Welcome, everyone, to Synchronized Chaos’ mid-April issue.

This issue brings everyone along with great energy, with a skip, a jump, and a hop!

We invite our readers to join us for the Hayward Lit Hop, a free, all-ages one-day literary festival in Hayward, California where various literary groups will host readings at different venues up and down B Street. Event kicks off at 2pm in Heritage Plaza across the street from the downtown library and continues at various places until the afterparty at 7pm at the Sun Gallery.

Now, for the submissions!

Jazira Mi explores the joy, and the risks, of embracing life with both feet forward. John Culp expresses the joy of a rare moment of the seemingly impossible.

Kumar Ghimire speaks to the dreams that encourage him to push forward in reality. Mahbub Alam illustrates the risks and the joy of banding together with friends, family and neighbors and stepping into the unknown.

Some artists push forward through experimenting with craft and structure rather than through direct assertions within their pieces.

Mark Young contributes rough, surreal, textured artwork that is more about image and color than representation. Tuyet Van Do presents moments of ironic and poignant juxtaposition in her haikus while Jim Meirose presents a surrealist take on a poor sod’s visit to the doctor.

Eddie Heaton takes us on a tour through this life and the underworld through his mythical poetry.

This issue does “look before it leaps,” not ignoring the real difficulties and dangers many face in life.

Chimezie Ihekuna addresses the malaise continual artistic and professional frustration brings. Daniel De Culla comments on the dangers many young people face from predators in a tragicomic poem of advice for students.

Sunil Saroa conveys the loneliness of living among those who don’t understand you. William Hartwick paints a portrait of life with bipolar and Tourette’s and reminds us of the daily discrimination people with invisible or misunderstood disabilities face.

Stephen House relates how he realized the injustice of a dangerous work situation long after it had passed.

Yet, other writers point to hope, even when postponed, or to the possibility of being able to choose to respond to one’s circumstances in a courageous way.

Chloe Schoenfeld encourages people to persevere through difficult times through the metaphor of a butterfly. Maja Milojkovic raises her fist and heart for love in defiance of oppression and death.

Maurizio Brancaleoni suggest that some may tame their fear of global crises by exaggerating them for comedic effect. Whether this is a form of heroic courage or cowardly denial is up to readers to judge.

Anne Hendricks-Jones’ character assumes an alter ego as a heroine to save children from a school shooting. Sandro Piedrahita’s piece celebrates another kind of heroism, patient love and forgiveness amid the violence and fear of drug trafficking in South America.

Tammy Spears shares loving pieces in memory of her personal heroine, her deceased mother, and also honors her sister and soldiers who have chosen a path of courage and sacrifice. These are excerpts from her collection Flutter of an Eye.

Graciela Noemi Villaverde expresses her longing to be treated as a co-creator rather than a muse or a work of art herself, in a piece that could be addressed to a partner or a deity. Film critic Jaylan Salah takes a second look at beautiful bombshell Scarlett Johansson’s portrayal of femininity on screen and suggests that it may be more complex and assertive than it appears at first glance.

Many other writers explore the timeless themes of time, change, cycles, love and loss, grief, healing, and renewal.

Laura Marino’s bilingual haiku follows different seasons and times of day through a succession of moments in nature. Noah Berlatsky comments on being in sync, or out of sync, with the passage of time.

Laura Stamps captures a personality, place, and time through chatty postcard poems.

Mashhura Usmonova recollects the tender bloom of first love while Shahnoza Ochildiyeva conveys moments of young, idealistic soul-level happiness. Linda Springhorn Gunther reviews Lisa Scottoline’s novel Eternal, which situates the beauty of pasta and young love among the repression of 1930s Germany.

Brenton Booth captures short vignettes of moments of connection, real and imagined. Wazeed Abdullah reflects on the love and nurturance of families.

Robiul Awal Esa’s heartwarming story illustrates the power of kindness and gratitude for those who have helped us along in life.

Channie Greenberg sends up another gentle photographic submission, this time of beige and orange flowers. Don Bormon celebrates the natural beauty and renewal of spring.

Haze Fry questions whether time alone has the power to heal the wounds of a decayed romance. Zadie McGrath describes the deflation of a youthful romance in a school setting.

Mesfakus Salahin evokes the lingering aftermath of loss, whether death or the end of a relationship.

Azemina Krehic laments the ruins of a beautiful relationship that fell apart after a trip to historic Trieste. Emina Delilovic-Kevric grieves over the loss of her mother’s love, which happened even before her death.

J.J. Campbell addresses and accepts mortality and grounds his answers to life’s big spiritual questions in the here-and-now. Duane Vorhees explores the changing and seemingly arbitrary tides of fate, evolution, and personal destiny.

David Kopaska-Merkel draws on history to show how our personal and collective pasts can remain with us as we move into the future.

Christopher Bernard highlights the transcendent music of the Kronos Quartet that spans space, time, and different generations.

This issue melds the boundaries of space and time as well, representing work from contributors of different generations and nationalities. We hope that it pushes forward your own creative dreams.

albeggia appena –
diventare rugiada
senza saperlo

it barely dawns –
to become dew
without knowing it

*

luce da oriente –
nel pallido cammino
un papavero

light from the east –
along the pale path
a poppy

*

campi innevati –
un nodo di silenzio
chiude i pensieri

snowy fields –
a knot of silence
blocks my thoughts

*

novembre in petto –
tocco un nuovo silenzio
di seta grigia

November in my chest –
touching a new silence
of grey silk

*

acqua che scorre –
è più dolce la luce
di fine autunno

flowing water –
the late autumn light
is gentler

*

notte d’asfalto –
nel silenzio le voci
ruggine e vento

asphalt night –
voices in the silence
rust and wind

*

erbe selvatiche 
fra le crepe dei muri –
senza una madre

wild plants
growing in the wall cracks –
motherless

*

veli caduti –
tramonti negli occhi
sul muro grigio

fallen veils –
sunsets in the eyes
on a gray wall

*

finestre accese
sulle vite degli altri –
la notte intorno

windows lit 
on others' lives –
night all around

*

senza più cielo –
confondono il cuore 
i prati d’asfalto

no more sky –
the heart confused by
asphalt meadows

*

occhi d’autunno –
lunghe strade di pioggia 
senza una voce

autumn’s eyes –
long rain roads
without a voice

*

solo una rosa –
il profumo del cielo
in un bicchiere

just a rose –
scent of heaven
in a glass

*

cielo di pece –
tutta la luce dietro
aspetta il mattino

pitch sky –
all the light behind
waits for the morning

*
piccola luce –
raccoglie nella sera
falene perse

small light –
it collects lost moths
in the evening

*

foglie gialle –
sulla panchina cadono
piccoli addii

yellow leaves –
on the bench fall
little goodbyes

*

fra l’erba secca
i corvi a due a due –
ricordi perduti

among the dry grass
crows two by two –
lost memories



Laura Marino Trotta è nata a Roma, si è poi trasferita a Firenze per frequentare la Facoltà di Agraria e, successivamente, l’Accademia di Belle Arti e la Scuola Libera del  Nudo.

Varie le attività lavorative che si sono succedute negli anni, mentre costante è rimasta nel tempo la sua ricerca attraverso molteplici possibilità espressive e l’impegno nel Terzo Settore.

Laura Marino Trotta was born in Rome, she then moved to Florence to attend the Faculty of Agriculture and, subsequently, the Academy of Fine Arts and the Free School of Nude.

Various work activities have followed one another over the years, while her search across multiple expressive possibilities and her commitment in the Third Sector have remained constant over time.

we thought we weren’t

all that i was
was a compilation of what
i wasn’t:
how we bounced a
deflating rubber ball to and
fro across white faded
lines on the schoolyard blacktop talking and
talking about trivial
things that led us to cover each
other’s cool gray surfaces so when
finally the romantic
disruption we had
waited for came we
realized there was this empty
sphere of dry air below
the other’s surface and
plasmatic energy, unstable, below our
own, a dammed-up deluge like a

sip of carbonated
drink; rising
anticipation for the syrupy
taste then the spiky
needling in the soft
skin of your cheeks as you
attempt to swallow and
swallow as the drink goes
flat in your mouth and still you
carry the lingering taste and the
memory of craving junk
food; now you
wonder what was the
appeal and the firmest
memory you retain is that of the
deflating rubber ball, worn, durable, and
unremarkable.

sleeping rough
on his lips salty taste...
dewdrops

dusk chorus--
peeking through neighbor's fence
setting sun

hospital visit
on her meal menu
"Happy Birthday"

sleep walking...
in the microwave
her mobile phone

my health matters too 

 

down in the hard black earth  

before the shadow-gifted body- 

shaming shrieks with future rank  

refused among the fresh night  

blossoms on a cork-popped psyche  

stashed by means you guessed  

were taken back on board you eat  

what’s yours and listen for today  

is just the ticket for a hunt through  

city streets you seem to recollect  

a flock of bats you made some  

conversation with the sith you  

welcomed sharp incursions  

of the mob her mouth’s the  

thing you seemed to say was  

viscous there was flowing under  

glass was then bizarre in vain  

so let his head fall back on  

bones and set aside more  

surface bursts the searching  

worse the land was hot she  

nursed him to his smooth  

and privileged form then  

edged his syncopated back  

a corpulent in ball and  

chains they wrapped him 

up in veneration and in  

pink to table and to then  

compare with all the fuck- 

ups on our screens a teenage  

fantasy for sale a part of that  

a piece of his the warmth and  

then the getting-good it’s  

morning if it’s bright enough   

the house anxieties that led  

to fill the plague graves early  

on are like a growing list of  

foods their scatterings were  

surely doomed and sometimes  

tampered with in sheds    

 

 

 we spoke lovingly of roe 

 

deliverance through a glancing-off of riddles  

in one untidy corner of the mind delusions   

widely disapproved of as yet others are  

reluctant to placate themselves at all and  

almost perish with their pleadings and denial  

and you might even get tugged off when once  

the tired poetry arrives with stomach botch  

the wilder sort and if there is a god or not  

you stumble through your stratagems  

hallucinating forest fires and now she’s  

troubled by her arms again and only so much  

scribbling through the pain can halt this placid  

streak if that’s allowed to gift you motivation  

but it’s not like that at all it’s milk two sugars  

then the mescaline arrives and long-term  

prisoners are forced to stream some aspects  

of that vicious night with pushing motions of  

their blood-stained hands while pools of septic  

effluence gush out from washed-up dreams  

so short on fatherly affection yet again but  

this time on the railway banks or rolling down  

the river tyne with bark from ripped-up holy  

trees while glancing round at comic-book type  

treatments line by line or understanding great  

cathedrals in the season of the wight the un- 

remembered and the meaningless shape up  

the artist in you rides the london eye       

 

 

 partly political 

 

keep them squaddies on their metal by the by 

no longer visible like beasts persuaded through  

your efforts down against the rusted factory  

gates while dipping bending showing all the  

glowing stacks of burnt remains of shamed  

officials on bell-bottom nights without the  

magic mountain camp with boots that shine  

like bathroom taps or crawled neck residue  

that thrashed was where it started then was  

torn the thing that’s feared the most was  

taken from a point on stolen braille maps by  

the river’s scent a three-lane highway out of  

nowhere on a mountain bike or steaming  

thick and creamy cabbage by the light above  

a patch on posh boy’s vast inherited estates  

that’s got to be extruded from a space that’s  

partly labelled by the past and having spent  

the morning playing human chess in tunnels  

or a maze it crawls a london boy by chance  

unorthodox supplies a big old grub to catch the  

only interspecies still at large perhaps the  

bloodied swimming pool has given up its secret  

to those corresponding principles at last and  

with an excess of its like to read a telepathic  

slow-descending self-erasing spine and side-lined  

masks a crudely nauseating  metronomic tick  

within its zone beyond the pale with wish- 

fulfillment at its core while washing out the  

tupperware in fits who knows where  

morning is before the shrivels week by  

week still hating thatcher as they weed their  

beds those nervous tits have been out there in  

charge of landscape-format glass-based art 

events an installation of suspended things that  

much was visible along the curved beak’s 

nesting lost in limbo and was long-suspected  

by his friends of putting tories in the ground 

without permission be widespread he states  

the high mind's ornament deserves the block  

and matter of the hours it is suggested that  

the bold take notes on unscratched holograms 

with common praise in some hard past was  

smoking rocks and shooting up on city streets  

with skipping ropes and spinning plates  

while those of us who did refuse still wonder  

when and why our hormone levels peaked 

Eddie Heaton studied innovative and experimental poetry under the tutelage of post-modern poet and educator Keith Jebb, achieving a first-class honours degree. He also won the 2021 Carcanet Award for Creative Writing. His work has been published in Blackbox Manifold, Otoliths, Lothlorien, Focus and Fold Editions

Twitter: @edwardHeaton9

Clowns.

All of my life, I have lived among stones. 
These stones are not everywhere.
For me,
They are people around me
In the shape of stones.
They can’t be understood, 
Perhaps I don’t want to!
Or I’m addicted to this life.
May be I’m colour blind;
I can’t see reality
Of being human Among stones.
 
It’s a difficult journey
To find a cure.
Difficult to find love.
I have to ask myself, “Is there hope?”
 I believe there is—but where is it?
Is it among clowns?

Sunil Saroa is a short-story writer, a poet, and an essayist from Panjab, India. His works have been published by Livewire.in. and Tell Me Your Story.biz. Currently, he’s a fiction and poetry reader for Longleaf Review, Florida, USA.  He likes to read all the time and write his works while sitting on a balcony early in the morning.His name on official documents is Sunil Kumar.

Why Me?


I have Tourette’s syndrome and bipolar disorder yes blessed with them both
And once I was even arrested under oath
One is neurological no one can explain
The other is caused by the unnecessary pain
Normal basic an average are words of dismay
I’m here to share with you there is another way
No need to judge another for how they make you feel
Take a look in the mirror and see what is real
Love is truly the answer thank you God above
Even Sigmund Freud said hard work and love
As we open up our backpacks and take one thing out
You can always put it back in if you have a doubt
Life is not easy no manual given at birth
Yet 8 billion humans exist together on earth
There is no one like you nor anyone like me
Put one foot in front of the other and soon you shall see
That God above has never let us down
It’s time to hold hands again my friends in each and every town


Trauma

It happened at birth a coma for
me, for others I'm not sure
The fact of the matter is, there is no cure
It comes in many avenues, from physical to the mind
There is no defining it, no particular kind
Some have it for a lifetime, some right away
If we don't deal with, forever it will stay
Exposure to so many has really made me ache
Accepting my own trauma has really made me wake
The pain is deeper than I ever thought it could be 
As I open my heart to others they can clearly see
How much I am hurting over this recent tragic loss
Not only losing my wife but
dealing with a horrible boss
What I am realizing is that I am not alone
Coming together with complete strangers
and seeing how they have grown
Gives me inspiration way beyond belief
Never did I imagine there could be so much relief
I thought I was alone suffering this awful pain
Thinking I was crazy, literally going insane
Listening to their stories as they
share their lives with me
Has surely made me realize that I can plainly see

That trauma is a creature that comes in many ways
I am thankful for this experience
and cherish all my days
As I wake each morning wondering
what the day will bring
And listen to birds outside my window sing
I can't help but think and hope that
each day brings a smile
To everyone's lives that's here on
earth for only a little while
I pray to God each night as I lay my head down to rest
That ALL our trauma lives will turn out for the best
My trauma is forever, but my heart is now stronger
For human bond and love of life will last even longer

 
Tourette's and Bipolar Disorder, Yes, Both

Hey, Darin and Marcy, I finally found
out I have Tourette's, holy shit! 
"You can have them all little sons of
bitches and get away with it!"
In Tau Kappa Epsilon, my fraternal 
name was "Twitch."
A term of endearment, a nickname I will never ditch
Living thirty-five years of my life, 
always wondering why
I would go from complete laughter
to a sudden tearful cry
Teased my entire childhood mainly by those we "trust"
Adults were the worst of all; high
school was a fucking bust
Called a son of a bitch by Dale Thomas
and literally kicked out of class
And Jeff Nynehouse, "I can't handle you
on the bus," what a fucking ass
My label given to me has long been misled
Even those who have this "gift" have been misled
Medication was prescribed; what a fiasco that became
It is not okay for medical professionals
to cause "US" to go insane

The only neurological disorder known
to those prescribing drugs
Sorry, Dr. Narus, LOVE is the answer;
please start prescribing "hugs"
"I want some of what you're on, 
can I have some SHIT?"
"I have Tourette's, you want some of IT?"
My final straw came when I was
arrested and thrown in jail
"DUI other than alcohol," just try and make bail
Before you judge those of us who suffer from this pain
Think to yourself, "What do I have to gain?" 
We all have a disability; just take a look in the mirror
"Can I walk on water?" or do I just have a fear? 
How to accept others, no matter the
twitch, the glasses, or the creed
Thank God for those who can understand
why I choose to smoke weed
It is the only true relief I have
ever had other than LOVE
"Footprints in the Sand," my friends;
thank you, God above
So often people walk away or simply want to ignore
Maybe Tourette's will go away, we won't
have to deal with "THEM" anymore
To all of you that have this "gift,"
the one that makes me, ME
Don't ever let them put you in the 
"box," live and be free

I am proud of my life each and every day
Of course, there are times I think, make IT go away" 
So when you are passing judgment
or "choosing" to discriminate
You are one of "THEM," you are causing the HATE!

This poem is from William Hartwick’s book The Invisible Backpack. which is available for order.

The Invisible Backpack is a labor of love created from a life-long struggle to come to terms with who the author is and accept himself as he was meant to be. We are all born with an invisible backpack on our backs. It is where we put all the hurts of life. When we are young and courageously climbing the stairs of life, it is extremely light, and we really don’t know it’s there. As we get older, it gets heavier with whatever pain, grief, or trauma we experience. Unfortunately, we resist taking these feelings out of our backpacks and let go of them. Some of us hold onto them so tightly, we forget to make room for the things that lighten our load…forgiveness, acceptance, tolerance, and love. For if we can put these items in our backpacks, it will cancel out all of the negative things we’ve been holding onto, and our life journeys will become much lighter.