Little ghost
There was a cabin in the woods
And snakes on the road
In that place
In the middle of God knows what
With the sheep
And the neighbour’s goat
My brother felt like talking to
With a sheet on my head
I tried to make my sister move
I tried to get her head
Out of those books
And her eyes
Were glued to the page
And I wished
They were glued to me
And looked at me
Not through me.
My arms were extended
And I sung “ooooooh”
Then stopped,
Then sung again “oooooh”
Until she told me off
And I made myself small
And haunted that house
Covered in white
And desperate to prove
My father wrong
In that
Everything
Was not alright.
A lesson learnt in Franco Manca
I became irritated at the thought of this man telling me that the pizza I ordered half an hour ago
was only just being prepared. My way or no way. I want to eat in, he does not. I want a million
dollar man and he wants trees. Sometimes, no one gets what they want.
Nadja Moore is a writer based in Surrey, UK. She has a day job, a roommate, a band called Lilies in my brain and no pets. Her poems have appeared in Horror Sleaze Trash and Terror House Magazine.
Dark of the moon...
Walking last night with my young dog along a deserted road,
the stars were so clear we could see by them
and the air so still we could hear stirrings
of night creatures in the woods to either side...
abandoned cemetery...
the wind sprites
restless
We could hear the crackle of a neighbor's bonfire and the laughter
of a few rowdies... the skush sound of a can of beer and the snort of a joke.
And off in another direction: the voices of a pair of Cranes
speaking to each other in quiet tones less than a tenth of how loud a Crane can be. Jack the dog heard them too, and stopped with one paw lifted
as he listened carefully to them. I feel that they were just talking softly to each other in the dark as couples do.
reincarnation...
as fate would have them
meet again
Jack was a city dog before being rescued, and all this is very new to him.
He knows quite well that the world is a dangerous place,
but these new sounds and smells unnerve him
because he doesn’t know how dangerous they might be.
pitch black...
the hickory path
a chuck-will's-widow
Further along the road the weird call of the Screech Owl
gave me shivers as it always does. We decided to turn back.
The Screech Owl's calls, a high lonely wavering wail...
continued until silenced by four gruff and peremptory woofs
of a Great Horned Owl. Those birds are the top of the food chain
in our area, and other Owls become very
circumspect in their presence, for good reason.
nervous expiration
steam mists
the glasses
The Horned Owl sent us home with another
four low tones: Hoot… Hoot... Hoot-Hoot.
We walked back in companionable silence.
under
the crisp light
of stars
from time to time
i saw a lighter
and a spoon on
the nightstand
by the bed
she saw me
looking at them
and uttered she
only does that
from time to
time
i told her it
wasn't any
of my business
your life
your choice
she kissed me
with a tear in
her eye
i was her first
non-hypocrite
in a long time
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
falling in love again
i know i am running out
of chances of ever falling
in love again
i wouldn't say i'm desperate
but i know i can hear the old
soul in me growing impatient
the joys of being a loner...
but it isn't like they are beating
the door down to find me
one broken soul has stepped up
and thrown her hat in the ring
now, it is up to this broken
soul to actually pick the
fucking thing up
------------------------------------------------------------------------
have her way with me
the latest muse wants
to come over and have
her way with me
of course, the middle of
a pandemic and suddenly
i'm popular again
i have the luck of someone
that's been dead for years
and if this is the after life
i'm really happy i didn't
waste all that time in
church
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
surrounded by death
all these years surrounded
by death you can't help
but think about it every
now and then
and as much as i love
to die in my sleep i know
the chances get slimmer
and slimmer each year
the evil side of me wants
to die on the toilet like
elvis
oh, the fucking irony
the poet in me wants to
die inside the wife of
someone else
in reality, i'm sure it
will be by attrition
or right before i was
supposed to suddenly
be rich
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
in the arms of my first love
i had a dream last night
i died in the arms of
my first love
i know i should tell
her about the dream
but i'm not sure what
that would accomplish
all the miles between
us aren't getting closer
anytime soon
and knowing my luck,
when they do
i'll be too late
i know i am officially
old when my life
becomes lyrics from
a social distortion
song
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Black Coffee Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Black Shamrock and Cajun Mutt Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Welcome to the experimental semi-monthly issue of Synchronized Chaos.
First of all, we stand with the people affected by the ongoing crisis in Ukraine, as well as in Myanmar, Afghanistan, Yemen, Syria, and everywhere else people are placed in harm’s way.
We encourage the readers and writers who enjoy our publication to write letters of support to be included in care packages to be delivered to refugees around the world by the nonprofit New Beginnings. Click here to write a letter online (anonymously if you wish) that will support and encourage a refugee family in their new home.
Also, PEN America campaigns on behalf of writers facing persecution for their nonviolent work. Click here to read and sign online petitions for different writers at risk. Also, the organization Free Women Writers is looking for volunteer editors for pieces they are collecting and publishing from women and girls in Afghanistan.
All are welcome to attend the Hayward Lit Hop, a multi-venue literary reading at 3pm Saturday April 30th, coinciding with and continuing after Hayward’s first youth poet laureate award ceremony. Several Synchronized Chaos contributors will read from their work.
Also please join us for the Audible Browsing Experience in Philadelphia March 24th at 6pm at Head House Books (our Association of Writing Programs (AWP) offsite event).
This month we reflect on our place within the larger forces that shape the world around us, but also our willingness to live as if our personal thoughts and creativity matter.
J.K. Durick writes of the tedium of suffering: war, death, disease, and taxes.
Doug Jacquier contributes travel vignettes focused on social and legal norms and the aftermath of transgressions.
J.J. Campbell observes the inevitability of various forms of everyday death and decay. Keith Hoerner conjures up images of remnants of people and places, probing the psychological effects of loss.
Ivan Jenson sends us humorous poems of star-studded dreams and downgraded expectations.
Aviva Derenowski references the pressure of too much familiarity, too much hardening of perspectives, that she found in her home country of Israel.
Lynn White reflects on what, and who, we choose to keep and toss aside, while Michael Lee Johnson explores aspects of the bittersweet life of a poet. Inseo Yang reflects upon the demise of an autumnal love.
Chimezie Ihekuna offers up advice for those who seek to become published authors. Santiago Burdon contributes a wry vignette about rendering one’s actual journey towards creative writing craft into actionable advice for teens. J.D. Nelson mixes up syllables into a technical concoction.
Jelvin S. Gibson rages at corruption and social injustice yet sings the praises of sunsets and poetic love. Mahbub also finds love in the gentle beauty of nature as well as in romance. His work acknowledges our human vulnerability and need to make the most of each moment.
John Culp experiences love as a pleasant distraction, something that makes each day smoother, while Aminanta Talawally captures the humble thoughts of a young woman whose first crush has inspired her to put her pen to paper.
Diah Youlo declares love for Black women, honoring their strength and courage and nurturing compassion. George S.K. Boakai, writing under the pen name ‘Compoze’, encourages us to embrace and express our feelings.
Jelvin S. Gibson shares a story of life change through faith, recovery from addiction. Michael Robinson’s work also touches on spiritual themes of salvation and redemption, and Arsi Rauf relates his reverent quest for the Almighty. Maid Corbic relates a fable of small-town justice, where even the darkest villain is not beyond redemption.
I lived in the Land of Honey for forty years.
Why was I there?
Because people treated each other like family, nobody heard me. They pushed their finger where it hurt and said: "It's good. You'll love it; hold back a little and see how good it is." I held on for forty years.
During that restraint, I learned to shout when it hurt, cry when it bothered me, interfere with what did not concern me, and rejoice when someone was kind.
When someone was kind to me, I fell in love. I thought he was special because he saw the good in me, the supporter, the compassionate, and the generous. That spark didn't last. After a while, he remembered that I was not what he needed, not someone he loved. I moved him to the pile of those who left me without saying goodbye.
I left Israel. I left the despair in my hope of finding a man to start a family. I left those who told me at length what was wrong with me. I went without saying goodbye.
What's wrong with me? I could write an encyclopedia about what's wrong with me? I'm still crying and screaming and sobbing and shedding tears over everything wrong in my world. I'm sick of it.
I'm tired of seeing what's wrong with me and the world. I'm tired of begging people to love me and give me a chance.
Give me a chance! Do you give peace a chance? No. Stability has no chance because it's not painful, unfamiliar, or honest.
Why waste time on reasons. It's all a matter of feeling. Today it's exciting like this; tomorrow, it's exciting like that. People think I attack them, attacking Israel, threatening what they love. So why do I think I'm talking and no one hears me?
I love the language, people, the sea, and the land. I love the Israelis and Palestinians. I love the vaccinated and the unvaccinated.
Still, out of love, I can't stay so close. That's why I left after staying in Israel for forty years.
I can't stay so close because it burns my soul, my sanity, my logic, my perspective.
There's no perspective in Israel. Everything burns. All or nothing, war or peace, together or separately, love or war. Two or nothing.
I'm in favor of two.
So who are the two? You and me? God and I? Mom and I? My husband and I? My children and I? Me and me?
Me and me? What is it? Who is it? Who is alive, and what is the echo? My echo magnifies me and shows me what I can do. I could do that in Israel. See where the echo is? Where are the options? Where is the edge that I can stretch?
The edge that I can stretch for good.
That's where I'll go.
Author's bio
Aviva Derenowski lives within walking distance from Silver Lake Park and the Hudson River. She enjoys watching ducks floating and seagulls soaring. She self-published three books, including Talking to my mother - 99 anecdotes in 2018. In 2021 she edited the anthology Celebrating Our Mothers. God is her senior partner.
Remnants
It’s later than you think
or maybe sooner
they’re all that are left now
the letters waiting
ready
to be formed into words
must try to sort themselves
into words
that will never be spoken.
And the words already written
the manuscript
unread
ready
for a reader
who will never find them
never read them.
And the colours
of paint
and paper
fabric
clay
ready
to be put together
reformed into a beauty
never to be seen
or even imagined.
And the worn clothes still warm
almost
almost warm
already worn
stuffed into black bags
ready
to be worn
again.
All that remains
now
it’s later than you think
or maybe sooner.
Too late for them
anyway.
.........
Raining Tears
It’s raining again,
endless rain
or so it seems
the clouds breaking,
fracturing,
letting it all pour out
as I watch
feeling
my heart breaking
bleeding like the rain,
the raindrops of my heart
pouring out like tears of blood.
...............
Keep Your Hat On
There was a time when going out
was an occasion to be dressed for.
You could not be seen,
should not be seen
without your hat.
You would be ostracised,
talked about,
stigmatised,
left alone
shamed.
Hats were mandatory,
a smart felt trilby or bowler for the men
and a fashion statement of flounces or formality
for the women.
Even later
my visiting aunties kept their hats on
while drinking their afternoon tea indoors.
They left them on in cafes and bars,
it’s the generational norm
from the time when one knew
the dress code and conformed.
But not everyone did so
even back then.
Some were daring,
daring enough to go without a hat
and they still found company.
Others followed the code
and kept their hat on
but still sat on their own
the code didn’t admit everyone,
some were left outside.
Lynn White
He leaped out of the house into the street, to smoke and take in drugs, till one day he got addicted, nothing else matters to him apart from drug. His addiction to drugs led him into the street, he worked for people, cut grass, throw away garbage to support his hobby. After his encounter with Christ, he told his story.
My name is Junior Mata and I’m a drug addict. It was 3P.M., August. 4, 2021. I was in the western part of Paynesville, Liberia, accompanied by two friends who also had the same hobby, namely, Fedasco and Wilson. It was cold with a good atmosphere. I felt very sick and needed a fix as soon as possible. While we waited for our connection to buy drugs, my friends and I talked and exercised in an effort to warm ourselves up a little. As for myself I was very sick. Tears rolled down my face, mucus ran down my nose, I had cramps in my stomach and felt cold chills running up and down my body. Those were the symptoms that accompanied me for almost 8 years while I was addicted to drugs.
Those cursed drugs were destroying me little by little, and left me bankrupt materially, physically and spiritually. All of a sudden my friend said to me, “J. Mata, let’s go”. Here comes the hallelujah.
They were talking about the two youths who preached the words of God in the street and were about two blocks from us. I told them, “I won’t move from here, let God come, let the devil come, but I won’t move from here until my connection (drug supplier) shows up, and that is my drug supplier.
My friends took off, leaving me alone. I felt a touched on my shoulder, and when I looked sideway I recognized one of the youths. “God bless you”. His name was Ray and there were times when I had shared drugs with him. He was addicted to drugs as well, but on the occasion he seemed transformed. His clothes were clean, his face was shining, his hair was cut, and his greeting left me amazed.
I couldn’t believe it. Dozens of questions ran through my mind. I was really surprise at the change in this guy. It was a reality that I couldn’t ignore since he was standing right there in front of me.
He preached to me, telling me about the love that God had shown us through his son, Jesus Christ, who died on the cross at Calvary, because of love and for salvation of all men. I told him that everything he said sounds beautiful, but neither religion nor church is for me. But, if this Christ you’re talking about is as powerful as you say, then pray for me and ask him to change my life. If he takes away my hobby, I’ll go to church with you. I remembered walking and reaching the pastor’s house. When we arrived, the pastor came running out to greet me, I was really very impressed with the love in which he did it with me. I thought about my past and how miserable my life had always been. No one cared about me. It didn’t seem to matter anyone if I was dead or alive. During this time I walked the street and lived alone in old abandon houses. I always felt sad and couldn’t care less about my personal appearance. Nobody was ever glad to see or interested in how I was doing. Because of this I was very impressed by the way the pastor greeted me.
This man of God wasted no time. As soon as he met me he began preaching to me. After speaking to me about 10 – 15 minutes, he asked me if I wanted to accept Christ as my personal savior. I answered him that the only reason I followed Ray was so that he could pray for me. The pastor had faith and confidence in the lord. He told me, to get on my knees right away because he was going to pray for me.
I got on my knees and the pastor and his family the two youths started praying for me. I noticed right away that some of them began crying and pleading to God for me. This really moved me and gave me the strength to pray for myself.
I promise God, saying, “Lord, if what Ray told me is true and if you can honestly change my life, or if there is anything you can do for me. I ask you please, help me, I promise to serve you and visit the church if you take away my hobby”.
I started feeling a sensation of health and life; it was something unexplainable. I don’t believe that I’ll ever have words to explain what I went through that day. I could feel how all my pains and vice symptoms, including smoking, regular cigarettes, completely disappeared. I felt that though my lungs had expanded and I could breathe freely for the first time in my life. What I was living in that instant told me that’s true, Christ lives and will gives life to all those who receive him. God performed a miracle that day, and free me from my sins and all of my vices. Praise his holy name! I stopped being a slave of the devil and was converted into a servant and son of God.
Sin and drugs are the beginning of the end, but Jesus Christ is the way, the truth and the life. Come back to life, give yourself to Christ.
His story was sad, touching, and emotional, that people around could fell his pains and what he went through in the life of worthlessness. But there is time for everything, the sooner you realize the kind of life you live, the better for you.
