Synchronized Chaos Mid-November: The World That Dwarfs and Outlasts Us

We continue to express sorrow over what’s happening in so many different parts of the world and encourage our readers to support people and the planet.

Woman staring straight ahead with a large butterfly on top of her head with open wings.

Also, we are hosting our Metamorphosis gathering again! This is a chance for people to share music, art, and writing and to dialogue across different generations (hence the name, the concept of ideas morphing and changing over the years). So far photographer Rebecca Kelly and English/Spanish bilingual poet Bridgett Rex are part of the lineup and more are welcome! This event is also a benefit for the grassroots Afghan women-led group RAWA, which is currently supporting educational and income generation and literacy projects in Afghanistan as well as assisting earthquake survivors. (We don’t charge or process the cash, you are free to donate online on your own and then attend!)

This will be Sunday, December 31st, 2-4 pm in the fellowship hall of Davis Lutheran Church at 317 East 8th Street in Davis, California. It’s a nonreligious event open to all, the church has graciously allowed us to use the meeting room.

You may sign up here for event reminders. RSVP appreciated but not required.

This issue draws us into a full sensory experience, surrounding us with places and worlds larger and more vast than ourselves.

Vernon Frazer’s pieces rumble with a smorgasbord of rhythmic and clanging instruments and sounds while Joshua Martin sends up a plethora of sonic syllables. Mahbub Alam stares and contemplates the beauty of nature and the Taj Mahal. Christina Poythress highlights through tactile details the rich nightlife within the world’s soil. Kathleen Hulser draws on mathematical concepts as metaphors for how life changes affect and circumscribe our lives.

Taj Mahal. White stone building with a central arched entrance and rounded brick dome, other smaller ones to the side. Four minarets to the side in the front, tall white brick towers with a lookout point for the call to prayer. Grass and rows of trees and a rectangular pool in front.

Image c/o Jean Beaufort

Jim Meirose illuminates the sensory experience of playing outside on the grass on a nice sunny day while Lorraine Caputo wanders off trail in South America: evenings, out-of-the-way streets, and less crowded areas.

Rafiul Islam speculates on inter-planetary relations in a society where multiple sentient species inhabit multiple planets.

Bekzod Quodirov outlines ways to make ammonium nitrate safer and more stable as a fertilizer and an industrial tool.

Older fisherman in a striped sweater and hat in a small wooden shelter by the side of a lake with some trees. Poles are in the water.

Uruguayan countryside, fisherman, photo c/o Juan Carlos Gonzalez

Even our own, more human-scale worlds contain more detail that we often grasp at first glance.

Sophia Fastaia remembers the joy, wonder, comfort and danger of childhood, all in one birthday party.

Chloe Schoenfeld’s piece probes opposites and finding and befriending one’s shadow self. Pascal Lockwood-Villa surveys a vacation in the tropics through the lens of photos that reflect different dimensions of human nature.

Susan Hodara details the common sensory experience of drying off after a shower while J.D. Nelson observes daily life and snacks within a homeless shelter.

Philip Butera describes with sensory details the underside of a circus after the show, referencing the work of repackaging the illusion.

Duane Vorhees’ work explores coupling and fertility from several big-picture spiritual and grounded, natural angles. Aklima Ankhi describes the search for an intense emotional connection with a lover that goes beyond the fleeting happiness of the everyday.

Slavica Pejovic ponders love, closeness, completeness, and connection. Aasma Tahir rhapsodizes about the subconscious worlds of nighttime, romance, and the imagination. Kristy Ann Raines describes the intense emotional experiences of love lost and regained.

Surreal image of stars at night and a wooden pier over water.

Image c/o Andrea Stockel

While our universe can be glorious, it can also be tragic, with forces beyond our control.

Ari Nystrom-Rice reflects on the fragility of his knowledge and sense of place in his world through the metaphor of a child’s toy boat exposed to the elements.

Nilufar Ergasheva illustrates the dangers of the winter season in rural villages, with cold and wild animals on the prowl, while Christopher Bernard renders appendicitis and surgery into poetry.

Mykyta Ryzhykh probes where we can find meaning and tenderness in a war-ravaged world where death seems frequent and life seems meaningless. Atagulla Satbaev shares how we delude ourselves into thinking love is eternal: time and death separate everyone. Michael Lee Johnson reflects on his own mortality and attempts to find eternal love in living death, rather than in the capriciousness of life.

Graciela Noemi Villaverde’s piece renders grief into somnambulant surrealism, a panoply of dream images while Alden Joe evokes the pain of lost love with imagery of tigers and predation. Suleiman Gado Mansir sends up a surreal dream sequence illustrating how our minds attempt to process the world’s violence.

Wallpaper image of tigers with black, orange, and tan swaths of color against a green grass background.

Image c/o Circe Denyer

Sometimes, we wonder what place we have in such a large world. Will the universe overwhelm and consume us?

Alma Ryan explores the season of fall with a meditation on falling, death, and the ways we let ourselves go. J.J. Campbell’s work turns solemn this month as he ponders various kinds of death and forms of passing away.

Zahro Shamsiyya reflects on the brevity of life and the need to savor the experience. Jerry Langdon reflects on the changing of seasons and the passing of a friend.

Gabriel Flores Benard shows the tragic ways continued abuse can shape a still-forming personality.

Even apart from mortality and injustice, everyday human psychology can be a mysterious and unmapped landscape.

Light skinned woman in a black jacket holding her head in her hands and yelling. She's in front of spiderwebs and a large rusting metal pillar at twilight.

Image c/o Kai Stachowiak

Zosia Mosur illustrates how we sculpt and train and also harm and punish our physical selves.

Taylor Dibbert’s speaker speculates on what his midlife decades will bring, while Noah Berlatsky highlights the common human experience of procrastination and Shirley Smothers relates her efforts to maintain inner peace.

Shamsiya Khudoynazarova Turumovna laments that real life can’t be like the novels she reads. Azemina Krehic compares herself to a linden tree and wishes she possessed its strength, but finds herself instead in the tree’s biological complexity.

Yet, we as humans do not have to be passive in the face of such a large and grand universe. There are roles we can play, even as individuals, that allow us selfhood and transcendence.

Diyora Abdujabborova’s reflects on the value of women’s leadership and nurturing roles in Uzbek society. Anila Bukhari speaks to the earnest desire of girls living in poverty to get an education.

Young girl with short curly hair, a white collared shirt, and blue suspenders standing in front of other children of different genders and ages and a brick building. She's outside with trees on a sunny day.

Image c/o Gerd Altmann

Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam collaborate on haikus that are translated into English, Taiwanese, and Igbo and highlight moments of people collaborating with nature. Nery Santos Gomez illustrates the joy she takes moving in unison while riding a beloved horse.

Daniel De Culla’s photography focuses on low-key ways we alter or adjust our environment: clothes, sketches, bushes we plant. Isabel Gomez de Diego illustrates moments where nature (small children and plants) integrates into our built environments.

Sayedur Rahman demonstrates the resilience and strength of refugees creating new lives in their new homelands. Jacques Fleury asserts his place in the world as a Black man, self confident even in spaces not created with him in mind.

Christina Chin and Paul Callus also collaborate on further haikus translated into English, Mandarin and Maltese that celebrate the mastery of crafts: cooking and painting.

Annie Johnson speaks to the transcendent immortality she finds through stepping out of herself to create art that will outlast her.

Mark Young reflects on the values and accomplishments of his Boomer generation in terms of shaping society while questioning the uses of similar government power today.

Z.I. Mahmud outlines Jane Eyre’s character growth and self-assertion in Charlotte Bronte’s novel while Shokirova Zarnigor Shuhratjanovna urges patience for people seeking the meaning of their lives.

Stylized image of a four story mansion at twilight with lights on, leafless winter trees, and pumpkins and zombies dancing in front of the house. Ghosts are in the background.

Image c/o Linnaea Mallette

Orzigul Sherova shares how she learned to draw on her fantasies as an inspiration rather than as a way to avoid achieving her real-world goals.

In Nahyean Bin Khalid’s take on a haunted mansion horror tale, his protagonist frees undead souls trapped in the home, but stays to become their caretaker rather than escaping, getting killed, or kicking the ghosts out.

Maja Milojkovic’s piece encourages us to heal and move forward from grief. Nilufar Rukhillayeva’s translation of Erkin Vahidov’s Uzbek poem points to a larger societal step forward, the passage of time and renewal that comes with the New Year.

Jaylan Salah reviews Daniel Radcliffe’s new HBO show The Boy who Lived, about David Holmes, his stunt double who became paralyzed after an injury on set and who worked with quiet courage and dignity to rebuild his life.

Even if our places in the universe are relatively small in the grand scheme of things, it matters how we fill our places because our behavior and choices affect those around us.

Image of Saturn with rings on a neon green and black background with lightning, the moon and palm trees and waterfalls

Image c/o Daniel Sanchez

Rasheed Olayemi’s poem demonstrates how corruption at both individual and governmental levels weakens a country’s economy.

Daniel De Culla calls out the hypocrisy of people who focus more on looking good at charity balls rather than helping others, especially in wartime.

Mesfakus Salahin’s narrators are wise beyond their years in terms of their ability to love and respect and connect with other people. Salahin urges adult world leaders to hold to that level of maturity.

Elmaya Jabbarova urges the world to wake up and turn back towards life and justice.

Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa fondly remembers her low-tech but fun childhood visits to her grandparents’ country town, and urges compassion for those with HIV/AIDS.

Family, culture, love, and heritage can be vital to grounding us and giving us the strength to withstand a rough universe.

Stone carving of Lord Shiva dancing with his many arms and his family, including Lord Ganesha with the elephant head.

Image c/o Rajesh Misra

Aziza Gayratova expresses respect for her parents and the strength family love gives her to endure life’s injustices.

Wazed Abdullah reminds us of how essential love and caring is to life while Faleeha Hassan speaks to a mother’s wish to protect her son during wartime in her poem, translated by William Hutchins.

Shahnoza Ochildiyeva offers up a colorful paean to her native Uzbekistan while Yahya Azeroglu pays tribute to Ataturk, the founder of modern Turkey.

Fahim relates a story of courage and loyalty among Bangladeshi soldiers at the country’s founding.

Finally, to come back to nature and the vast universe outside of our own species, Brian Barbeito reflects on the wisdom of nature to outlast humanity. He also considers how mysterious the sea remains, even after millennia of sailing.

Poetry from Atagulla Satbaev

Unbelievable palmistry

My tongue is crooked, honestly -
I can not look into your eyes.
Scattered line on my palm is connected to my destiny
I deceive myself just like that.
I am wandering of searching the line of love in my hand,
without finding it in my life ...

There are living walls between us
There are living walls between us.
Draw an invisible boundary.
What is the benefit of our separation?!
It parts us from our love.
Ruthless living walls between us.
It is like dying is not meant for them-
The tears are just a sight to behold.
(Didn't they face with the passion!?)
Living walls between us.
They part us, even the paths;
Constantly looking at us ...
We are moving apart further
Living devils between us.
They will not fall.
They are eternal…

***
Drown the hourglasses into water,
put a rope around the neck of time
released its the last breath.
Tied the clock hands to the stone
I tried to hold off the life
and live.
But -
Could not stop
My heart
Screaming
Just like a clock in my chest ...
It is not true when they say
We are lack of power when it comes to the time:
time loses -
when it stops beating
My heart


Atagulla Satbaev was born on August 10, 1995 in Nukus city, Uzbekistan. His poems were published in local magazines and journals.

Story from Susan Hodara

Dry

I press the towel to my face for a long time. A lot longer than when I get out of the shower at home, when a few swipes take care of the drips. The shower at the gym is different: It is the final stint of nearly an hour of wetness, most of which is spent with my head in the water as I swim my laps.

During all that time, I’m not aware of the water as wet. It is, rather, temperature: The comforting warmth of my pre-swim shower. The tunnel of balm in the steam room. The shock of cold in the corridor between the locker room and the pool. The coolness I resign myself to when I lower myself into my lane. A temperate embrace once I get going. A chill when I get out and the air sucks the drops from my body. The blasting heat of the shower that follows. The humid moisture that remains in the stall.

Then the towel. It is far from plush, smaller than I wish it were. I grab it from its hook beside the shower curtain, unfold it and lift it to my face. I don’t rub or pat; I press gently, holding the nubby fabric against my cheeks. I stand like that for a few moments. It is only then that I notice I have been wet for so long, and I can’t wait to be dry.

Susan Hodara is a journalist, memoirist and educator. Her articles have appeared in The New York Times, Communication Arts, and more. Her short memoirs are published in assorted anthologies and literary journals, including River Teeth, Feed and Airplane Reading. She is one of four co-authors of the collaborative memoir “Still Here Thinking of You: A Second Chance With Our Mothers” (Big Table Publishing, 2013). She has led memoir writing workshops for many years. More at www.susanhodara.com.

Poetry from Annie Johnson

Light skinned woman with curly white hair and a floral top.
Annie Johnson
I Have Walked The Morn

 In Mists I have walked the morn in mists 
And trodden down the valley lily white 
And run the gauntlet sunshine fair 
Robed in silken webs no woman ever wove, 
Shod in sandals light - 
Airy, as death is weightless 
And left youth and gaiety high and dry 
At the entrance gate of responsibility 
And entered therein 
To lie face down, child of marble, wayward 
On the dew drenched lawn of forever, 
Crying tears of stone 
To the unveiling of a statue, ageless. 
I have reached reverently out to touch 
The alabaster agony of space without time 
To carve the precious light of existence, sweet 
With flawless line, chisel 
The wrinkles of age and time away 
Layer by layer to the stone’s heart 
Newborn, in beauty glowing, translucent 
With hands of steel, a sculptress 
Kneeling to whisper, “It is good.” 


RUNNING DOWN THE COMET TAILED STREAMS OF LIGHT
 
Running down the comet tailed streams of light, 
Day into day; night into night; pulling free, 
Bursting into flight, suddenly 
Caught up in the Earth's stream 
Soaring in vapor trailed orbits of being. 
Atoms of mass in conglomerates of be, 
Exploding full circle into dimensions of me. 
I do not grow old; I am forever! 
I dream; I feel; I see all things 
Of life; of beauty; of death; ( Secretively whispers ) 
I know the song the dust sings - (Song of the Dust) 
"There is no finality in me, 
I soar; I float and dance, 
I laughingly chant the notes of life
From “The Songbook of the Dead." 

Annie Johnson is 84 years old. She is Shawnee Native American. She has published two, six hundred-page novels and six books of poetry. Annie has won several poetry awards from world poetry organizations including; World Union of Poets; she is a member of World Nations Writers Union; has received the World Institute for Peace award; the World Laureate of Literature from World Nations Writers Union and The William Shakespeare Poetry Award. She received a Certificate and Medal in recognition of the highest literature from International Literary Union for the year 2020, from Ayad Al Baldawi, President of the International Literary Union. She has three children, two grandchildren, and two sons-in-law. Annie played a flute in the Butler University Symphony. She still plays her flute.

Poetry from Nahyean Bin Khalid

Young South Asian teen boy with short brown hair and a white collared school uniform tee shirt.
Name: Nahyean Bin Khalid
Class: 7

THE MANSION HIDDEN IN  THE FOREST - CHAPTER 02     


I floated through the broken mirror into a realm of shadows and echoes. The ghostly figures whispered tales of their own misfortunes, and I realized they were trapped souls crying for release. Together, we roamed the mansion's different rooms and corridors, seeking clues to set us free.

In the moonlit attic, an old diary revealed the mansion's tragic history. A cursed family, betrayal, and a desire for redemption tied the spirits together. Determined to break the curse, I explored the mansion's secrets, solving puzzles, and calming restless souls.

As I uncovered the truth, the mansion transformed. The broken windows mended, the walls revitalized, and the whispers turned into songs of gratitude. The spirits, freed at last, faded away, leaving me standing in a restored mansion.

Yet, the mirror remained shattered. I realized my destiny was intertwined with this place. The ghosts, my new friends, offered a bittersweet farewell as I became the guardian of the enchanted mansion, forever balancing between the worlds of the living and the spectral.   

Poetry from Christine Poythress

Light skinned person's face drawn on a canvas with colored streamers for hair.
NIGHT DREAMS


I am the night 
that was 
the day.
Either way 
breathing grass
verdant covering where
earthworms squiggle
in encrusted dirt far below 
succotash seams  
subsumed in pine needles. 
Time’s strands  
branches dripping   
their needles
the hair of time 
around which 
I’m bound 
to the gory 
glory of 
nightfall
where earth’s hair 
sprouts in darkness
in the blackness
seeming still 
yet alive 
with creatures. 
Enveloped
then dissipated
I inhale the moon
bringing
day.

Poetry from Philip Butera

Ruptured Canopies

A trapeze artist
preens
before mirrors,
her breasts scarred from falls
and steps mistaken.
The handsome magician,
drink in hand,
rummages through
life’s deceptions.
I juggle
cotton candy dreams
with
sugar waffle fantasies.

I am safe,
in a hatbox

among the elephants and the lions.

Confused,
by crowds hurrying to see
and those
rushing to leave.

There is suspicion between art and life,
which is more accurate?
Hugging the curb of want,
I have a razor’s edge
view of fate,

a tapestry of spreading shadows,
woven with brandished egos

and profound fear.

Time to move,

time to shake off the numbness of bad luck
and missed opportunities
against the dark of the world.
I look around me, not wide-eyed,

but cautiously
aware calamities
are paradoxes swelled
with inconveniences.

Paper plates, cups, and torn balloons
are strewn about.
Flies and other insects
swarm on the decaying food.
The heavy air
heats the remains of liquid in discarded bottles.
Mosquitoes swell,
while toads contemplate their next moves.
I notice wheels from broken strollers,
dirtied diapers,
and abandoned plastic products,
all scattered on the dry, dusty ground.
And everywhere that stench of trash,
of garbage,
of things sweet and sticky
tossed away.
Appetites crave more.
And more indicates
an unappeasable desire.

Thick ropes on large poles
are loosened,
tents collapse and
restlessness permeates,
reverberating through the animal cages.

There are no more illusions.
The high wires have disappeared.
The thrills have become thoughts
lost in the distance.
The mesmerization
of magic and mysteries
has faded.

Life is a hammer
pounding on an anvil,
and all the ruptured canopies
must be mended
before the next show.

I am a Consummate Gardener

I am a consummate gardener,
living without pretense.
I dig,
pull out clover,
pull out weeds,
but I let stones remain.
Stones, tell me how I have gardened.
They ask to be touched.
I rub them between my fingers,
feel the caked dirt,
and listen to their stories.
They lie, though.
They want to please
so they
complement desires.

My big brown dog, bright-eyed and unphased by dirty, muddy, or wet paws,
never travels far from me.
I unleash her,
and she never strays.
She is content to be my archangel,
while I do all the spading, weeding, transplanting, trenching, scraping,
with few tools and without a smile.
Every time I step into this garden,
like Sisyphus, my perpetual punishment continues.

Squirrels conspire with birds to distract me.
Occasionally, I uncover the small bones of their relatives.
Now and then, I find what they have buried.
But most times, I poke, plow, and think
about the absurdity of gardening
and the futility of being successful at it.

My neighbors scoff at me.
They have no spirited dog or dismissive cat.
Their trees are tall, and professionals tend full leafy bushes.
They are a distant couple who spend no time outside their thoughts,
self-absorbed with moral decay; they measure time by what is possessed.
It is better to harvest treasure with false conviviality
then dig and unearth shards of sharp objects that cut and disfigure.

Wasps and bees circle, dart, and linger.
If they are annoyed, they will sting.
Blister beetles, if ingested accidentally or incidentally, can cause death.
Orange and black monarch butterflies warn they are toxic and
toads never fail to startle me.
The larger animals, muskrats, moles, and raccoons
make their presence known
as the moon rises,
when I am dining, sinning, or reading about gardening.
No matter how pleasing,
there is no music,
that can be appreciated while your hands
are going deeper into the darkness.

It is no secret,
the earth’s blackness is an uncompromising foe,
indifferent
to all things living.

The sun sneers and the clouds darken,
winds race to find me, the moisture from the lake
picks up the dust and sprays my face.
I am an addict, single-minded
with one purpose.
I acknowledge that.
There are no distractions
just restless
absurdity.

I wear no knee pads,
no protective covering,
no gloves.
I dislike hats.
And I hate when I feel sweat and dirt
glide down my back.
I am never satisfied
with what I am accomplishing.
But that has little to do with gardening.

My dog
sniffs the exhumed soil,
and, as I twist my hands

to seize what is deeper,
I realize
I have underestimated the potential
of gardening,
like
I have underestimated
the potential
of my own
curiosity.

With no Destination
The crowded elevator
travels up, up,
up,

emptying those preoccupied with purpose.
A small boy with soft brown eyes
is the last to exit.
I am alone,

continuing to ascend.

The door rattles open,
icy winds and swirling snow
greets me.
I sense rather than see.
The storm is overwhelming.
Resignation creeps upon me
as the elevator disappears,
leaving no trace of its existence.

With no destination,
uncertain
and without direction
I step.
With each move
I sink deeper into the snow.
Sky and horizon
blend into a shapeless,
white screen.

A distantly
remembered voice
interrupts the blindness.
An image
just out of reach.
A handsome young man,
imagined but true,
comes my way.

Every

chaotic white moment
becomes another.
The aimless snow whirls
about us,
without form or regard,
restless yet sublime.

I trudge further
into
cold uncertainty,
and from
the icy opaqueness,
my weary brown eyes
indelicately surrender
to the
bleakness
of my
unforgiving dreams.

Philip received his M.A. in Psychology from Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada. He has published five books of poetry, Mirror Images and Shards of Glass, Dark Images at Sea, I Never Finished Loving You, Falls from Grace, Favor and High Places, and Forever Was Never On My Mind. Two novels, Caught Between (Which is a 24-episode Radio Drama Podcast https://wprnpublicradio.com/caught-between-teaser/)  and Art and Mystery: The Missing Poe Manuscript. His novel, an erotic thriller, Far From Here, will be out in the Winter of 2023. One play, The Apparition. Philip also has a column in the quarterly magazine Per Niente. He enjoys all things artistic.