MEMORIES



I look back at the years behind me and wonder where have they gone. Beginning with grammar school and then high school, I was given many opportunities to explore many facets of the world around me.


Singing in choirs, acting in amateur theater, being a part of the Civil Air Patrol which is a civilian help to the Air Force (in uniforms). Horseback riding through the woods and streams in the Adirondack Mountains.


Eventually getting married and having two babies (daughters).  Taking trips with the girls -- Disney World and also back to the Adirondack Mountains.
Celebrations at Christmas with Mass first.  Birthday parties, New Year's Eve parties and so much more.


Sometimes all this seems like a dream of long ago -- but it was real.  Looking back, I wonder - did I accomplish everything I should have and did I always do the right thing.


When you become a "Senior", you sometimes long for that time past. Now you have to take pills, you ache everywhere at times.  But, you know, I wouldn't change it for anything.  Each of us have a time of growing, loving and longing.  I am grateful for that time and will always nourish and also be happy for those days long ago.

This Heat

the heat is up in
the 30’s, and even
after a short time
outside you’re
dripping water as
if you’ve stepped
out of the shower.
It’s bloody brutal,
I’ve got ginger hair
( well I used to ) and,
I can’t take this heat.
I’m not made for it,
I’m used to drizzly,
dull, overcast, grey
days. I must be one
of the only people to
have had sunstroke
in Stoke on Trent. It
happened when I was
about 7 years old, I’ll
never forget it. I was
so fuckin’ ill. Throwing
up like you wouldn’t
believe. Pink, strawberry
milkshake pouring from
my nose as I puked like
I’d never puked before.
Sorry to disgust you,
but no, I’m no good in
the heat. I think what
maybe it’s my Irish
heritage. I’m damn
good at drinking, but
I can’t stand the sun.
No, I just can’t take
this heat.

So Boring Again

Life seems so boring
again today. Last night
about half a mile from
where I live, there was
a hostage situation.
The whole area was
full of police, some of
them with submachine
guns. There was also
ambulances, riot vans,
police dog units, and
anything else you could
think of. Apparently, some coke dealer had gone nuts, and kidnapped his missus with a samurai sword, and an air pistol.
Today there was nothing,
not a fuckin’ thing.
Life seems so boring
again.

My Yearly Complaint

It’s so stuffy, and
so humid.You can
hardly take a breath,
but I know from the
time of year that
summer’s heading
towards it’s death.
It always makes me
feel so sad, as my
September birthday
draws near that
another summer is
nearly gone, and
Autumn is once again
here. Don’t get me
wrong, I think Autumn
is great. It’s a riot of
colours, and smells.
Its winter that I really
hate, to me it’s like
fuckin’ Hell. When it
kicks in, you know it’s
gonna be six months
until you feel warm.
I hate the snow,
I hate the cold. I hate
its function, and its form.
You might think that
living in England, I’d
be used to this shit.
But every year as it
comes around I want
to get away from it.

Welcome, readers, to August’s issue of Synchronized Chaos Magazine.

First off, we have an announcement from regular contributor and nature poet Rui Carvalho, about the annual international nature writing contest we co-host with him.

Also, another regular contributor, poet and novelist Christopher Bernard, has established a podcast.

This issue reveals and explores different dimensions of our humanity: our bodies and looks, our emotions, our intellect and creativity, our life transitions and hopes for our futures, our personal relationships, and our broader societies, our quests for justice and how we treat each other and the natural world.

Norman J. Olson narrates the first professional gallery exhibition of some of his paintings, artistic nudes.

Judge Santiago Burdon paints a portrait of the looks and personality of a captivating woman, while Bangladeshi poet Mahbub’s work probes the mysteries of the human heart.

J.J. Campbell offers up moments of happiness and acceptance rendered through his trademark cynicism.

Shruti Iyer conveys and explores the panoply of human emotions through her variety of poetic female narrators.

Michael Steffen depicts the strength of the human personality in response to circumstances: humor, sauciness, existential curiosity, fury, and resolve.

J.D. DeHart’s pieces reflect the power of words and ideas. In Mark Young’s poems, the ideas as well as the words seem to hang together, even when they don’t make sense in a linear way.

Henry Bladon presents gently humorous creative frustration, where losing one’s ideas and work-in-progress becomes a kind of ‘little death.’ In a similar vein, Rachel Grosvenor contributes a sestina about the struggle of creativity over sorrow and despair.

Mike Zone writes of our epidemic of loneliness, how sometimes we try to possess each other rather than truly connecting. Syrian author Raghda Mouazen crafts pieces about isolation and enclosure, and her speakers retain the desire to comfort others.

J.K. Durick offers up a humorous lament on growing old.

Ghanaian performance poet Ike Boat’s pieces depict coming of age, figuring out what to do in life, and overcoming obstacles such as bedbugs. He also contributes notes from his travels, ‘On the Road with Ike Boat.’

In her monthly Book Periscope column, Elizabeth Hughes reviews Gini Grossenbacher’s Madam in Silk, a historical fiction tale of a woman immigrant from China during California’s 1850s gold rush.

James Thurgood’s poetry also expresses personal growth: the need to let go and not hoard items from the past, the inevitability of loss in life, and how, like the writer or the bird out of his comfort zone, we can make room for new ventures.

Federico Wardal extends himself creatively by allowing the development of a virtual rendering of himself who can act in films and plays, some of whom he’s written himself.

Spanish writer Daniel De Culla renders in verse a medieval Spanish tragic tale of two timeless human concerns: love and death.

U.K. author Mark Murphy presents a set of poems about love, fascination and the inexorable force of history.

Michael Robinson opines on religion, how greed and selfishness among both the leadership and the congregation do as much as the coronavirus to drive people away from church.

Mickey Corrigan satirically criticizes those who prize their own aggrandizement over compassion for other people and the natural world.

Michael Robinson’s poetry honors the legacies of Christian faith and American Black culture as a way to survive the past and present violence Black Americans endure.

Egyptian writer Jaylan Salah writes of the gradually expanding portrayal of Black manhood in cinema, how Black men are now being shown as more complex and fully human.

Dave Douglas’ heady thoughtful poems urge us towards love for one another, while Chinese poet Hongri Yuan creates a vision of order, wisdom and beauty in his fantastical Golden City.

Nigerian author Chimezie Ihekuna’s poem expresses hope that we will overcome coronavirus.

Joan Beebe shares her waking dream of a ship, of traveling through life’s losses with an inner sense of peace.

We hope that this issue leaves you with peace, resolve, and creative inspiration.

at any given moment
 
she had the look
of a woman that
would shatter
you into pieces
and you had
nothing but
time
 
she liked her
whiskey neat
and to be
showered
with love
at any given
moment
 
thankfully,
all that time
came in handy
----------------------------------------------------------------------
twenty-seven years
 
a little rain on a
tuesday afternoon
 
twenty-seven years
after a woman got
famous for cutting
her husband's penis
off
 
life was much simpler

back then
--------------------------------------------------------------------
in the nude
 
purple sunshine
as the horizon
fades
 
you once knew
a woman who
used to smoke
cigarettes in the
nude on her front
porch
 
you always thought
she would be an
amazing lover
 
turns out she was
just lazy and wanted
a lover that also
did her laundry
 
needless to say
 
we didn't last long

together
--------------------------------------------------------------------
to die in a war
 
i never have asked
for forgiveness
 
and i quit asking for
permission as soon
as i was old enough
to die in a war
 
i've been socially
distant for the
majority of
my life
 
so, staying away
isn't that big
of a deal to me
 
and the mask reminds
me of every bad guy
i cheered for in the
westerns i watched

as a child
--------------------------------------------------------------------
finding a twenty on the ground
 
happiness is a bet
on the winning
horse
 
a woman sleeping
in your arms after
a night of ecstasy
 
finding a twenty
on the ground
 
watching it rain
after the grass
has been mowed
 
listening to coltrane
after the spoon has

been emptied

The Silence

Raghda Mouazen, Syria                   

A gentle beat of emptiness is heard

Among the hush that dominates all

But my ears are full of echoes,

A sharp arrow would fall

Over the heart that’s full of scars.

Arrows of hollowness they are,

Of the everlasting silence they are,

Of the hopeful heart and hopeless scar,

Of the soulless dumpness they are

And I weep, weep, weep

Till I see only blur.

A breath weighs a ton over my chest

Packed with trivial harsh memories

With senseless words of senseless beings

Aiming their arrows well for braggings

And they ache, ache, ache

With every breath and they are many!

Blood is dried and it turned snow white

No soul to break this silence, silence, silence

And replace those worthless arrows

With roses red and echoes of fluffy words.

Oh the noisy silence is the loudest, I say

But still, with hope it lulls

And I sleep on the lulls of an idle heart.

Dark Ocean    

Raghda Mouazen, Syria                         

Diving down into the deep

To lay some of the ocean’s weight,

I pick up poisounous, pale clouds

From the moonless, starless

Night like darkness.

Breathless with heaviness,

The surface I reach.

Similar souls I offer a cloud each

For I wish them not to decay.

They leave with relief

Unaware of my grief.

Heaviness still lays

Upon my deep.

Sore Jewels

Raghda Mouazen, Syria               

Wearing her man’s gifts,
The red, blue and yellow jewels,
She walks among the wondering eyes,
Hiding them all except the gray diamond ring
But the pearls he adores
And for him preserved
For the fatal reunion
When his gifts are fearfully received
From his merciless ‎monstrous hands.

A Woman’s Reflection

Raghda Mouazen, Syria            

In a mirror she looked
Frozen locks on her head
With a colorless crown
Dark brown eyes filled
With utter hollowness.

No wrinkles were visible
They only dominated the unseen part
Of her thin body
And most of her heart.

Pure white lilies she held
Watered nearly everyday.
Withered trumpet vines
Grew heavy all over her body.

Closed her eyes to flee
But pain conquered
And seized her dreams,
Leaving her bewildered.

Her voice may save her
But the sobs took over
And it would only tremble.
Again, there was no anchor.

A veil over what was left
Of her colorful hair
Cruelly stripped their color
Still, they think it is completely fair.

She had to accept it with palor
For in the end it was a gift
From her trustful amor.
It was a curse no one could lift.

Misty existence

Raghda Mouazen, Syria                

Cold white walls

Could hear a thought of vengence,

Conquering me.

A warm breath,

Various expressions,

Colour, I need.

I have waited decades

For them to decay.

On ruins I behold

Greenless, soundless, sunless being,

Fermentation

You and I, being one and ever

Want to be a myth

An existence in the heart of every lovers and beloveds

Not longing for high rank and all the amenities of the modern world

By twisting one we can spread from every ocean to the starry sky

The glittering hearts as you and I, a kingly world

With the touch of green leaves and hills

Being in touch so tight

Can spend all day and night full of passion and joy

Years after years the juice of the fruits

Is going to be fermented in the safe underground

You and I the same points of the drugs taken by

Fully addicted

Though living so far from the bars

We ourselves have turned into this addition

Let’s cheer.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
20/09/2019

The Touching Murders

Nazmin along with her two daughters murdered

By her elder sister’s husband, Abbus

It was just from his arrogance

Abbus took this step of killing them

The innocent faces of eight-year-old girl Nusrat

And two-year-old girl Khadiza

With her mother lying on the fifth floor

In throat-cut condition

And his sixteen-year-old daughter was wounded very severely

Man can hurt to others

But this killing mission

Beyond imagination overcomes the myth

How it fails to rule the conscience?

The world becomes too hot around us

The innocent killed without any thought

Oh! What a nonsense poor killer, Abbus.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
20/09/2019

In You

I want to live in you

I want to die for you

You are my soul-mate

I’m your whole hearted

I can say it in full faith

You see me in the mirror

I can say in bold

You always endure

While taking steps

I was standing before the glass

Without any break I just enter into.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
06/10/2019

Every Moment of the Day

Nothing was able to kill Hercules

It was only Hera’s magic errand

Supernatural power acted on the air, water or land

Nothing could harm you without hers

One jealous of can do what it can’t be done by

Everyday every moment hundreds and thousands die and live

Bodily or mentally fall flat on the ground

Eye tightly bound to the blue sky

The hands at the back head

What they see?

Everyday every moment we only touch and lie

Moreover we again move to fight for joy.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
06/10/2019

Hunger

The hunger spirit is burning for what?

Burning the eyes, the heart, the chest

Burning the stomach and what not!

An iron rod

Red in the fire

All fires and creates smoke

Where I step I feel like

Fire burning on the mud or sand

In this vague and smoky world I can’t have

A slash of watery land

I get lost in your love

O dear, can’t you hear?

Burning the whole body and soul

How should I keep pace in this vast world night? 

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
07/10/2019