2024:  HIPPOS & HURRICANES

You know that things are dicey when the year’s

bright spot’s a pygmy hippo named Moo Deng—

“bouncing pork”—the star of Thailand’s zoo,

who teethes on knees of those who try to feed her.

Incumbents lost elections round the world:

South Africa, India, U.K., and Japan.

We gained Trump’s trademark comeback– touting plans

for buying Greenland, making Canada

a State. Sounds crazy, but deporting hordes

of immigrants from factories and farms

is not a sane move, either. Nor are tariffs. 

We lost outstanding people: Jimmy Carter,

100–year-old humanitarian;

the Grateful Dead’s Phil Lesh; stars Maggie Smith,

Kris Kristofferson, and James Earl Jones;

Nikki Giovanni, black-arts poet;

TV’s fitness guru Richard Simmons.

Putin’s foe, Alexei Navalny, died

in an Arctic prison cell, while war goes on

against Ukraine, the country Putin covets.

But 2024 was rife with war—

Civil War in Sudan; in the Middle East,

Hamas attacked and Netanyahu bombed

hospitals and workers bringing food 

to starving Gaza. This war, no one wins.

Autocracies in key countries grow strong—

China, Russia, North Korea, Iran.

They sell each other weapons. Partners, now.

Our planet’s climate keeps on heating up.

The largest, longest river in the world,

the Amazon, is starting to go dry.

The hottest year on record’s ’24.

To cap it, add a hurricane or ten. 

Helene’s the Atlantic Ocean’s special gift.

Flooded Spain and US southeast coast.

Perhaps life’s better on another planet?

NASA’s Perseverance targeted Mars

in search of living microbes under ice.

And on the moon, Japan landed a SLIM *

softly, nose-down;  solar-powered success.

Research these days is robot-run, just like

in science fiction. Fiction, now, is fact.

Artificial Intelligence, called AI,

leads medical breakthroughs. That’s a happy plus.

But guardrails aren’t in place, and people fear

AI, unchecked, could trash our daily lives. 

So here we are. Now 2024

is in our rear-view mirror.  What a year!

What’s next? More of the same? Hippos and wars?

Or will Trump stir up chaos, just for fun?

* Smart Lander for Investigating Moon

Not Really

I sat under a cherry tree 

writing love songs.

Not really, but what if I did?

Your heart, my heart, our hearts 

vowed to be together.

Not really, but what if we did?

We held the moon in our hands,

picked daffodils in the rain.

Not really, but what if we did?

One magic moment we kissed

and vowed our love was true.

Not really, but what if it was?

*

Dying to Live

I am no flower.

I am not thin enough.

I am dying to live

in a photograph.

Years later, you at

my side, in a photo,

what a lovely thing,

a smile on our faces.

Such splendor and

beauty in the back-

ground. I leave this 

world this old photo 

from a happy time.

I stick out my tongue 

and puff out my chest

as a ghost. My white

hair, far from radiant.

Where have my eyes

gone? Where is my 

flesh. I hide even if no

one is looking for me.

I am all bones. My

skeleton hand shakes.

My soul is long gone

from this earth. The

finality of life leaves

a ghost facsimile,

an oxidized monster,

which time no longer

waits for.

*

Sleep Talking 

I speak for much too long

without pause in my sleep.

I speak without filter when 

we are apart in my dreams.

In my daydreaming days is

where you kiss me at last.

It is all I want on days the

streets are wet with rain.

Quivering on snowy days

like a grape on the vine, I

freeze up again and again.

I wish for another dream

where you wrap me up

in your embrace. When

are you coming my way?

I cannot wait to see you.

Is it today or tomorrow?

I am wise to know it might

be too long of a wait. I

speak whole volumes of

nonsense. I speak it in

my sleep. I speak so much.

It must be awful to sleep

near me. One can only 

imagine. When I sleep 

I will spill my guts. I must

put my hands over my mouth.

Apple Lack For

Look it up. 2 much mercenary info. Je suis yr ponce Charlie and L-l-l-l-lola. DONT sever era 4 pp 404. He? Just ice age, tall me too, smirk out the nme terra forming at the time of the mouth floes Fister

Made out the ion quest. I like Arthur Flander’s Twistered grammarx of martial law. And syntax for the lust could be mean girls to get her.

The Naruto gif play the big other wise guise. You’ll be no kith ot kentucky fried Wildean childREN SHD BE SHORT a quid of the riverlution. EleVader muzak 47 crates of yeahyeahyeah. Took aegis. ASiOLmC f light vers GHC

O Lorde, oh Jesse, o Jamms, o Kelsey, u wake up2 unsure theyre a broad. Cursed if my debt, live wire me the Mooney on a Foxtel i prepared Apologue Four earliar.

Skim a P? Nod. On. Sears train of fought derails. Screw the hinges off, i mise en scene change nothing out better yet, a yeti sighting your sauces, witch i will reuse for the motor scheme.

They say they seem you out with my mane. Its as logical as welfare but vacuum. Slobs. For dinner goes Cletis: doobie, doobie my Dorian: A Limitation. Play id on my Reptar braim. Is just noh good.

Wart am i mensa do if top not up from the happenstance? The changing collar gear, the reddy good bats all swopping and screeching overheard me in the pube, in fuel on komodo mode da vie 666 daze in she had a bud so categorically imperative it was perfect i say so. *imperial

That’s Sol, folks. Masticate my ExistenZ.  4 or 5 years later, maybe sex. Navy nights on these nervous roads in Las Voguest.  Without me, it was still the realest, all about a genderfuck, her phat but i spank therefore i am the only Dendy around here. I do all the dandistry. Stop the is real. Free pale.

Jules Verne is In2Deep. He could letterally turm in office. Kitty is a saxophone off end er. I hate to love it.

Git freaky, then place confusing traffic cones in orange places with Waz, who out skiled sever L pro lice officers laid out back. [Words]

We white maw if trickled downes syndroke w/ cornext pasture and in your dexterity, Hyde Parks it in your stops 1-4. Dunce murk me stroppy wada in yr perso in formation fot thr tweak.

But sands west, i seer the west apple lags.

My Furthermorw bornes like babble rpa. I did it to degaol the ill seeing eye. Time is only what gets a noice example of whose line is it pointillism, any weigh? We candy cane it be wee piked all nu metal that sewer rat was as fringe festival aa “they” come out of the closest. This Kettle’s yours. 82% water. Works…

Macro chips were my only Sustagen
Court type listen like device in hard form dumpers breakfast lie

N thru the telescope line snapped @asiolmc. And at TKs party 17th partly, shrewd new all abo’ me.

They lurve it soft machine fuzzed

over Fleetwood Mac big deal

Breaker escapes her eyes. You whys buy;

Crazy eye addict. I will knit be yr hell p.

Errorist Marcel laughs himself to debt. Im the mast head job of the spin master SKPing unharmed. We Total Recall John M Bennetts auctions as high distinction identities, trysts with uncanny linguistic titties.

4379. Thats not a pest code.

Thats gnat

A system, a pest code, or the systematic derangment of its pretenses.

Treasonous little zits. The statistics of play have treated me like a dag. I mean dog. They know bland loyalty.

I dork trashpo behind mark young’s back against your motifsm

I spy with my little i is a bother.

We resorted to a knight of pashin’.

I didnt wanna frisk what we had, but what if what we could get could be beta? We exotic resorted to a lost nite of Passiona.

Its a rich hunt..

Badge of Glory

Karin knew the drill.  She got in line behind all the other girls in Mrs. Lowenstein’s fourth grade class and awaited her turn to be observed, measured and judged.   At the front of the line, near the blackboard, Mary Ann approached the towel arrayed across the floor, knelt on her knees and allowed Mrs. Lowenstein to gauge the distance between the hem on her skirt and the floor with a wooden yard stick.   It was a rather primitive ritual, but this was 1964 and there was little room in the educational system for progressive thought, so-called.  “You’re good to go, Mary Ann,” commented the teacher.  “Good girl.”  Mary Ann, her cheeks red, took her seat among the other students, who were all the boys in the class.  “Next!” snapped Lowenstein.

Next up was Kay, the class tomboy, who always dressed in denim jeans.  Objections from some school board member mandated that Kay conform to the dress code, however, so she  was forced to wear a skirt over her dungarees.  This didn’t get her out of the measuring ritual, however, and down on the towel Kay went.  “Kay,” said Mrs. Lowenstein reprovingly, “you’re more than an inch too short.”  Kay’s mouth opened incredulously, then closed.  “You know the rules,” her teacher reminded her.  Kay’s mouth opened again but no words came out.  Her face perceptively darkened.  “Now, get on home and put on a decent skirt so you can fit in with the rest of the girls!” directed Lowenstein.  Kay left the classroom without a word.  Students had learned from hard experience that there was no negotiating with Mrs. Lowenstein.  Kay slammed the door as she left.  Mrs. Lowenstein’s mouth formed a hard, straight line, but she said nothing.  And so it went, till nearly every girl had been suitably appraised ahd humiliated.  There was but one girl  left.

“Karin,” said Mrs. Lowenstein with relish.  “You’re next.”  Karin could almost imagine the sadistic teacher licking her lips, salivating to bring the brunt of her authority to bear on the nine year old student.  Karin stood before her teacher.  “Well, get down on your knees,” ordered Lowenstein.  Karin could hear some of the boys giggling across the room.  Karin felt heat on her face, but complied with the directive.  Lowenstein stuck her damnable yard stick against Karin’s knee and measured.  “Aha!” she yelped gleefully.  “You’re fully an inch and a half too short, you naughty girl!”  Karin rose to her feet, shrugged.  “Get home and get a decent skirt, or maybe a dress–that’s what proper young women should wear!”  Lowenstein was ungracious in victory.

“And just how am I going to do that, Mrs. Lowenstein?” asked Karin wearily.  “Huh?  What?” spluttered the teacher.  “What do you mean?” she demanded.  “I live two miles from school; I take the bus here,” said Karin, as though explaining a simple arithmetic problem to a slow child.  “How do I get there and back?  Both my parents work.” she explained.  “Your mother…works?” asked the teacher, scandalized.  “Well, you work, don’t you?” her student asked.  “Don’t be impertinent,” snapped the teacher, frustrated at confronting the truth.

Mrs. Lowenstein thought hard for a moment before snapping her thumb and forefinger and announcing,  “I’ve got it:  go down to Miss Washburn, the Home Ec teacher and have her let the hem out of that skirt.”  Karin rolled her eyes but complied with her teacher’s wishes.  A few minutes later, Miss Washburn appeared at the door of the four grade classroom and motioned Mrs. Lowenstein to join her.  “Yes, Wanda, is there any problem with Karin?”  “I couldn’t let the hem out because there wasn’t but about a half inch left.  But I found a quick fix.”  “What is it?” the other teacher asked.  

“Well, I’ll show you.”  Signaling behind the door, Miss Washburn beckoned Karin to join them in the classroom, which she reluctantly did.  The rest of the class immediately burst out laughing uproariously.  There, appended to the hem of Karin’s skirt, was a four-inch band of gold-colored fabric, stretching all around the circumference of the skirt.  Mrs. Lowenstein frowned at first, then perked up, determined not to make a bad situation worse.  “There, that’s fine, thank you, Miss Washburn.”  She turned to the little girl.  “You see, Karin, you’re quite presentable now.  Don’t you think your father would see the improvement in your apparel?”    “I agree, Mrs. Lowenstein,” said Karin with surprising enthusiasm, her green eyes flashing.  “And I believe my father would love it.”  “Really?” asked her teacher, skeptical.  “Yes!  During World War II my father had one just like it, only in a Star of David; I’ve been pictures.  He wore it at Auschwitz!”

First of all, an announcement from contributor Chimezie Ihekuna, who is seeking an investor/executive producer for the project, One Man’s Deep Words. It is set in the US.

Produced By Vincent Turner, Developed By Robert Sacchi, 115 pages. Phase: Pre-production/Development, Budget Estimation: $23,000-314,000. Pitch deck and budget list available, please email synchchaos@gmail.com if interested.

Charles Griffin, a philosophy professor, is challenged by Adam, one of his students, over his unruly behaviour while lecturing. Though Charles is unhappy lecturing by the books, Adam’s challenge becomes the inspiration behind his nascent philosophy.

The first issue of 2025 presents a Lazy Susan of Ideas. This phrase comes from Desiree Richter, author of The Presence of Absence, about the accidental death of her young son and her journey out of rigid religious fundamentalism, out recently from the University of New Orleans Press.

In a recent interview on the podcast I Was a Teenage Fundamentalist, Richter describes reading a wide variety of books in her time of grief and being exposed to a whole “lazy Susan of ideas.”

This month’s contributors present a whole turntable of thoughts as well. Some, like Richter’s, are in response to personal or larger griefs, while others are philosophical or introspective or academic or celebratory.

Jack Mellender travels on a lyrical romp through many decades of wild living in California. Shahnoza Ochildiyeva celebrates her educational and personal accomplishments. Ashraful Kabir conveys the journey of self-discovery with a metaphor of a boat ride as Abeera Mizra renders personal awakenings through determined verse and Nick Gunter laments that a person doesn’t recognize his capacity to change. Shukurillayeva Lazzatoy Shamshodovna outlines some pathways towards building new and positive habits while Robiya Ismailjonova brings a spiritual perspective to her call for moral accountability and repentance.

Nathanael Johnson highlights the internal struggles of a boy as he figures out how to grow into a man. Jessica Hu illustrates the self-destructive urges that can come with moments of despair.

Linette Rabsatt’s poetry prepares us for comfort, then joggles our mind with clever contradictions. Marc Frazier’s introspective poetry probes childhood, memory, desire, mortality, and our search for meaning. Noah Berlatsky humorously explores the sometimes-vague boundaries between whimsy and reality. Mark Young’s postwoman pieces frame the world’s many random offerings as gifts to be opened and explored. Susie Gharib speaks to the stories we take from history, mythology, literature, and science. Peter Cherches’ humorous story highlights the wonder, curiosity, and humor that emerges as very different beings meet each other.

Eva Petropolou Lianou interviews Jeanette Eureka Tiburcio, president of a women’s intellectual organization, on how her new book is a fulfillment of a childhood dream and on her wishes for the world.

Yahia Lababidi’s book What Remains to Be Said shares aphorisms and blurbs of his wisdom. Gulsora Mulikboyeva reflects on the impact of a teacher who inspired her to better write in her native Uzbek language.

Farangiz Abduvahidova outlines the life and literary works of Uzbek poetess Mohlaroyim and her importance to Uzbekistan’s literary heritage. Maftuna Bozorova honors the cultural legacy of Uzbek poet Alexander Feinberg. Aziza Burkhonova discusses various pedagogical techniques for language learning. Olimova Shahina explores creative ways to teach English. Eva Lianou Petropolou outlines the accomplishments of Italian Naive panter Nino Camardo. Mamazoirova Rayhona regales us with poetry on the beauty of the colorful Uzbek flag. Federico Wardal interviews Dr. Ahmed Elsersawy on his renewed efforts towards cultural partnership between Egypt and the United States.

Rachida Belkacem’s bilingual poetry evokes a transcendent spiritual companionship. Gabriela Peinado Bertalmio elucidates the beauty of the love between a mother and child. Rahmiddinova Mushtariy pays tribute to her wise and caring father. Duane Vorhees explores sensual intimacy from a variety of angles and perspectives. Lan Qyqalla jumps ahead to Valentine’s Day and autumn in his metaphoric and mythical love poems. Graciela Noemi Villaverde, within intricate verse, compares her love to a sunset and to the dawn.

Kassandra Aguilera illuminates the exquisite agony of unrequited love. After losing love, Taylor Dibbert finds unexpected comfort in solitude.

Don Edwards’ poetry deals with themes of love, loss, uncertainty, and the corrosive nature of domination and control on love. David Sapp’s poems critique the ease and sexiness all too many people have given to forms of violence and domination. Daniel De Culla lampoons dictators, and those with the ambition to become such, from around the world, including the U.S. Pat Doyne mourns the recent U.S. presidential election by parodying a famous poem about a loss in baseball.

Fayowole Benjamin’s poetry laments the toll of war on civilians and families. Mesfakus Salahin reflects on how some of the world is still reeling after the two world wars of the past century. Mykyta Ryzhykh evokes wartime and unanswered calls for love. Through his tale of violation and self-defense, Bill Tope highlights the ubiquitous problem of sexual violence. Christopher Bernard explicates and excoriates the violence inherent within neoliberalism manifested through healthcare systems, showing how organizations and procedures can be more destructive than thugs on the street.

Mirta Ramirez’ piece highlights how true romantic love can inspire artistic and intellectual creativity. Abigail George expresses her poetic hopes for peace in the Middle East as Lidia Popa highlights how artistic creation and the sharing of ideas can be noble pursuits bringing people together across cultures.

Z.I. Mahmud digs out the psychological and sociological and spiritual themes embedded within Samuel Beckett’s play Waiting for Godot, the tale of two “everymen” condemned, or blessed, with eternal anticipation. Arjun Razdan probes our obligations to each other in his short story “The Misanthrope” and questions what we owe each other and the best ways to do good.

Peter J. Dellolio’s novel The Confession elucidates the psyche of a condemned man who may or may not be guilty. J.J. Campbell’s poetry emanates from the lingering effects of childhood abuse, memories particularly acute around the holidays. Jake Triola’s poetry troubles itself with the state of the world and the speaker’s perceived personal failures, yet finds solace in walking outdoors.

Jumanazarov Zohidjon ponders the calming beauty of rain while Sayani Mukherjee celebrates a beautiful day on the green earth. O’tkir Mulikboyev pays homage to snow, trees in winter, romance, his home country, song, cheer, childhood, and the holidays. Brian Barbeito reflects on nature and his childhood on a still, snowy day. Jacques Fleury revels in a woodland dawn and the diversity and richness of the natural world. Corey Cook’s new haiku chapbook heads held low hallows a sacred moment when a cardinal bird sings in an empty church.

Isabel Gomez de Diego’s photography illuminates the glory of a city lit up at night for Christmas. Marc Frazier’s photography spotlights moments of intersection among nature, urbanity, and the human imagination. In Mahbub Alam’s piece, a couple watches a thunderstorm from indoors through a window, captivated by the effects of the wind. In contrast, Sodiqova Adolatxon’s poetic speaker gets tired of staying inside through a rainstorm and longs to go back outdoors.

Nurmurodova Gulsoda explores elements of trigonometry in her piece, reveling in the beauty of mathematics as one of the languages of nature. Jasur Mulikboyev celebrates the way a gifted chemistry teacher makes the material come alive for students. Ruxshona Toxirova presents some methods for better diagnostics and treatment for children with type 2 diabetes.

Maftuna Mehrojova outlines the need for and progress towards sustainable and green economic development in Uzbekistan. Alisher Muhtarjonov issues a strident call for people of the world to protect nature.

Eva Lianou Petropolou encourages us to choose care and respect for others in the face of life’s personal and global struggles. Zuhra Ruzmetova celebrates the New Year and the dawning of renewed hope. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa reflects on the meaning of the nativity scene and on starting afresh to choose kindness and a compassionate attitude in the New Year.

I love the rain

I love the rain, its gentle touch

A soothing balm, I love so much

It washes away my worries and pain

And fills my soul with peace again

The pitter-patter on the window pane

A symphony of nature’s refrain

The earth drinks in its sweet embrace

And all the world seems in its place

The air is cool, the scent is clean

A tranquil beauty, rarely seen

I love to dance in the falling drops

And feel the rhythm, my heart never stops

The rain brings life to every living thing

A gift from above, like a melody to sing

I love the rain, its calming sound

It brings me joy, wherever it’s found

Jumanazarov Zohidjon Eldor’s son was born on March 14, 2006 in Narpay district of the Republic of Uzbekistan, Samarkand region. Nation is Uzbek. Incomplete education. In 2012-2023 he studied at the 16th comprehensive school of Narpay district of Samarkand region. In 2023, the Uzbek State Institute of Arts and Culture was admitted to the “Culture and Arts Management” on the basis of a grant. He has achieved a lot of success during school and now. During the institute, the Ministry of Culture of the Republic of Uzbekistan, and in December 2023, set a global ranking record for IQ (40 seconds).

Green


A slowly cacophonous morning
Screaming of faultless surprises
I call back at the ruinous evening
The way the sea chanters will sing
And mourn the last evening
The soil of earth soaked happiness
The numbness, the choice of green fragility
The bemoaning madness of survival of green moist
Is this a new horizon of tumultuous ocean? 
I sign and beck a call of happiness
The night knows thousand epiphanies
A fireglow at the tale end 
Till I lose my breathe for the sky line wine.