr. Janet Gardiner, former Ambassador to Syria]
 
Nereid

She roams the water in search of her beloved 
whom Polyphemus had banished, incensed by lust
that covets frailty in a blooming sea-flower,
whose lack of deference would make her sob. 

Timorous fish swim through her tresses,
inhaling the brine of entangled weeds, 
sorrowfully making many random conjectures
at possible causes for lachrymal trails. 

A translucent string of hyacinthine bubbles, 
profusely flowing from saddened eyes, 
foreboding havoc and vindictiveness, 
inscribing in water defiant love. 
 
An Onomatopoeic Stance

A patter.
Is it feet that chatter
over things that matter?

A splutter.
Is it drops that gutter
from eyes that sputter?

A clatter.
Is it hooves that shatter
the former and the latter?
 
Reticence

The rose that froze at the tip of your tongue
had chosen to repose frost-bitten and numb,
deflecting a flight into the unseen,
inducing an untimely winter scene.

Its pollen lay deep writhing in sobs,
longing for a birth, for dreamt-of buds.
Each curling petal had gone to sleep
suppressing the scent I yearned to keep.

It's Four A M.

It's Four a.m.,
and I'm unable
to sleep.

I've been like
this for a few
nights now.

I've got no idea
why.

Last night, I lay
here, for hours
watching the
sun coming through
my curtains becoming
lighter, and lighter.

Instead of becoming
more, and more tired.
I could feel myself
becoming more, and
more awake.

Maybe, this is just
another symptom
of growing old.
I don't know ?

But why can't my
usual sleep patterns
remain ?

God, I really don't
like getting old.

Although, I suppose
that nobody does.