EVOLUTION.

In this waltz, I carry you in my mouth;
Between little piano keys that snowflakes wars.
On this floor my body is brass; grief stricken metal and 
A wall is a leaf on fire so my mother looses her throat 
And tried to pronounce requiem, she lifts her right palm
And becomes a lotus, she lurches towards a mirror 
To gather my fate and father’s reflections, she waters her face,
Count periwinkles, colours and the shell of a snail beside a broken pot.
She embodies a fish that drowned of thirst 
And through the wind binoculars; a lapel folds a ladle
Through the kitchen window. A wild flower sprouts
From my mother’s palm and we are two step into evolution;
A wormhole that made my father’s journey to soil 1mile
Away from home; a recapulation of carefully collected snapshots 
Of my father’s bones; his father’s bones; bones and more bones are now
Tree branches transforming into grief.
I dance;you dance;northern hemisphere harbours a hiccup and 
My mother drowns.
I grow; you try to;you fail;schizophuta and rhizopus gather dead organic 
Matter entracellularly and my brother is found identifying himself 
A saprophyte.
I decline; my mother swallow’s earth;she drowns in between a 
Floating microscopic heterotroph and grouped us into a photo album;
Zooplanktons.I name it grief,
She names me son and shades of coat colour counters my decline ;
She names me an x-gene and I pause in between her war-teeth and a
River of thirst rubbing my chest gently.

                GAZPACHO  POLICE

Not only do we have the DC jail which is the DC gulag, but now we have 
Nancy Pelosi's gazpacho police spying on members of Congress, spying on the legislative work that we do, and spying on American citizens.  – Marjorie Taylor Greene,  2/9/2022

		Police are key ingredients in this puree.
		Like red, ripe tomatoes, they blend in, indistinct.
		Add cucumbers, red onions, green peppers, cumin, garlic:
		flavor enforcers.  Quality-control squads.
		But recipes do not send scofflaws to jail.
		Juries are made up of citizens doing their duty.

		Maybe average citizens are the bread-base,
		a mix of day old and fresh,
		adding texture, 
		thickening the broth,
		infusing a medley of ethnic spices.

		The angry lady rages about spies:
		police that spy on lawmakers.
		She decries Pelosi’s private army--
		simmering, on call, ready to chill and serve:
		gazpacho police. 
		How does a Congresswoman recruit an army?
		Wouldn’t the CIA notice?
		And why spy on legislators?
		Isn’t the Congressional Record public?

		Are Congressmen really sneaking around
		doing sneaky things
		until busted by gazpacho police?
		Perhaps someone is adding water instead of olive oil?
		Skimping on oregano?
		Nipping at the red wine vinegar?

		If you don’t have the right blend of
		tomato, veggies, bread, and spice--
		informed citizens as well as the gullible,
		public servants vs. self-servers--
		then all the mincing and mixing
		yields only a hiccup of gourmet broth.


		

		So, what’s the point?
		Why whip up a goulash of grievances?
		Gripers dine on a diet of dudgeon:
		outrage at the DC “gulag,”
		outrage at alleged spies,
		outrage at the scapegoat party leader.
		One righteous finger-pointer
		reads a speech on the floor of Congress
		claiming gazpacho police run rampant in the Capitol.
		She pushes big-time bad-guy buttons:
		Soviet prison camps and Nazi Secret Police--
		though the Nazi zinger sinks in its own sauce,
		thickening as it chills…

		Somewhere in this name-calling soup,
		there lurks a rotten tomato.


		Copyright 2/2020          Patricia Doyne 

The Yellow Bed

In this world of hymn 
I had been so many times in the past 
But not like that I have got my sense today so colorful and new
Just entering into the bed of the yellow flowers
I was taken aback at the buzzing so loud
As it calls, spreads around the bed like the slogan of the young
Halting a moment I tried to understand 
What is that? Is it here or from other side
I would like to pay heed to for some more time 
O my surprise!
Almost on every flower the bees are circling and buzzing
Rising up and low busy in sucking honey and hissing
Like the lover maddened in love with the beloved
Never before I heard this bewitchment, such a commotion of love
Forgetting all other sites the wings on the air
How swarming the bees on the soft yellow flowers in the winter sunlight! 

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
26/12//2020


Memory

The ship has just left the harbor
The mountain is taking a large shape from one corner to other
The round circle slowly turns into the U-shape before the eyes
Advancing beat by beat
The mountain appears to be smaller in size
The ship runs some more - far from away
It glows only the green and gradually it entered into the world of water
What a wonder sight turnng into insight!
As like as my mother goes away before my eyes
What it left behind?
More powerful than it appeared to be.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
26/12//2020


The Eternal Soul

Soul never dies though day by day body collapses
Soul is a cognition taking rest in a certain place after death
Body slips away to the grave but soul flies higher  
A long sleep that sweet dreams may enlighten the eyes 
I believe death is not a journey to darkness 
It can't breach the relation that we have had in between us
A journey to the eternity and light everyone is bound to taste
Our love, responsibility, sympathy, care, duty to God move the soul to laugher and peace
The soul that comes out from the sleeping peace of heaven on the doom's day
The soul that regenerates the young deathless charming body 
In the endless peace of heaven the soul must rejoice then with bright face
We are all on that ongoing process to enter into that eternal world.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
27/12//2020

An Outlook We Promised

To make my mind calm and cheery
I sometimes go out in touch of nature in soft wind or in the stormy rainy weather
Nature teaches us how to flow, how to live well breathing fresh air
We can have different taste and flavor in the moonlit night 
Or at the sunny moments of the day when we sit under the shade of the banyan tree 
The sky is always open at day and night 
We face the challenges of how to live and strife
The misty winter morning, the silent long and large headed mountains, 
The crashing waves, the sunset at the evening, the sunrise in the morning, 
The soft blowing wind, the flying wings of the birds, the roaring and preying in the forest
Even the dead leaf falling from the tree get mixed with the soil
Sing the song of immortality fulfilling the demand we promised.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
28/12//2020


The Little Bright Flowers

The little bright flowers kindle my heart
As like as your soft voice glints my face 
Into the flowers I can fully see your love-laden flashy smile
The butterfly flying around reminds me 
Your blissful note of expressions
The sight of the flowers moving and straining
I can live and die; a source of delight
It's like the stars twinkling at night
Like the moon eliminating sadness
I look over this fascination again and again
And make out the brilliance of love in between the flowers and you, my beloved.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
29-12-2020

One of my favorite experiences pre-Covid was visiting a library or bookstore and picking up books, fingering and flipping through and reading the backs of each title with an interesting cover or concept. This month’s issue of Synchronized Chaos provides a ‘browsing’ experience as it includes a large number of submissions, each with their own themes, style, and flavor.

FYI Synchronized Chaos Magazine will host a free public reading, “Audible Browsing Experience” to coincide with the AWP conference in Philadelphia at Head House Books. Our monthly theme for this issue is a homage to the name of the reading! We have a lineup of readers and will host an open mic if time allows. Event takes place Thursday March 24th from 6-8 pm. Please sign up here if you would like to attend as the store has limited capacity due to social distancing. Head House requires masks and proof of vaccination.

Michael Robinson describes his personal, spiritual experience of salvation and resurrection. Hongri Yuan returns to evoke spiritual ideas, a world more eternal and orderly than our own. Chimezie Ihekuna’s screenplay Saved by His Grace explores the workings of faith in the life of a pastor who loses his son. Sayani Mukherjee bears witness to the last musings of a person who dies through drinking hemlock.

Hong Ngoc Chau dreams of a future literary career and shares the spiritual and intellectual transcendence she finds through the written word. Lorraine Caputo relates vignettes of reading, writing, and traveling, village markets and hotel room sunrises. Reading Don Quixote, she shares some of Chau’s idealistic spirit.

Chris Suah’s speaker’s creative journey allows him to move through loss and arrive at a balance of grief and joy. Abdulloh Abdumominov finds joy in reading nonfiction to learn and grow as a person, while Sushant Thapa celebrates the excitement of learning from both books and life.

Amit Parmessur describes the poetic beauty of nature and literature in elegant prose. Mahbub’s free-verse speakers do the same, finding stillness and grace in hearing the flowing river, embracing on foggy days, and even facing the prospect of death. Joseph Balaz advocates in Hawaiian Pidgin through wind metaphors that readers should face life with a mixture of calm and passion.

J.D. Nelson experiments with language as symbol, with the connections between letters and words, and words and meaning. Joshua Martin draws parallels between words and syllables as the units comprising poetry and the physical plants and bricks making up ecosystems and cities.

Howard Debs brings a historical perspective to the January 6th, 2021 mob attack on the U.S. Capitol. Patricia Doyne speaks of the history behind the racial categories of ‘black people’ and ‘white people’ and protests racism within the U.S.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan offers up observations of mini-scenes and encounters within the United States’ interior. Mark Young crafts work in a similar vein but on a smaller scale, looking at insects and impressionistic personal experiences.

D.S. Maolalai covers domestic quietude and drama: brewing tea and sunrise alongside romantic betrayal and storms. Linda Hibbard writes of the near-universal awkwardness of junior high school, not being a sheltered child anymore but not yet a young adult. Arthur Russell paints a portrait of a New York couple who has found an uneasy truce with middle age and each other.

J.J. Campbell conveys the loneliness that can come with singleness, illness, and caregiving, while Edwin Olu Bestman evokes the loss of belonging and sense of self that can come with the end of a romance.

Robert Ragan admonishes the ‘man in his mirror’ to grow up and move beyond an impossible love to focus on the life in front of him. Ahmad Al-Khatat also writes of the journey towards emotional maturity, how a gentle and mutual romance inspires him to become a more caring person.

In another piece, Khatat mourns the tragedy of sexual assault. Judge Santiago Burdon’s poetry also laments violence, poverty, and heartbreak some women suffer. He also speaks humorously of the confusion a man feels when his female partner reveals her interest in the Wiccan religion.

Amos Momo Ngumbu Jr. expresses his wish for the blind to regain their sight. Christopher Bernard urges each of us to take what steps we can to improve our world.

Jason Visconti celebrates the ‘electricity’ of a passionate human connection, while John Thomas Allen writes of the rich drama of a day in the life of a dumbwaiter. John Culp shouts out about his romance with exuberance. Ian C. Smith reaches for past memories and future knowledge that lies just out of his grasp, while Frankie Laufer speaks of our physical and psychological ‘collections’ – classic rock music, dolls, love and nostalgia.

Andrew MacDonald describes the way our minds make sense of complex, random human or natural events. Lorette C. Luzajic renders Hieronymus Bosch’s jumbled art into lengthy but taut poetry. Jack Galmitz observes the world around him with the eyes of a philosopher or painter, calling to mind Hume and the masters who painted country scenes.

J.P. Lowe reflects wryly on his past animal companions and how Bukowski’s experience with cats and dogs runs counter to his own. J.K. Durick also ponders his past, ruminating on society’s leftovers: what has changed and stayed the same as he grew up. Abigail George renders her past in an impressionistic essay, chronicling and reflecting on her search for family and romantic love as well as her development as a writer. Ivan Fiske ponders the history of Liberia from its connection to the liberation of American slaves to its present-day struggles and resilience.

Our hope is that this issue’s many resplendent offerings will inspire your own creative journey.

Postcard from the heartbreak residence 

too many times, i have lay on my bed for a girl who doesn’t understand the worth of my tears.
how can a camera man keeps taking many shots of me & there’s no proof to show my existence? 
i believe i am just another sad nightmare getting used to viewing myself through broken objects. 
i remember when i prayed for her kingdom to come like the bible teaching us to seek first the kingdom of God & everything shall be added to it. 
i have done many things to her body: i asked & nothing was given. i sought & nothing was found. & i knocked but her body refused to let me in. 
this room of mine no longer knows her name. i have burned pictures of her drawn on my pillows, bedsheets & curtains.
once she was a river where i could swim for days. but she transformed herself into an ocean where i fell before her feet. 
i still do remember the love we held. of kisses & touches we shared on my father’s back porch. 
i still do remember those long conversations, those long walks & cold night hugs.
right now, there’s no history of her in my cellphone: whether received, missed or dialed calls. 
i have regretted of singing her back to sleep & blessing her tongue with rich ingredients of salivation. 
it was a sinful love affair. i pray & promise to never give myself whole or enough to a girl.



Biography: 
Edwin Olu Bestman, poet and engineer, writes from Monrovia, Liberia. He has co-authored several anthologies and the author of two books, Genesis and Raindrops. His works have been featured in Ducor review, WSA, Spillwords, Odd Magazine, African Writer Magazine, Agape Review, Eboquills, Literary Yard, Poetry Nation, Ngiga Review, SIM, Nantygreens, Sipay Magazine, Afritondo, Rising Phoenix Review, AfroRep Journal, Madness Muse Press, Rigorous Magazine, Arts Lounge, Fiery Scribes and elsewhere.

Foreknowledge

My mind drifts to arcane words, then I read,
turn pages, find them waiting for me there.
Are these eerie messages I should heed?
Chance?  A higher power, malignant, fair?
Loose thoughts alight on out of contact friends,
presaging their emails in my Inbox
banjaxing me, more disturbing godsends
nearing my final act, hands circling clocks.
In these times of surveillance, a feeling
of being monitored persists, a weight,
also, mumbo-jumbo’s cant, this reeling
from sense for one dubious about fate,
yet I like the image of shadows cast
by guardian angels’ wings.  Safe at last?
                    **************

                                                  

Their Names

Daydreaming of youthful trove’s cloth of gold,
I can’t recall the name of an old flame,
names’ past mode gentle, today’s, blazoned, bold.
I see her, hear her voice, this long-gone dame.
Stab in the dark searching keeps us apart.
Stymied, my tired brain reaches impasses.
I tick off the alphabet, letter smart,
cease rummaging, revisit schools, classes.
Alma, Beatrice, Cassandra, Diane,
Elvie, Florence, Gwenda, from days sublime,
Helen, Irene, Judith, her golden tan.
Katie, Lorraine, Meredith, down through time,
names’ threnody, faded array of choice.
I think that haunting flashback dame was Joyce.

Biog:  Ian C Smith’s work has been published in Antipodes, BBC Radio 4 Sounds,The Dalhousie Review, Griffith Review, San Pedro River Review , Southword, The Stony Thursday Book, & Two Thirds North.  His seventh book is wonder sadness madness joy, Ginninderra (Port Adelaide).  He writes in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, and on Flinders Island.