light snowfall tonight but no accumulation oatmeal for dinner — cups of coffee at eleven-thirty at night can’t find my ear drops — bus leaves without me guess I’ll stay home & try out those detergent sheets — bio/graf J. D. Nelson’s poems have appeared in many publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of eleven print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). Nelson’s first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Short stories from Doug Hawley
Eary Problem
This problem has led to marital problems because of my persistence. I just don’t want to quit despite its reputations for causing health problems. I’ve had to have something extracted from my ear canal because of my compulsion, but q-tips feel so good in my ears. Am I the only one with outer ear itching?
Head Scratcher
This should be a private vice, but it is so ingrained sometimes I do it in public. Eczema or dermatitis makes my eyebrows, beard and hair itch. Nothing I’ve tried has eliminated the dry, itchy rashes. Quitting drinking would be easier.
Child (dibble and a half)
My father read the Oz books to my sister and I at bedtime. To refresh my memory I bought a set of Oz books. I used to listen to Cinnamon Bear stories in the late ‘40s and early ‘50s. I bought the cds so I could listen again. A few years ago I restarted playing softball. As a child I did childish things. That still works now that I’m eighty, so I’m keeping at it.
Negotiation
You will have the sun and the stars. I’ll take care of you in sickness and health. You’ll have a lovely home and no worries. All I ask is that you love me too.
Will you lower my taxes?
I can’t do that.
Then I’m voting for the other guy.
Maroon
I like my aloha shirts. I feel that a colorless person - me – should have colorful shirts. Solids are OK if they are out there – orange or maroon. My maroon shirt fits well, feels good, and looks good. It’s OK that it’s a dead man’s shirt. He can’t use it.
Joints
Our joints allow us a variety of movements until they don’t. Learn from this arthritic old man. Years of jumping from heights, lifting excessive weights with bad form and repetitive strain left me with bad knees, one bad shoulder and one questionable one. Treat them right and they will last.
Game Over
Last inning, behind by two runs. I got a walk, and there were three on base. The next batter could tie or win the game. The manager replaced two of us with pinch runners, which caused our second and third outs for batting out of order. We lost, I quit.
Time
A few months ago, I tried to get in touch with a woman that I went to grade school with to organize another get together. Cheryl had been an insurance adjuster and had kept track of our grade school graduating class. She had died in memory care three months ago.
Rejection?
The response to my submission was “Nicht include”. Sounded like a rejection. Was my sub too political? Should villains have gotten away with plotting the destruction of much of the world? The next day I got an email explaining that the rejection was a typo. Story will appear tomorrow. Woo-hoo!
Pitch
He had been following her for over an hour. Just his luck, she walked into an alley. When he followed her, she reached into her bag. When he became conscious she was picking up a baseball by his head. “Don’t stalk the star pitcher on my baseball team you creep.”
Spill Rules
One second for spilled tequila, whisky, or gin drinks to be sucked out of the carpet. Chocolate, peanut butter, or wheat thins three second pick up, most other food the usual five seconds. Brussel sprouts, cauliflower, broccoli, or most cooked vegetables, next time carpet is vacuumed, and into the garbage.
Scatterbrain
Odd remembrances haunt my lazy, bored brain. Almost drowning when very young. The now great grandmother and widow that I made out with sixty years ago. A small clothing store that I walked past in Portland fifty plus years ago. The traumatized beauty that abruptly rejected me while in college.
Northeast Portland Years Ago
As a teenager, I was walking through Northeast Portland to get to a friend’s house. An older male pulled up and asked something like “Do I know you?” I didn’t and told him so. He wanted to know if I wanted a ride. I was a bit nervous and passed.
Oval
Joe asked the man next to him “Do you believe this flying saucer nonsense?”
“No it’s absurd. The ships are Oval.”
”Huh?”
“Aliens aren’t little green men. We come in many colors.”
“Where do you get these ideas?”
“I’m an Oval pilot - check my pants. I’ve got four legs
How Old Do I Look?
About forty on the average.
What do you mean on the average?
Your face is an 80 and your body is a 30.
Wait a minute, that averages 55.
Well, the guy part is about 10.
So, to look younger I should stop wearing pants?
Memories
I worried that I had age-related memory loss. Editor would tell me it’s a hike day, minutes later I wouldn’t know. Then I repeatedly saw two men in black suits walking away from me. Because I had seen the movie, I knew it wasn’t age, it was Men In Black.
The End
Synchronized Chaos Mid-February: Grief and Joy
First of all, letting everyone know that we’ve picked a date for the Hayward Lit Hop, a community festival with different readings and events up and down B Street in Hayward, CA.
The third annual Lit Hop will take place the afternoon of Saturday, April 27th and we encourage everyone reading this who is in the area to attend! More information and a video clip showing off the Hop and how it works here on our website.
Secondly, Clare Songbirds Publishing House (CSPH) is launching its inaugural Elizabeth Royal Patton Memorial Poetry Competition. More about poet and English teacher Elizabeth Royal Patton here.
The Elizabeth Royal Patton Memorial Poetry Competition will be blind judged by a panel of five judges and cash prizes will be awarded to the top three poems. An anthology will be published with all the poems that make it through the first round of judging and each poet with an entry in the anthology will receive a free copy. All submissions must be sent via Submittable and the full rules and the link are here. The submission period will be from February 1 through April 18, 2024.
Now, for this month’s second issue, Grief and Joy. These feelings coexist here in abundance.
Nosirova Gavhar offers up a playful and happy glimpse of winter while windswept canyons drive E.T.’s speaker to silence.
Nigora Togaeva revels in the natural and cultural beauty and richness of the Uzbek region of Kashkadarya. Sayani Mukherjee’s work radiates the beauty of a cluster of golden poppies. Mahbub Alam remembers the wondrous scenes he’s seen in person and in his mind’s eye.
Peter Magliocco also speaks of memory, and aging and fading romantic and sexual desire while J.D. Nelson expresses his quiet weariness facing everyday life and its mishaps.
Taylor Dibbert reflects on the life of his beloved dog. Isabel Gomes de Diego surrounds us with our mortality with her images of the Chapel of Bones in Evora, Portugal while Bill Tope’s taut horror story presents retribution for thefts from beyond the grave.
Stephen Jarrell Williams speaks of different types of loss: the lack of physical and relational and spiritual homes, a departure on a train, and the fading of sunshine. George Gad Economou shares his booze-fueled dreams of leaving the past behind to move into the future.
Faleeha Hassan’s speaker plods along on a heavy wagon ride weighed down by sorrow. Safarova Zarnigor expresses the angst of being an old soul looking for love in a new world while J.J. Campbell searches for connection in a lonely town and stage of life.
Eva Lianou Petropolou laments how the children of Gaza will come of age in a time punctuated by war. Mykyta Ryzhykh speculates on unheard perspectives and untold stories buried under rubble. John Mellender relates a night in jail after an intense political protest in mock-epic verse while Daniel De Culla makes a mockery of the obscenity of war and power-hungry leaders. Walter Shulits also lambastes American political and economic power brokers in his epic series of poems while Ian Copestick blasts racism in law enforcement.
Sabrid Jahan Mahin urges us to be strong in a harsh and selfish world. Gulsanam Qurbonova encourages readers to think positively and avoid useless gossip while Lobar Davronova encourages moderation in the use of social media.
Yoldosheva Farangiz illustrates the transformation of a boy guided away from a life of mindless distraction to one of study. Guzal Sunnatova thanks her sister and her teacher for their encouragement to write and study poetry.
Tolquinboyeva Odinaxon writes of awakenings, moving from a hot summer to a fresh new autumn school year.
Continuing with the school theme, Sevinch Tulquinova describes technical tools that can help college students learn language. Meylieva Zebiniso discusses psychological and pedagogical teaching techniques. Madina Fayzullayeva points out resources to help students organize and cite research papers. Baratov Quvonchbek encourages students to learn fundamentals of media literacy to be able to evaluate information. Maftuna Umaraliyeva discusses methods of helping English language learners grasp idioms while Asilabonu Sobirova outlines ways to help English language learners improve their reading skills.
Alan Catlin constructs numbered short verses that link ideas and fragments in unusual, but resonant, ways. Vernon Frazer joins and juxtaposes fragments to suggest nebulous processes: the slow destruction of a reputation, the passage of human history. Patrick Sweeney crafts thoughtful one-liners that request multiple readings.
Shahnoza Ochildiyeva exults in the many wonderful summer activities available to Uzbek school children. Gulasal Nematjanavna highlights the optimism of and the opportunities open to Uzbekistan’s fresh generation of youth leaders.
Bangladeshi poet Muntasir Mamun Kiron extols the glorious historical tradition conveyed in the Bangla language. Barnokhan Ruziyeva describes academic programs in linguistics and translation that propel Uzbekistan into thought leadership in those fields.
Zuhra Ruzmetova finds nurturance in the bosom of her motherland of Uzbekistan. Others find care and companionship in more personal relationships.
Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa celebrates life and friendship in pieces that peal with gentle musicality. Annie Johnson evokes the sweet comfort of sleep and memories of love and care.
Elmaya Jabbarova evokes the mysteries of how love begins, and how it fades. Graciela Noemi Villaverde suggests that passionate love can bring us to a form of divine eternity in our own minds while Maja Milojkovic compares deep, spiritual love to religious practice. Kristy Raines’ speaker describes a close intimate relationship that has brought her comfort and peace.
Ahmad Al-Khatat urges men who have found true love to appreciate the women dear to them. John Edward Culp invites listeners to hear love’s eternal story. Duane Vorhees describes sensuality and human thought and feeling through clever metaphor.
Jerry Langdon crafts a love poem that resembles a pop song, along with describing serious depression.
Mesfakus Salahin draws on religious and natural metaphors to convey grief. Dildora Toshtemirova mourns but looks forward to better days.
Diyora Kholmatjonova poetically grieves her departed mother while Sevinch Omonova encourages hers to find happiness in life. Nilufar Tokhtaboydva urges respect for parents due to the countless ways parents care and sacrifice for their children.
Gulsevar Xojamova provides a poignant reminder that not everyone has parental support while Akramova Shiringul Furqatjon illustrates the miracles that can happen through compassion and noticing the suffering people around us.
Nilufar Ergasheva illustrates her family and village navigating the change of seasons and a long winter, while Christopher Bernard’s poem points out small ways people hold onto warmth and the hope of spring in a bleak midwinter.
Mark Young’s “geographies” suggest maps and construction and our built and natural environments while Brian Barbeito finds the extraordinary in seemingly daily natural scenes, drawing on alien and spiritual metaphors.
We hope that this issue will help you find the beauty and grace in daily life, where pain, ecstasy, comfort and wonder all make up the panoply of our experiences.
Poetry from Sevinch Omonova
Mother laugh… Mom, laugh, let go of sadness,
This world is not full. Rejoice and be filled with happiness,
I forget the pain. Mom, laugh, stop Pox from your feet,
See my happy fate, My dreams lead to happiness
Essay from Nigora Togaeva
Hisar is a spring that opens its eyes in the heart of the mountain ranges: first it merges into a stream, then into a river, and it is a land that shares life with endless deserts. A country with four seasons in its bosom, the mornings are bright and the days are magnificent. Bagri is an oasis with countless natural resources, minerals, and underground reserves. The people are very hardworking! At the same time, from afar, you can hear the hooting of galloping horses and the screams of riders who have entered the field. These traditions, combined with beautiful melodies, indicate that ancient values are still alive. Listen, it seems as if the sounds of thirst are being heard from somewhere… It is an expression of a land that is angry with those who interfere with the peace and tranquility of the eternal ice stable in its mountains, and the blue fire that burns in the expanses of Avazchol is kind to its friends and cares for its guests.
Kashkadarya! A place of sweet fruits enjoying the generous sunlight… Kochkak figs, Kasbi almonds, Varganza pomegranates and Pandiron apples are world famous. It is not for nothing that the popularity of Kashkadarya tandiri and Chiyali’s yakhsin has traveled all over the world. You won’t find these mouth-watering dishes in any other country.
You can see the national achievements of Shahri Kesh and its unique values from Shahrisabzcha embroidery. Your heart is full of sophistication. It is this passion that will lead you to the places where classical music and status are pulsating.
Like my grandfather, the fertile mountains of Wokham speak of the past. The ancient monuments – cisterns – erected on the side of the caravan routes seem to confirm that the words “earth” and “mother” are twin concepts. Yes, this is a fertile and blessed land like our mother: The ruins of Erkurgan, which lie in ruins for centuries, are a story from a great past. Therefore, it is the land that gave birth to the great world leader, who has the potential to shine in Samarkand. You say that the scholars have not found perfection in it. Hazrat Beshir in the book, Langar father in Kamashi, Abu Mo’in Nasafi in Qavchin, Sultan Mir Haidar in Kasbi, Qusam Sheikh father in Kason, Zanjirsarai in Mubarak, Nasafis, Pazdawis’ footsteps have stood in this blessed soil.
The glorious history of this land is proof of its great future. This is the proof of the fact that the remote areas, which were far from the vision yesterday, have become a huge creative field today. The mountains of Dehkanabad, which have been suffering from the pain of the road for centuries, look like a traveler with a diamond belt around his waist and riding towards the future. Large-scale factories and enterprises are being built and are leading the world in terms of efficiency and production capacity.Similar positive changes are visible in all other districts, towns and villages of the oasis. The feeling of anxiety about the next day leaves the mind. Feelings of gratitude take its place. Basharti, this is a ladder thrown into the future, in these schools, which are already vocational schools, I and my peers, the generation that will come after us, will work for the sake of the country, for the prosperity of the country…
Summary:
Dear friends, let’s be proud to be children of such a country! Compatriot, let’s honor this creative nation. It is worth seeing every bit of this country. Let’s not forget that we are responsible for its development and prosperity. Let’s always remember that we are involved in the fate of this country. Indeed, our perfection is reflected in the beauty of our country. My motherland, which unites the young and honors the old, is as dear as bread itself…
So dear, so blessed,
Water, soil, sun, moon.
Heaven is actually in my country,
It’s so beautiful…
I am proud to be from Kashkadarya!
Togaeva Nigora Kudratovna, a journalist of the Kashkadarya regional television and radio company, a promoter of creative and cultural affairs of the 58th general secondary school in Kasbi district.
Poetry from Diyora Kholmatjonova
Mom, I miss you A feeling divides the heart I wish my way was near My heart still misses you Mom, I miss you Let me be a guest I know what's in your heart What else do you want? Mom, I miss you I don't sleep at night, A sadness fills my heart I don't know what kind of feeling it is? Mom, I miss you Every morning I open my hands to pray I pray to God alone Let him take you to his shelter Mom, I miss you
Poetry from Safarova Zarnigor
MY RIVER PAINS I want to smile... And you are in the air... Even though I am young, I am one of those who have eaten a lot of this old world's morals... It breaks you when it calls, it doesn't break itself... It's interesting, then you will also become one of these decency sticks who do not try to say "yes"... I can't... Why?! I am a servant in this world, if I make a mistake in the morning, I will be punished at noon... The century of my day comes when I know my lesson... And you know "Kilmish" but you don't know about "Kidirmish"... I'm not smiling... And you are still in the air... Don't think it's easy for me. I've had pains you don't even know about, even times when I'm ready to give up on dinner. But you know what? I didn't, we all have choices. So don't ever take a wrong step, my dears! I want to go far away, forget everything, To the city that my dream calls to. I want to go far away, irrevocably I am alone with this poor soul. What did my heart not see? I'm not dead, I'm still alive. This heart is pounded like a horn, And yet the heart is still beating. Fate breaks me, shakes me even, It never stopped teaching. Now I'm used to everything, Tears did not stop crying. This is my face when I smile I have pains that no one knows about. There are things I couldn't tell you, Mom, so that you don't feel sad. Every night I press my face to the pillow, I was crying so much With pain in the heart. This is my face when I smile I have pains that no one knows about.