Let's Cure our Wounds
Ahmad Al-Khatat
 
Tears of pain don't hurt us anymore.
We collected heavy emotions and grief.
We learned how to talk about our feelings,
but not how to cure our wounds.
 
We constantly question the things we do.
And living has become a harder question than death.
True happiness wears mournful clothing.
True misery wears clouds and rain.
 
We sit and wait until we learn that destiny
had given us a melancholic mindset.
Our tongues are the harrowing tales of refugees,
hope lays down between the sadness of the grave
and in the letters of forgotten soldiers who never return.
 
Empty Like the Rain
 
Nothing but nicotine smoke
is running through my lungs,
my thoughts are turning into
clouds, with death in between.
 
My heart has become full
of sorrow and despair
I proceeded to inhale my last
breath, to explore six feet under.
 
I was raised with painful supports
You’re not good enough to work with us
You’re not smart enough to earn a degree
You’re not responsible enough to marry her
 
No one knows how I really feel
I feel the tears on my cheeks
I feel the blood above my cuts
As yet, I feel empty like the rain.
 
 
Believing in Yourself
 
Wake up and let the sunshine
over your misery darkness.
Wake up and let the rain heal
and wash away your deepest wounds.
 
Look at your healthy soul.
Listen to your heartbeat.
And give yourself a chance to
see what life has to offer.
 
Smile and don't let haters
tell you cannot dream.
No matter what anyone says,
remember to believe in yourself.
 
Do you know that your eyes shine as
the sun shines? every time you achieve
something, your will ambitions will increase
and uplift you. 
 
 
My Bio
Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad, Iraq. His work has appeared in print and online journals globally and has poems translated into several languages. He has been nominated for Best of the Net 2018. He is the author of The Bleeding Heart Poet, Love On The War’s Frontline, Gas Chamber, Wounds from Iraq, Roofs of Dreams, The Grey Revolution, and Noemi & Lips of Sweetness. He lives in Montreal, Canada.
 

Silent Moonlight (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson

Record, she’s a creeping spider.

Hurt love dangles net

from a silent moonlight hanger,

tortures this damaged heart

daggers twist in hints of the rising sun.

Silence snores. Sometimes she’s a bitch.

Sunlight scatters these shadows

across my bare feet in

this spotty rain.

Sometimes we rewind,

sometimes no recourse,

numbness, no feeling at all.

Flower Girl (V2)  If you get a chance, please listen to Mp3 audio, poem song, Flower Girl (V2)-special.

(Tears in Your Eyes)

By Michael Lee Johnson

Poems are hard to create

they live, then die, walk alone in tears,

resurrect in family mausoleums.

They walk with you alone in ghostly patterns,

memories they deliver feeling unexpectedly

through the open windows of strangers.

Silk roses lie in a potted bowl

memories seven days before Mother’s Day.

Soak those tears, patience is the poetry of love.

Plant your memories, your seeds, your passion,

once a year, maybe twice.

Jesus knows we all need more

then a vase filled with silk flowers,

poems on paper from a poet sacred,

the mystery, the love of a caretaker−

multicolored silk flowers in a basket

handed out by the flower girl.

July 4th, 2020, Itasca, Illinois (V4)

(AtHamilton Lakes)

By Michael Lee Johnson

Stone carved dreams for men

past and gone, freedom fighters

blow past wind and storms.

Patriotism scared, etched in the face of cave walls.

There are no cemeteries here for the old, 

vacancies for the new.

Americans incubate chunks

of patriotism over the few centuries,

a calling into the wild, a yellow fork stabs me.

Today happiness is a holiday.

Rest in peace warriors, freedom fighters, 

those who simply made a mistake.

I gaze out my window to Hamilton Lakes

half-drunk with sparkling wine,

seeing lightning strikes ends,

sparklers, buckets full of fire.

Light up the dark sky, firecrackers.

Filmmakers, old rock players, fume-filled skies,

butts of dragonflies.

Patriotism shakes, rocks, jerks

across my eye’s freedom locked

in chains, stone-carved dreams.

*This year, 2020, due to COVID-19 I watch fireworks off my condo balcony alone,

share darkness alone, share bangers in the open sky.

Fall Thunder (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson

There is power in the thunder tonight, kettledrums.

There is thunder in this power,

the powder blends white lightening 

flour sifters in masks toss it around.

Rain plunges October night; dancers

crisscross night sky in white gowns.

Tumble, turning, swirl the night away, around,

leaves tape-record over, over, then, pound,

pound repeat falling to the ground.

Halloween falls to the children’s

knees and imaginations.

Kettledrums.

Michael Lee Johnson lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada.  Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, DuPage County, Illinois.  Mr. Johnson published in more than 1072 new publications, his poems have appeared in 39 countries, he edits, publishes 10 poetry sites.  Michael Lee Johnson, has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 2 Best of the Net 2018.  210 poetry videos are now on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos.  Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762; editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available here   https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089.  Editor-in-chief Warriors with Wings:  The Best in Contemporary Poetry, http://www.amazon.com/dp/1722130717.

https://www.lulu.com/shop/search.ep?keyWords=Michael+Lee+Johnson&type=  Member Illinois State Poetry Society:  http://www.illinoispoets.org/

loaves & fishes 

lower-case because 

not the biblical miracle 

but the Anglican lunch bar 

behind the cathedral  

in Wellington in the 80s 

where you selected your comestibles 

and the good ladies of the parish 

rang up the till 

and dispensed coffee or tea 

sometimes nearly all the staff 

of the Correspondence School 

were there queueing up 

with writers and artists 

and even occasional RC clergy 

from the parallel concern down the road 

I remember the cheaper 

raw carrot and crackers- 

and-cheese option 

never so much 

exponentially multiplied 

as available in abundance 

Drops 

attention to detail 

is a measure  

of becoming older 

now 20 Pansy needs 

anti-thyroid ointment 

in an ear each morning 

also a steroid eye drop 

to reduce inflammation 

to say nothing  

of her special diet 

hot water bottle and  

earth box for the night 

all of these aids 

to enduring feline 

geriatric life appear 

naturally delegated 

to my responsibility 

as a fellow pilgrim 

through this late 

not entirely disagreeable 

phase of being 

who once held her 

in the palm of a hand 

when she was new 

Perimeter 

every day with reasonable weather 

our neighbour Val 

pushes Gemma her Pomeranian 

around the block in a pushchair 

Gemma is about eleven now 

on medication for cancer 

and needs to wear dark goggles outside 

to protect her eyesight 

when we pass their house on foot 

she is often vigorous and vocal 

but there are also days 

we don’t catch sight of her  

the pushchair is of an older style 

and has obviously transported decades 

even generations of human 

members of the family 

Val’s granddaughter who is a friend of ours 

believes the old lady wouldn’t long 

survive anything happening to Gemma 

her only companion 

for now they define their perimeter 

Val by sight and memory and Gemma 

by sound and smell and the feel of wheels 

on the not always even footpath 

Tony Beyer writes inTaranaki, New Zealand. Recent work has appeared online in Hamilton Stone Review, Mudlark, Offcourse and Otoliths. Print titles include Anchor Stone (2017) and Friday Prayers (2019), both from Cold Hub Press. 

Michelangelo and Me

By:  Norman J. Olson

I am almost finished with a new biography of Michelangelo by distinguished art historian William E. Wallace…  this book is, as the cover blurb suggests, “a good read”…  a book that discusses this fascinating and complex artist by carefully considering his own words, the views of his contemporaries and the historical context of his life and times…  Michelangelo was a prolific letter writer as well as a poet…  especially in his later years…  and this book looks carefully at his letters to give the reader a look behind the veil, so to speak of the artist’s public persona to give us a glimpse of the private man… 

Michelangelo saw himself as an aristocrat, tracing his ancestry back to the Medieval Counts of Canossa… modern scholars are skeptical about this link but, of course, the modern student of art could care less if Michelangelo was of aristocratic lineage… but for the artist himself, his being of noble lineage was a massive part of his self image and to some extent, the reason he was able to so completely transcend the simple business arrangement, to for example decorate the ceiling of a chapel… Michelangelo’s view of himself as an aristocrat put him on a different footing than other renaissance artists in that he did not see himself as a hired hand doing a piece of work for a fee…  even though that is what he ultimately was…  in this sense, he was much more like a modern artist doing art for personal reasons and only being paid as a sort of courtesy… whereas the typical renaissance artist produced pictures to order for a client…  Michelangelo agonized over art not to please a patron, but to please himself… his aristocratic self…

Michelangelo was by most accounts, a surly and difficult person to deal with…  he was easily offended and thin skinned…  he did not worry much about his personal hygiene, famously wearing his boots to sleep in for weeks at a time so that when he finally took them off, a layer of dried skin came off with them… he loved his work and spent long hours carving marble, painting and drawing…  he was also a talented architect who was able to organized a building project…  when he took over as architect of St. Peter’s, he was an old man, but still, he took over a building project rife with corrupt suppliers, do nothing workers, mismanagement and poor design…  he redid the design, had the work crews disassemble much unnecessary building that had been added on to the original design and then redid the design…  the design he inherited was poorly engineered, so he had to reengineer the building so that it would not collapse and then he redesigned the dome…  he hired managers, stone carvers, mule drivers, wagoneers, blacksmiths, rope workers, etc…  and saw to it that the work was carried out to his design efficiently and using the best materials obtainable…  so not only was Michelangelo able to draw, paint and sculpt as no other had ever done, he was a genius for organizing and building… 

Michelangelo’s family was large and almost totally dependent on him…  he supported his siblings and his aging father and worked hard to see that his family was able to keep up the appearance of their aristocratic lineage…  with nice houses etc…  he set his brothers up in businesses and farms and his letters are full of his instructions to them about buying property and investing the money he sent them…   from the letters, they seem like kind of an annoying bunch…  but even as an old man, he was constantly writing back and forth with them…

the book makes much of Michelangelo’s friends…  in fact, he had a number of close friends who did not see the surly and difficult artist but rather the guy who was a witty dinner guest…  as he grew older, he wrote poetry which he often sent to his poet friends for proofing and correcting…  and his poetry is surprisingly modern in that it is about himself and his struggles with art, and very confessional, as so much modern poetry is…  he was sincerely religious, especially as he grew older…  according to Wallace, Michelangelo was a pretty good poet and would have been more known except that the plan to publish a book of his verse fell apart when the friend who was helping with the project died… 

anyway, a few years ago, I was in Rome…  I visited the Sistine Chapel which I had not seen in about 40 years…  it is an amazing experience to walk through the door into that space and see those amazing paintings on the ceiling 130 feet overhead…  the figures so amazingly painted on that ceiling are so much more than the bible stories they illustrate…  in fact, I find it more interesting to look at the paintings as figures and fabrics…  I love the way the bodies are portrayed, the gigantic muscular men in all their writhing poses and the swirling of multicolored robes emerging from shadow…  for me, seeing that art work is a life galvanizing event…  I have studied and looked at pictures of this art all my life, but seeing the originals in all their size and glory is truly amazing… 

I also have made the trek to San Pietro in Vincoli church, up the hill from the coliseum in Rome to see Michelangelo’s masterpiece carving in marble titled Moses…  words fail me in describing this statue, but to me, it is a magnificent piece of art…  and a story about it is that the Jewish community in Rome used to make pilgrimage to the Christian church to see this statue because it portrayed Moses…  a major figure in the Hebrew religion…

I recently read a post from an artist of my acquaintance with a saying by somebody that a “provincial” artist is one who passively waits to be discovered…  this post inspired a facebook discussion among the artist’s vast number artistic and intellectual “friends” about how to make sure one’s work is “discovered” and just what that means…  it seems that the consensus was that being “discovered” meant obtaining an international reputation and that one had to hustle to do that by leaving Minnesota and going to New York, or someplace like it and getting your work in museums of modern art…  having representation of an important gallery was the way to make this happen although, getting into the museums of modern art was agree to be tough, because as one person said, the museums are running out of storage space…  but, if you do not get discovered or at least try by selling art, you are an amateur or even worse, a hobbyist and in any case, hopelessly provincial… 

well, Michelangelo certainly had and has, an international reputation so, I guess we must qualify him as “discovered…”  so, does that mean that I, as an artist who likes Michelangelo and considers myself to be a serious artist should try to be discovered?  or what? I will be forever provincial, an amateur and a hobbyist…  geeze…  what a conundrum… oh well, fortunately, I have my small press audience and although I am not an aristocrat, I also am not Michelangelo…

William Wallace’s history Michelangelo: God’s Architect is available here.

This Heat

the heat is up in
the 30’s, and even
after a short time
outside you’re
dripping water as
if you’ve stepped
out of the shower.
It’s bloody brutal,
I’ve got ginger hair
( well I used to ) and,
I can’t take this heat.
I’m not made for it,
I’m used to drizzly,
dull, overcast, grey
days. I must be one
of the only people to
have had sunstroke
in Stoke on Trent. It
happened when I was
about 7 years old, I’ll
never forget it. I was
so fuckin’ ill. Throwing
up like you wouldn’t
believe. Pink, strawberry
milkshake pouring from
my nose as I puked like
I’d never puked before.
Sorry to disgust you,
but no, I’m no good in
the heat. I think what
maybe it’s my Irish
heritage. I’m damn
good at drinking, but
I can’t stand the sun.
No, I just can’t take
this heat.

So Boring Again

Life seems so boring
again today. Last night
about half a mile from
where I live, there was
a hostage situation.
The whole area was
full of police, some of
them with submachine
guns. There was also
ambulances, riot vans,
police dog units, and
anything else you could
think of. Apparently, some coke dealer had gone nuts, and kidnapped his missus with a samurai sword, and an air pistol.
Today there was nothing,
not a fuckin’ thing.
Life seems so boring
again.

My Yearly Complaint

It’s so stuffy, and
so humid.You can
hardly take a breath,
but I know from the
time of year that
summer’s heading
towards it’s death.
It always makes me
feel so sad, as my
September birthday
draws near that
another summer is
nearly gone, and
Autumn is once again
here. Don’t get me
wrong, I think Autumn
is great. It’s a riot of
colours, and smells.
Its winter that I really
hate, to me it’s like
fuckin’ Hell. When it
kicks in, you know it’s
gonna be six months
until you feel warm.
I hate the snow,
I hate the cold. I hate
its function, and its form.
You might think that
living in England, I’d
be used to this shit.
But every year as it
comes around I want
to get away from it.

MEMORIES



I look back at the years behind me and wonder where have they gone. Beginning with grammar school and then high school, I was given many opportunities to explore many facets of the world around me.


Singing in choirs, acting in amateur theater, being a part of the Civil Air Patrol which is a civilian help to the Air Force (in uniforms). Horseback riding through the woods and streams in the Adirondack Mountains.


Eventually getting married and having two babies (daughters).  Taking trips with the girls -- Disney World and also back to the Adirondack Mountains.
Celebrations at Christmas with Mass first.  Birthday parties, New Year's Eve parties and so much more.


Sometimes all this seems like a dream of long ago -- but it was real.  Looking back, I wonder - did I accomplish everything I should have and did I always do the right thing.


When you become a "Senior", you sometimes long for that time past. Now you have to take pills, you ache everywhere at times.  But, you know, I wouldn't change it for anything.  Each of us have a time of growing, loving and longing.  I am grateful for that time and will always nourish and also be happy for those days long ago.

Welcome, readers, to August’s issue of Synchronized Chaos Magazine.

First off, we have an announcement from regular contributor and nature poet Rui Carvalho, about the annual international nature writing contest we co-host with him.

Also, another regular contributor, poet and novelist Christopher Bernard, has established a podcast.

This issue reveals and explores different dimensions of our humanity: our bodies and looks, our emotions, our intellect and creativity, our life transitions and hopes for our futures, our personal relationships, and our broader societies, our quests for justice and how we treat each other and the natural world.

Norman J. Olson narrates the first professional gallery exhibition of some of his paintings, artistic nudes.

Judge Santiago Burdon paints a portrait of the looks and personality of a captivating woman, while Bangladeshi poet Mahbub’s work probes the mysteries of the human heart.

J.J. Campbell offers up moments of happiness and acceptance rendered through his trademark cynicism.

Shruti Iyer conveys and explores the panoply of human emotions through her variety of poetic female narrators.

Michael Steffen depicts the strength of the human personality in response to circumstances: humor, sauciness, existential curiosity, fury, and resolve.

J.D. DeHart’s pieces reflect the power of words and ideas. In Mark Young’s poems, the ideas as well as the words seem to hang together, even when they don’t make sense in a linear way.

Henry Bladon presents gently humorous creative frustration, where losing one’s ideas and work-in-progress becomes a kind of ‘little death.’ In a similar vein, Rachel Grosvenor contributes a sestina about the struggle of creativity over sorrow and despair.

Mike Zone writes of our epidemic of loneliness, how sometimes we try to possess each other rather than truly connecting. Syrian author Raghda Mouazen crafts pieces about isolation and enclosure, and her speakers retain the desire to comfort others.

J.K. Durick offers up a humorous lament on growing old.

Ghanaian performance poet Ike Boat’s pieces depict coming of age, figuring out what to do in life, and overcoming obstacles such as bedbugs. He also contributes notes from his travels, ‘On the Road with Ike Boat.’

In her monthly Book Periscope column, Elizabeth Hughes reviews Gini Grossenbacher’s Madam in Silk, a historical fiction tale of a woman immigrant from China during California’s 1850s gold rush.

James Thurgood’s poetry also expresses personal growth: the need to let go and not hoard items from the past, the inevitability of loss in life, and how, like the writer or the bird out of his comfort zone, we can make room for new ventures.

Federico Wardal extends himself creatively by allowing the development of a virtual rendering of himself who can act in films and plays, some of whom he’s written himself.

Spanish writer Daniel De Culla renders in verse a medieval Spanish tragic tale of two timeless human concerns: love and death.

U.K. author Mark Murphy presents a set of poems about love, fascination and the inexorable force of history.

Michael Robinson opines on religion, how greed and selfishness among both the leadership and the congregation do as much as the coronavirus to drive people away from church.

Mickey Corrigan satirically criticizes those who prize their own aggrandizement over compassion for other people and the natural world.

Michael Robinson’s poetry honors the legacies of Christian faith and American Black culture as a way to survive the past and present violence Black Americans endure.

Egyptian writer Jaylan Salah writes of the gradually expanding portrayal of Black manhood in cinema, how Black men are now being shown as more complex and fully human.

Dave Douglas’ heady thoughtful poems urge us towards love for one another, while Chinese poet Hongri Yuan creates a vision of order, wisdom and beauty in his fantastical Golden City.

Nigerian author Chimezie Ihekuna’s poem expresses hope that we will overcome coronavirus.

Joan Beebe shares her waking dream of a ship, of traveling through life’s losses with an inner sense of peace.

We hope that this issue leaves you with peace, resolve, and creative inspiration.