In Between

Now, the pillows are crumpled, 

sheets crushed at the foot of the bed, 

clothes scattered across the room; 

the mattress rests 

over the side of the frame, 

and we lie entwined in glorious silence
as she dreams 

of something else to do.

 
Her checkered flannel and denim

will soon be on again, 

and she'll be off somewhere:

        the salon, 

        the supermarket, 

        a girlfriend's sofa.

"Do you want to come?"

 

I will decline 

without the sting of guilt
so present in the early days 

of our courtship
when she wore the shame 

of her father's absence
and I carried the burden 

of her self-reproach. 

Then I was arrogant enough 

to believe 

my love could heal her wounds, 

that form can be shaped 

from raw desire─

like willing a volcano not to erupt. 

Even when she bloodied my face, 

daring me to leave, 

the tremor in her eyes 

could not pierce my resolve.

Wait for the eyes to soften, 

I told myself,

and sure as the earth's crust heats 

and cools again,

they would.  

Hours, days later, 

after many eruptions 

and tearful apologies, 

the good times would return

and we would collide again 

on that old mattress.

We poured ourselves down 

through the synthetic fibers 

and failing box springs,

then abandoned them 

with all we hoped to unmake

for another foolhardy revolt 

against the mighty forces 

that divide man and woman.

Now, we operate 

in this in-between state.

Borrowed afternoons.

Borrowed bodies

shared like a cigarette.

While we wait 

for what's next

there is time 

for other pursuits.

There's time for silence.

For this.

**First published in Beyond Words Literary Magazine

**Illustration by Morgane Xenos

Iyla Grace 9.0

    Iyla Grace 9.0 maintains the abundant joy we so appreciate and introduces her brand new production company.  Iyla Grace Productions will release its first feature-length film this Fall, just in time for Oscar consideration.  The film is titled, "A Whisker Away", and tells the story of two feline friends who get lost in the big city then find their way back to each other by following their distinctive fart scents ... Bidding is now open for a distributor.  If interested, call Iyla's secretary, Eloise Jane.

    Happy Birthday, Miss Iyla Grace!

Some Nights Are Lonely Nights

You ache for companionship.

No champion steps forward.

Your spouse is down with a migraine.

Friends do not answer your call.

Neighbors are away on holiday.

The bartender cannot be bothered

to turn from his want ads.

Even the moon, 

the big-hearted benevolent moon, 

behaves like a coveted woman 

unconcerned with your existence.

You find yourself at last call

boxed in by insufferable strangers,

wrestling a poem about longing

and self-pity.

Too fatigued to labor for creation,

you scratch out a few restless lines

and wander into the twilight

chasing streetlamps 

until you can no longer bear 

the shuffle of your footsteps.

You scurry home 

and crawl into bed next to her.

She cradles you with her naked form.

Gentle fingers navigate the stories

written upon your bodies:

        adolescent scars, 

        a child's birth,

        unwanted surgeries, 

        beloved tattoos.

Every anxious vibration stands still.

Even the best lines 

of Whitman or Shakespeare 

are wanting beside her.

Leave them in the dresser drawer

and bid goodnight.

Eloise Jane 5.0

  We are celebrating the release of Eloise Jane version 5.0 in Mexico.  I asked our girl this morning how she wants her special day to go:  "Papa, first I want to snuggle with you, then open presents, then have cake for breakfast; then I want to ride a horse on the beach with Mama, then play with my presents, then swim at the pool, then snorkel in the ocean ... Then I want to have a party, Papa – then more cake."

Alright, Mexico, let's make this happen ... Happy Birthday to our little buddy!

Taurus Turns Thirty (Libra Relents)

Seated alone on the couch.

Weary from the day's labor.

Full of hard drink and a heavy meal.

He hoped this birthday affair 

might pass without incident.

A bottle of twenty-five-year Scotch 

rested on his lap.  

He made certain she saw him swallow 

the sleeping pill she insisted he withhold 

until after the party.

He told her he did not want a party.

She persisted

on account of the supermoon 

conjoining with Venus

and Mercury winding down 

from retrograde.

"Nonsense", he muttered, 

as a tranquil haze washed over him.

The band tuned up out back 

and guests were drifting in

when the initial assault was launched.

Her advance was clumsy and ill-planned.

He stirred upon approach, 

stiff-arming her to the ground.

  

A second attempt succeeded 

with a flanking maneuver

that sent his bottle skittering 

across the hardwood.

"Don't break that bottle!" she shouted.  

"That's my favorite bottle!"  

He swept her shins 

and they tumbled about the room,
laughing and cursing each other, 

colliding with guests, 

spilling their drinks.  

She retreated to the kitchen.  

He stumbled into the yard 

with a fresh glass of whiskey.  

"Thanks for coming," he told new arrivals, 

then stretched onto the cool grass

and gazed upward to the heavens.

He spied the constellation Taurus 

in the north sky,

invited a blessing of good health, 

a sign of his longevity.

He waited 

as the whiskey-sleeping-pill cocktail 

took hold.

His eyes grew heavy as coins 

when a shout rose from the house:  

"Don't break that glass!  

That's my favorite glass!".

Taurus leapt to his feet 

and smashed the glass on the sidewalk.

An anxious silence befell the partygoers 

as Libra emerged onto the patio.  

She declared she would bust his head,

then pounced like a wildcat, 

kicking and clawing.

She bit his ear.  

He yanked her hair.  

She pushed him into the dirt,

him pulling her down 

and working her into a chokehold

until they sank into the earth, 

gasping for air.

A passerby stopped to inquire 

if there was a fight.

"It's hard to tell sometimes," 

someone answered.

She heard it too, then climbed atop him, 

cheerful and triumphant,

glowing like a banshee 

in the April moonlight.

"You obstinate son of a bitch," 

she exhaled, collapsing in a heap.

And he held her like that, 

until the cicadas quieted 

their evening symphony, 

the earth rotated eastward to Gemini,

and their breathing fell once again 

into synchronous rhythm.

**First published in WildSound Writing Festival anthology

Thomas Gregory Lambert (1942 - 2021)

Thomas Gregory (Greg) Lambert, 78, passed away on March 22, 2021 surrounded by family at his home in Shawnee, Kansas.

Greg was born December 10, 1942 in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, the second of three sons to Clifford and Estelle Lambert.  As a youth, Greg was an accomplished student and amateur golfer, graduating valedictorian from Northeast High School and winning numerous golf titles including Oklahoma State Junior Champion.

Greg attended Oklahoma State University on academic and golf scholarships where he graduated a member of the Dean’s Honor Roll with a bachelor’s degree in Business Administration.

Upon completing his formal education, Greg secured a Professional Golfers Association card and worked many years as both a tour and club professional.  He moved to Kansas City, Kansas in 1965 and took an Assistant Pro position at Milburn Country Club where he met Linda Sue Dillman while she attended an office picnic on the club grounds.

Greg and Linda were married fifty-two years and raised seven children together.  In 1975, Greg left the golf profession to start a family-run merchandising business, Kings Kid Company.  He and Linda, often with the help of their children, maintained Kings Kid Co. until Greg’s death.

Greg was a devoted husband, father and grandfather, a kind man with a generous heart and love of laughter.  His devotion to his family was rooted in his passion for the gospel of Jesus Christ.  In Greg’s spare time, he enjoyed working with church groups, leading homegroup fellowships, and preaching the gospel to anyone who would listen.  He participated in prison ministry programs for many years counseling the incarcerated on matters of life, love and faith.

Greg will be missed by all of us who knew him and recall fondly his favorite parting words:  “Walk with the King and be a blessing”.

He was preceded in death by his father and mother and is survived by his brothers, Doug (79) and Roger (75), his wife, Linda (73), and their seven children, Lance (50), Chad (49), Julie (48), Amy (46), Christie (45), Anna (40), and Poss (37).

A celebration of Greg’s life will be held on April 30th at LifeMission Church chapel, 16111 South Lone Elm Road in Olathe, Kansas.  Visitation will begin at 10:30AM with a memorial service immediately following at 11:30.  Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, masks and social distancing are required.

The family greatly appreciates your well wishes and gestures of support.  In lieu of flowers and donations, we invite contributions to the Alzheimer’s Foundation of America: https://alzfdn.org/. 

Doomsday (1982)

Stacks of burlap in the basement, 

seven bags high:

        soybean, rice, corn seed; 

        cases of canned peaches, peas, 

        carrots and green beans—

        enough to feed Gideon’s army.

Young Gideon, 

we learned in Sunday School,

gathered a ragtag crew of Israelites 

on God’s instruction 

to slay the mighty Midianite army.

Mother grimaces:  

        “Talk to your father.”

At supper, we eat boiled soybeans

with Ezekiel bread and butter.

"Soybeans are the meat of the field,"

our old man says.

"A righteous antioxidant,

packed with protein,

vitamins and minerals."

We are told that dried soybeans, 

stored properly,

will retain their nutritional value 

long enough to survive an apocalypse.

I am twelve years old in ’82.

The end of the world 

sounds like an Atari game 

where the protagonist expires 

in a puff of smoke,

only to discover himself reborn 

into an unspoiled universe.

In father’s game, 

global war engulfs Planet Earth,

followed by a return 

of the angry Old Testament god 

hurling fire and brimstone 

down upon an ungrateful creation.

“Do not fear,” the old man says.

  

“God’s chosen will be spared his wrath

and rewarded with heavenly riches.”

Gideon was also chosen,

and for his subservience rewarded 

as a hero of faith—

seventy sons were bestowed upon him

from the many women 

he took as wives.

Even Gideon petitioned divine intervention

before signing on to God's plan.  

Three miracles he required 

to march into battle.

I required only one:

        Dear, Heavenly Father, hear my prayer.

        Your holy scripture declares 

        that to those who ask it shall be given.

        I ask that you demonstrate 

        the truth of your power 

        by turning these mushy soybeans 

        into a Quarter Pounder with Cheese.

               ~ Thomas

**First published in Hole In The Head Review

Drunk Driving Incident

Once, after a night of Scotch and port wine 

when the moon was a White-Russian mistress 

and the stars aligned in regiments 

of sparkling gin shots, 
she insisted he drive them to a motel─

them meaning she and her feral, 

one-eyed girlfriend 

closing up the tavern.

"We'll party if you pay for the room," 

said the girlfriend.

They climbed into his pickup
and proceeded in the wrong direction
down a one-way thoroughfare.

"Easy there, Sport," the ladies protested.

"You trying to get us killed?"

 

He cut across a stranger's lawn 

and through the neighbor's 

meticulously-groomed azalea bushes.

"We'll pull over here for one more."

And one became three, four,

then a round for the bar.

It ended abruptly when patrons 

inquired if their one-eyed companion 

was a pirate?.

"Are you a rectal lobotomy?!" 

her friend replied.

"I think I'm in love with you," he said,

then declared a plague 

upon their antagonist's houses 

as the trio hustled into the sapphire night.

He cursed the tyranny of traffic laws 

while racing past bicycle cops, 

crowded boardwalks,
and escalating appeals for safe passage,

finally screeching to a halt on the freeway 

to inquire 

WHY IN THE HELL 

they were nagging him 

about his driving?!

"Let us out!" the ladies screamed.

He pulled onto the shoulder

and summoned an incoherent plea 

for solidarity.

But it was too late for speech-making.

He saw it in their frantic eyes

as they spilled barefoot onto the concrete,

straightening their skirts

and bouncing into their high heels.

Within minutes, they vanished

and he stumbled into the wild grass

above the freeway offramp.

The radio shouted Green Day's

"Boulevard of Broken Dreams" 

as the car sputtered its dying gasps.

Morning found him

beneath a buzzing Motel 6 sign,

ants biting his ankles,

a vague sense

of getting away with it.

Somewhere

in Corpus Christi, Texas,

two women

were telling the day shift

a cautionary tale.

**First published in Barbar Literary Magazine

**Illustration by Morgane Xenos

Winter White Bean Soup with Turkey and Kale

      This one was inspired by a New York Times article and became a favorite over our holidays.  Bright and hearty, packed with winter greens and white beans, fortified with turkey meat.  Great for a lazy weekend when the weather is cold, the game is on, and the fireplace is crackling. 

INGREDIENTS 

• 5 tablespoons olive oil
• 2 medium yellow onions, chopped
• 2 large carrots, diced
• 2 bunches kale, destemmed and chopped
• 2 tablespoons tomato paste
• 6 garlic cloves, minced
• 2 tablespoons peeled, grated ginger root
• 1.5 quarts chicken stock
• 1 pound ground turkey
• 4 15-ounce cans of white navy beans, drained and rinsed
• 1 cup fresh, chopped herbs (rosemary, basil, tarragon, dill)
• 1 lemon, juiced
• 2 teaspoons ground cumin
• 2 teaspoons crushed red pepper flakes
• 2 teaspoons sea salt

          GARNISH

• red pepper flakes (if more spice is desired)

     1).  Warm the olive oil in a large stock pot over medium-high heat.

     2).  Sauté the onion and carrot until onions begin to brown, 12 - 18 minutes.

     3).   Add tomato paste, cumin, and red-pepper flakes; sauté until onions are well coated with spice and the paste darkens, 2 - 3 minutes.

     4).  Add turkey, garlic, ginger and salt; sauté while breaking up the meat until turkey is browned, 8 - 12 minutes.

     5).  Add chicken stock and beans, and let simmer 20 - 30 minutes.  I like to smash some of the beans during this segment to thicken the broth. 

     6).  Add kale and let simmer until softened, 10 - 20 minutes.

     7).  Stir in the herbs and lemon juice, then taste; add more ingredients to your liking (salt, spice, lemon, herbs) until the flavors light your pallet.

     8).  Garnish with red-pepper flakes, if more spice is desired.

 Accompany with a hearty, winter bread.

SERVES 8