No New News At New Year

Just a stone's throw away from our porch
We hear the din coming from the corner 
Convenience store—created by the usual clique 
Of third-world louts, termagants and nosey hags
In short, the ne'er-do-well has-beens of internal 
Backwater affairs, here in this fishing village
On this our tiny tropical island called Siquijor,
"Isla del Fuego" by the Spanish Conquistadors
Of epochs past—

They all used to be celebrated for the skills 
That had somehow kept the evolutionary lifeline
Alive of a hardy brown race—still thriving in the fringes
Of urban progress. Somehow we get the feeling
That the collective trip down the abyss of perdition
Might have been caused by the grim realization
That fortune and luck now too have digital passcodes
They can only whine in silence as they guzzle down
Even the dregs of the coconut toddy now souring
With the uneventful setting and rising of the sun

When the store owner tried to shush them 
As a signal for the daily oral newsbreak
In particular the one about a young girl's 
Mysterious pregnancy—they all threw a hissy fit
As they clapped back at the rather late delivery—

"Shame on you, Gorya! Go upgrade
your ears", shouted one of the nosey termagants 
Who was there for the free booze—to the delight 
Of the audience that was now getting rowdy
Especially the hags, termagants, tired wives 
Of the men slowly dying with quiet rage—

Here comes the murmurration of ricebirds 
Hovering above a chaos of thorny thickets
I know I want no more of this sedentary rebellion
But I remember telling myself the same last year

Name

What’s in a name? Well that’s simple

enough. Didn’t need Shakespeare for

this one. Think about a name, your

name for a moment. It’s a string of

letters lined up, linked, letters you

recognize on the page in front of you.

They make a sound you know very well

heard it called in school, out in the field

in church, in court. You responded most

of the time, laying claim to it. They say

hey, John, or Frank or Freddy, and you

snap to or groan a response depending

on who was saying your name. It’s yours

and you have woven your life into it, things

you did and still do, places you’ve been, even

the people around you who say your name

whisper it, or shout it or just say it when

they pass you on the street. It was born with

you, in you, you became it, it became you

and now it’s aging with you, got this old

along the way, got tired, and now just waits

for the last time to hear itself called. We’ll

always know what’s in our name – it’s easy.



                 Mid-Afternoon

I’m the older gentleman in the picture

don’t like the word “elderly,” so I am

the older gentleman walking his older

dog, mid-afternoon. It’s mid-afternoon

when older men and dogs have time

for such things. It’s mid-afternoon and

the kids are just getting out of school,

some excited and playful and some are

strangely subdued. The scene includes

the older man and dog and the children.

The afternoon casts shadows and a few

suggestions for the scene. I’m sure that

Hallmark has this on a card, a sentimental

almost scary rendering, an illustrator’s

best effort with the ingredients. The verse

on the inside would make use of contrasts

age and actions, perhaps something about

how, for some it’s the afternoon of a day

while it’s the afternoon of life for some others.


                  Got Game

There comes a point in the game with

both teams bungling, fumbling, acting

as if they forgot how to play, a point in

the game when you start thinking about

your childhood dreams and plans about

playing, thought it out, there you were

catching the pass over your shoulder then

running, zig-zagging, you could hear

the stands, the cheering, the commentators

analyzing your moves, but, of course, you

never tried out, grade school, junior high

high school. You watched from the stands

went to a college that didn’t even have

a team. Plans and dreams disappear like that.

You went on with your life, a watcher, a fan

until one Sunday, today you watched two

teams bungle, fumble, seem to forget how

to play, and there you are again, your

childhood self, that other self that got left

behind, catch a pass over your shoulder and

run, zig-zag, while they all cheered you on

this time.

icicles hang
from the clothesline
housebound

# # # 

only a scarf
where the snowman stood
incessant rain

# # # 

twilight
school janitor reties
the snowman's scarf

# # #

Ukraine under siege
shelves of toy soldiers
collecting dust

# # #

Corey D. Cook's sixth chapbook, Junk Drawer, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2022. His poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in *82 Review, Akitsu Quarterly, Black Poppy Review, Duck Head Journal, Freshwater Literary Journal, Muddy River Poetry Review, Naugatuck River Review, Nixes Mate Review, and South Florida Poetry Review. Corey lives in East Thetford, Vermont.

Welcome, readers, to 2023’s first issue of Synchronized Chaos Magazine.

This month we start off with some sad news: our longtime contributor Joan Beebe has passed away. Here is her obituary, we encourage people to leave tributes, make donations or plant trees in her memory through this link.

Also, our friend and collaborator Rui Carvalho reminds us about our Nature Writing Contest for 2022.

This is an invitation to submit poems and short stories related to trees, water, and nature conservation between now and the March 2023 deadline. More information and submission instructions here!

This month’s work probes the translucence of time: what we can see of past memories and future hopes and fears, and how that shapes our individual and collective identities.

Lorena Caputo describes the Honduran town of Trujillo years after banana plantations and Contras have left their mark.

Christopher Bernard laments our world’s harsh winter landscape of blizzards, ecological destruction, and war.

Sayani Mukherjee rejoices in the regular rejuvenation of landscapes with green vegetation, which resonates with me in California as it finally rains here in winter.

Wayne Mason sings of a subterranean post-industrial purgatory.

Daniel De Culla’s piece suggests that time can cleanse, or at least cover over, dark memories and lost souls.

Dudu Tome speaks in various ways of binding ourselves to each other and to our homelands.

RP Verlaine musters equanimity when faced with reminders of a troubled past, and of how life has not always been kind to those he knows. J.T. Whitehead compares the financial and emotional toll of divorce to the sufferings of the Biblical character of Job.

Z.I. Mahmud waxes poetic about Sir Walter Scott and William Blake and old-style chivalry.

Christopher Bernard questions the validity of the traditional social construction of gender, while Jaylan Salah explores differing concepts of masculinity embodied in films about men with physical deformities.

Fernando Sorrentino juxtaposes the two long and storied traditions of pop culture and academia with uneasy humor, while S.J. Fowler places a pleasantly amusing female gorilla amidst art museums, coffee, and the daily newspaper.

Susie Gharib breathes out wishes for the liberation of all living beings from various forms of despair or entrapment.

Hongri Yuan and Yuanbing Zhang speak of illusion, reality, and transcendence, drawing on motifs from Chinese poetry and history. Nilufar Rukhillayeva urges all people to hold onto our dreams for our lives and our world.

J.J. Campbell writes of the dull ache of disillusionment, living in an uncomfortable reality while still remembering better days. Mahbub Alam explores the uncomfortable gap between his aspirations and his reality.

Peter Cherches spurs us on to declare our existences in a complex, absurdist world. Ike Boat celebrates a school graduation in Ghana with pride.

Nahid Gul celebrates the capabilities and the journey towards psychological healing and social acceptance for a girl who uses a wheelchair for locomotion.

Bruce Roberts grapples with the dangerous natural and human elements of our world in a collection of persona poems that symbolically brings them down to our level.

Mark Young echoes Ezra Pound while conjuring up a semblance of reality.

Channie Greenberg’s photos explore various ways of looking at the felines who share our planet.

J.D. Nelson renders everyday human and animal life in a set of haikus, showing how it can be intriguing and special.

Mubarak Said reflects on a mythical dream journey to the land of the dead.

Tajudeen Muadh Akanbi laments the violence and chaos of his homeland and hopes for a better future through nurturance and healing of broken dreams. Patricia Doyne satirizes Donald Trump and related political movements within the United States.

Olawe Opeyemi reflects on his hopes and dreams for his life.

Chimezie Ihekuna urges us in song to get going and take the steps we need to transform our lives.

We hope that this issue will serve as a similar source of inspiration.