The Flower Goddess

She sat there everyday
In her field of flowers.

If she was lucky, a human would pass by
chatting and laughing with a loved one
sometimes they’d even take her flowers!
to remember, and make themselves happy

When they were done, they would leave
and she would sit alone again,
alone in her field of flowers.

One day felt different, however,
there was a weird smell in the air
she didn’t mind though,
but her flowers did.

The next day smelled like that too,
and the next,
and the day after that.

She never saw any humans anymore,
and her flowers started to wilt away.

She did all she could for them,
until one day, she passed out.

When she awoke again, she was confused

Where were her flowers?
Why were there big gray clouds coming from weird machines?
Why were there bottles and wrappers everywhere?

What was happening?

Her flower field!
Her Beautiful flower field!

Why? she began to cry!

Her tears dripped to the floor
The Dry, Dead, Grass
the land was not ready for her tears!

Those machines wanted to destroy the planet.
Fine! So be it!

Her tears lit the grass aflame
It all burned to nothing
…even her

Silent flames engulfed her…

As The Flower Goddess ceased to exist.

By Lizbeth Garcia-Lopez, age 12

Scriptures

today,
i'm plaiting these words
with the hands of affection
& rooting it in the palms of love

frankly,
i miss you
from the day you accepted my citizenship in your heart
every part of me has always thirsted for you

like a baby
i'm still learning how to speak
for my lips holds the memory of our first kiss

every time 
your presence resides in the chest of mine
the glances of your smile fill my heart with joy
truth be told, i have painted your smile all over my heart 
to shimmer my many scars

i wish i could clay myself into a wind
sail over to you & wrap you in warmness
whenever you are far away from me
that i may always be nearer to you

if loving you becomes a sin
i will nail our bond to God's Word
clay you like a rib & place you back into me
for eternity is our bond

The Love for Humanity: The Hatred for War

The death of innocent souls in wars
makes matter worse
Why should the mighty push for such human disaster
over a trivial matter?
When a nation of great strength wages war
against 'a lesser' that once shared territorial grounds more,
It creates unhealthy concerns for the rest of the world
as the loss of lives and property would become seriously odd
Experimenting with bio weapons 
at the expense of innocent lives in those nations
Is stretching humanity beyond its threshold of peace
to the point of embracing the purpose of unease
What is the gain of disturbing peaceful coexistence
If not witnessing the pain of disturbance?
Let the powers that be give a second thought to their action;
for the future would assert the reaction
Humanity craves for rest of its rest
So, it would be unpalatable to disturb that crest
Truth be told,
Regardless of who seem to be at fault,
War should not be what is to be looked as fought
There is always a ground of reconciliation
an understanding of co-operation,
a place for dialogue,
a method of taking out lingering backlogs,
an eventual resolving of differences,
a viable approach to avoid in future sitting on defense,
The love of mankind is paramount
So, war must be in a state of surmount!

                NEW  AGE  

		I grew up with thunder.
		Summer storms came with sound effects:
		a crackling rumble far off,
		or a window-rattling blast overhead. 
		First the forked slash of lightning.
		Then: thud, thud, ka-BOOM!
		If you’re outdoors, run!
		Here comes hard-hitting rain!
		Rain beats on the roof, fills puddles,
		turns dirt to mud, floods streets.
		If you’re driving, windshield wipers can’t keep up.
		Look at that!  Whoa!
		It’s raining cats and dogs!
		It’s raining pitchforks and hammer-handles!
		It’s a gully-washer!   A frog-strangler!
		It’s a typical summer thunderstorm:
		Flash!  Crash!  Downpour!

		But that was the Midwest
		This is California.
		In California, storms come in winter.
		Except now, when we’re all on edge:  
		pandemic that sneakily shape-shifts, 
		job loss,  masked classrooms,  shortages in stores,
		high fire danger…
		Now, when temperatures are unseasonably high,
		when trees and structures are dry, dry, dry—
		here comes a storm.
		A freak storm:  lightning,  thunder--
		but only a spit-in-the-wind of rain…
		The lightning ignites fires--  300, 400, 500  fires,
		all burning at the same time.
		From space,  you can easily see California:
		it’s gashed with bright orange flame-trails.
		Day after day, the air is thick with smoke.
		Ash rains down as far as Kansas.
		Small favors: 
		COVID masks also protect from toxic air.
		
		But it can always get worse.
		So keep water and survival gear in the car.
		If winds change direction, and firestorms threaten:
		evacuate.
		
		High heat.  Dry lightning.
		Two big names join the long-running drama
		starring earthquakes, droughts, mudslides and
                floods.
		California raises the curtain on a new age.
		A new normal.
		Meet the ruthless new director:
		climate change.

		Copyright  August  2020  Patricia Doyne

                FACING  A  FRAUGHT  FUTURE

		Our planet wears many faces.
		For eons, it was covered in water,
		a face with expressions but no features.
		
		Then rock reared up,
		land grew and rearranged,
		continents shifted.
		Oceans shared salt with snowmelt.
		Paramecia and diatoms took a bow,
		but became food for newcomers
		with shells, tentacles, fins;  for monsters
		who breathed air and ate meat.
		Earth’s new face was diversity
		swallowed by mass extinction. 

		In time, a new family appeared,  
		fought its way to the top of the food chain
		with  large brains and tool-using hands.
		Earth now reflected this face; 
		worldwide communities reflected its goals.
		Inventions made daily life easier
		but more complicated, more expensive.
		Grasping hands appropriated resources 
		as if there were no tomorrow.
		Sun that quickened the miracle of plants
		now fries, burns, and dehydrates.
		Earth’s new face wears the sneer of a bully
		who is insecure at heart.

		What changes will reclaim our planet?
		Make-up?   War paint?  Radical surgery?
		Who decides?  Who speaks for a people
		who wear a thousand masks,
		shout out a thousand excuses?
		We look into this fractured mirror 
		and see the face of the future.
		It is the face of a stranger.

		Copyright 7/2021          By Patricia Doyne
		

BOMB  CYCLONE

Iguanas  in palm trees
freeze,
fall to the ground
belly-up
next to pink flip-flops
frosted with two inches of snow.

Water pipes crack.
Coastal towns flood.
Freeways conceal black ice.
Wind chill nosedives from “brr!” to deadly.

Flights cancelled.
Schools closed.
Cars stranded.
Power out.

The jet stream that fences in arctic air,
that keeps  polar gusts safely corralled—
this current has warmed.  
Winds, water, and air pressure churn…

The mystery mix
blasts the homeless, freezing in doorways, 
blasts stranded travelers, freezing at roadsides,
blasts iguanas freezing in trees.

Scientists question, measure, shake their heads…
Who can deny
that our climate has gone berserk?
Look!   It’s raining iguanas!


By Patricia Doyne,    Copyright 2018

Arti-Blog Title: WTS 4^th Graduation Ceremony

On 10^th March 2022, around 3 pm, we were on a journey to the West as part of in-land missions to my birthplace of Takoradi, where most of my creative skills and abilities started in my teenage years. Unusually, there are close to five stoppages by the commercial mini-buses, which take several hours on the road before reaching the West-Side destination. They didn’t care appropriately about us as passengers, and my traveling bag was not so durable. All other happenings brought about mixed emotions, but in all of that, Thanks To God #TTG, we arrived safely at the destination. By the way, let’s proceed to the subject-matter title as far as this Arti-Blog is concerned.

On Saturday, 19th March 2022, at 10 am, I arrived at the venue of the 4th Graduation Ceremony of the International Christian Worship Centre in West Fijai, Western Region of Ghana, West Africa. I served as an MC there and did Voice-Over work on the Ad-Jingle Wisdom Theological Seminary – WTS program, recorded in Kasoa, Central Region of Ghana. Here’s the program outline in the brochure of the Wisdom Theological Seminary – WTS 4^th Graduation Ceremony, which took place on the above date and venue.

1. Musical Interlude
2. Procession Hymn
3. Opening Prayer
4. Welcome Address
5. Purpose Of Gathering
6. Introduction Of Dignitaries
7. Chairperson’s Response
8. Scripture Reading By Three Graduates
9. SRC’s Speech
10. Offering
11. Song Ministration
12. Chancellor’s Speech
13. Guest Speaker’s Speech (Rev. John D. Boone – USA)
14.  Student’s Vows
15. Charge To The Students
16. Student’s Pledge
17. Presentation Of Certificates & Awards
18. Prayer For Students
19. Special Offering
20. Chairperson’s Response
21. Vote Of Thanks
22. Announcement

The Musical Interlude was made possible by the invited ministers and choir as well as the Procession Hymn, led by one of the music ministers present. The Opening Prayer was led by Pastor Hope Graham, the Welcome Address led by Pastor David Arku, and the Purpose Of Gathering was led by Pastor Maxwell Amo-Ntsiful. Afterwards,the Introduction Of Dignitaries was led by the Founder/Chancellor Rev. Dr. Evans Ankomah. The Chairperson was Honourable Isaac Adjei Mensah, a Christian political figure and a Member of Parliament for the Wassa East Constituency, Western Region of Ghana. Indeed, two of the outstanding moments of the event were when the Guest from the USA, Reverend John D. Boone, was given an Ordination Certificate courtesy Rev. Dr. Evans Ankomah. And, when the Chairperson Honourable Isaac Adjei Mensah requested special prayers as he knelt in front of the altar in absolute humility. The Chancellor Reverend Dr. Evans Ankomah delivered a speech and special guest Reverend John D. Boone (USA) also delivered a sermonlike speech for which dialect translation became somewhat like a hard-nut to crack by yours truly, Ike Boat. Interpretation and translation brought wisdom and understanding to the audience. To God be the glory, Hallelujah!

Student Vows was also led by Reverend Kingsley A. Prempeh, whilst Charge Of Student/Graduates was led by Apostle Dr. Isaac Odenyame. The Student Pledge was led by the Chancellor/Founder Reverend Dr. Evans Ankomah and the Presentation of Certificates & Awards was also done by the church elders and leaders on the podium.

Amongst other things, the new school anthem was also made known to the audience as a means to ensure fund-raising and generous support in order to record it in the studio and make it useful as the official WTS Anthem composed by Ike Boat. There was a total of Sixteen (16) Graduates, viz Four (4) being females and Twelve (12) being males in the 4^th Graduation Ceremony of Wisdom Theological Seminary – WTS in the Western Region of Ghana, WA.

Different Addition To The Program Outline

Play of the WTS Ad-Jingle to the audience as a means of publicity and popularity. 

Spoken-Word poetry infusion performance by Ike Boat

Aftermath shoot of Time With Ike Boat #TWIB – Guest On Set: Rev. Dr. Evans Ankomah

Please, if you sense the call of God to embark on missions in south-western Ghana, I hereby beseech and recommend you kindly send Email via: pastorevansonline@gmail.com , Direct Call or Whats-App: +233209445627, +233242613081 Also, you can get in touch concerning Ministry Partnership, Sponsorship or Missions Affiliation. Thank You.

Submission By Yours Truly Ike Boat – Synchronized Chaos International Magazine #SCIM – Regular Contributor & Regional Representative.  Email: ikeboatofficial@gmail.com , Phone: +233 267117700, +233 552477676 Thank You.

The World's Saddest Song Remains the Same



"how long, how long must we sing this song?"

-- U2





A roadside billboard in my town says, "Pray for Ukraine,"

and I want to.



In the UN they give speeches, but BAROOM!!! the bombs

continue to fall on city buildings, smoke and flame fill,

light up our screens,



And we've seen this horror movie before: correspondents

in body armor and helmets counting explosions -- cut to

rescuers digging rubble,



Pulling bloodied civilians out onto stretchers -- cut to people

in chaotic queues on train platforms, children everywhere,

some families bringing their dogs,



And I want to help them onto the train, give candy to the

child, tell the harried conductor he's a good dog, will cause

no trouble, but I can't be there -- but I can't close my heart



To what I see.  And I can't look away because I know war:

how thoughts travel one day to the next thinking of death,

how waking is just another day of death, laughter so rare



It is a shock, like a bomb, when you hear it, your chest

so constricted against gloom you can hardly join in, and

I don't want people to die, and I don't want people to live



this way, but I can't go and give any real help, any more

than the foreign ministers and politicians giving speeches,

so I will pray, pray for Ukraine.



I remember a ruined Russian tank, half-submerged on a bank

of the Kabul River, left there like an open-air museum piece,

left there when the Russians withdrew.



So I pray for Ukraine, and I pray for the day when every tank

in our world is just a left-behind museum piece.



Iraq Diary


I



Sky’s pink beginning of darkness in thick dashboard glass,

a tonal pop starting every radio sentence, our vehicle halts

in the dust that floats, always, over MSR Tampa like death,

waiting to settle, corner of the eye movement in sudden

wind.  Iraqi cars swerve away from us, same pole magnets

as roads merge, our vehicle’s gunner looking for a ghost,

pointing at each car, ready to fire belt-linked rounds

into the VBIED that waits for us here – it’s been days, but,

always, it’s only days before it’s reincarnate, pieces of metal

reassembled, same dusty car torn, we saw it, can’t forget it,

torn apart in the last sand-fire explosion.  For the gunner

to miss its quick dart, not pull the trigger, means our death,

again.



II



A boom felt so much as heard, puffs of smoke

blown instantly out of sandbagged windows,

the sick feeling in the gut, heaving, hearing like underwater

now knowing absolutely like ESP, like Newton’s laws that

someone has died.  Clouds of sand roll over

the line of t-barriers that has stopped

most of this blast’s shock.  Minutes later

men are running, “Are you okay, are you good?!”

On the other side of the barrier wall, at the gate

to MSR Tampa – later, the wreckage of bodies

will be gathered into black vinyl bags

by unlucky soldiers – DNA trusted to match the parts.



III



Laundry pickups “Three to Five Days” later, if there is time

to drop it off before the third country nationals lock the door,

board their bus for the other side of camp.  My friend lives

in a dirty uniform, coming straight off dusty roads, still in body

armor, kevlar helmet tucked into an arm, to wait the long line,

call home: “I am alive” the understood meaning of “it’s me.”

I start counting -- every third day the average, “No Phones,

No Computers” taped in the door glass of the MWR.

“Someone has died” the understood meaning.



IV



At night a crowd gathers at the MWR’s tv to watch curling,

Winter Olympics oddly popular, some soldiers standing

to imitate the frantic brushing while the stone moves easy,

like exhaled breath down a steadied gunsight, to a contact

where a contest winner is all the future that’s determined,

the arena so free of dust, desert flies, the quiet game graceful

in its efforts like the strain of a ballerina, so civilized,

like the ceremonial ringing of a peace bell, a heavenly echo

floating over a manicured garden.




A War Photographer Goes Home



When he found himself wanting only beauty it slowed him.

Staring out the open window of a dusty white Toyota sedan

at terraced olive fields on a sunny hillside, a sagging felt

headliner rippled by wind brushing his head, he just sat.



The three with AKs who jumped out first looked back at his

reverie, waiting, to take him to the rubble-strewn village.



Yesterday a child touched his arm, mother lying dead

on the shaded street, dust of her fall hovering in air,

the familiar percussion sounds of 55mm grenades close

as the sniper.  Down the block smoke scent rising in sunlight.



And he couldn't train his camera to take a shot of her,

instead kneeling to say "habibi" to the child in broken Arabic.



Maybe he was idealistic once, in Bosnia, fired by stories

of journalism school, finding that one "Napalm Girl" photo

that would become an international, explosive knowing.

Soon, it was just competition, the race to hotspots,



swapping information with cynical diplomats, seedy

hotel bars.  Staying.  He who estranges his family best wins.



But suddenly he sees the brown lands and gray mountains,

all the murder thy neighbor countries, only landscapes of bones.

For years the photos were people around him.  Now a crazy

moan is starting in him, deflagration of the countries stilled



in his moments become an awful remembering.  Always

he refused to look away, now a whiplash of seeing too much.



Later, he stuffs this pain in a hasty duffel. As the plane rises

from Beirut International, the Middle East's shadow fades

and he looks down on his dull suburb of cut lawns, deciding

to take the job at the college, repair a long-distance marriage,



play war-junkie PowerPoints to darkened lecture rooms, take an old correspondent's advice: "Don't let the dead into your soul."



Absolute Time, Uyuni, Bolivia



Where time's a wave of dry wind across a salt pan

desert, particles of sand clothing giant, driving-wheeled

cylinders -- empty fireboxes awaiting shovels in

yesterday's hands, broken glass Bourdon gauges stuck

in a synchroscope loop of boiler pressure zeros –

like Zen masters, locomotives powering Bolivia's economy

to a new industrial age stopped, rested on their tracks --

as if hearing energy can never move faster than light,



squat in an acolythate entropy of rust under the daily,

victorious sun, aware: their silent tracks still move

with the eternal earth, spinning forever

into the future, a thousand miles

per hour.

A US Army combat veteran, Steven Croft lives happily on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia on a property lush with vegetation and home to various species of birds and animals. His poems have appeared in Liquid Imagination, The Five-Two, Ariel Chart, Eunoia Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Synchronized Chaos, and other places, and have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

Bikinis in the Arctic!

For 20 million years,
The EOCENE era
Of Earth’s history
	Was warm—
So warm, in fact,
That if mankind—
And womankind—
Had been around,
	The French Riviera,
The beaches of Florida,
	  Waikiki—
All would have had
Massive competition
From Arctic resorts—
    No ice, and
Temps, beach balmy!

But Earth’s climate
Is a rollerciaster—
33 million years ago,
  Cooling happened,
	Ice happened,
And we’ve flip-flopped
	Ever since.

Glacial,
		Interglacial;
  Cold,
		  Hot—
Some scientists say
Every 41,000 years!

In fact,
Our current temps
 Are said to be
	GLACIAL.

Thus Global Warming
  May just be us
    Heading for 
   INTERGLACIAL. 

So buy that
	Electric Tesla,
Fight for 
 Zero Carbon Emissions
   In every aspect
     Of our lives,
  And move your house      	To higher ground.

We can slow
	The change down,
But in the long run,
	Buy that bikini,
	And invest in 
  Arctic property—
	BEACHFRONT!

By Bruce Roberts,
Poet Laureate, Hayward, California