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 lay entwined in glorious silence
as she dreams of something else to do.

 
Her checkered flannel and denim

will soon be on again, 

and she will be off somewhere:

the salon, the supermarket, a girlfriend's sofa.

"Do you want to come?" she will ask, 

and 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 much shouting 

and tearful apology, 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.

The relationship is transactional, uncomplicated.

We don't make a mess of things.

While we wait for what's next

there is time for other pursuits.

There's time for silence.

For this.

**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!

Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia

 noun

1. The fear of long words.

Some Nights Are Lonely Nights

You ache for companionship.

No champion will emerge.

Your spouse is in bed with a migraine.

Friends will not pick up the phone.

Neighbors are away on holiday.

The bartender cannot be bothered

with your cry for attention.

Even the moon, the big-hearted

benevolent moon, behaves

like a coveted woman unconcerned

with your existence.

You find yourself at last call

surrounded 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 was content that this
birthday affair may pass without incident.

A bottle of twenty-five-year Scotch adorned his lap.  

He made certain she saw him swallow the sleeping pill she

instructed him to hold until after the party.

He told her he did not want a party, yet she persisted

on account of the supermoon conjoining with Venus that evening

and Mercury being no longer in retrograde.

Nonsense, he muttered, as a tranquil haze washed over him.

The band was warming up out back and guests were arriving

when the initial assault was launched.

He advance was clumsy and ill-planned.
He stirred upon approach, stiff-arming her to the ground.  

A subsequent charge succeeded with a flanking maneuver

that sent his bottle to the hardwood floor.
"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.  They tumbled into some guests, 

spilling their drinks.  The guests did not approve.
She retreated to the kitchen.  He meandered into the yard 

with a fresh glass of whiskey.  "Thanks for coming," he said to

the new arrivals, then stretched onto the cool lawn grass

and gazed upward to the heavens.

He spied the constellation Taurus in the north sky,

invited a blessing of good health and a sign of his longevity.

He awaited the sign as the whiskey-sleeping-pill cocktail took hold.

His eyes grew heavy as coins when a shout was heard 

from the house:  "Don't break that glass!  That's my favorite glass!".

Taurus leapt to his feet and smashed the glass against 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 at him.

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 she relented.

Taurus relaxed his grip and they sank into the earth gasping for air.

A passerby stopped to inquire if there was a fight.

"It's hard to tell sometimes," he heard someone say.

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, then collapsed in a heap.

And he held her awhile like that, until the cicadas quieted their

evening symphony, the earth rotated eastward to Gemini,

and their breathing fell once again into synchronous rhythm.

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;

cans of peaches, peas, carrots and green beans,

enough to feed Gideon’s army.

Gideon, we learned in Sunday School,

gathered a ragtag crew of three-hundred Israelites

on God’s instruction to slay the Mideonite army.

Mother grimaces.  “Talk to your father,” she says.

At supper we eat boiled soybeans

with Ezekiel bread and butter.

The old man opines on the health benefits of soy

and its utility as a righteous food source.

The meat of the field, did you know,

is a supernatural antioxidant blessed with protein,

vitamins and minerals?

We are told that dried soybean, stored properly,

will retain its nutritional value long enough

to survive an apocalypse.

I am twelve-years-old in ’82 

and the end of the world sounds like a video-game ending

where the protagonist expires 

in a whirling puff of smoke only to discover himself

reborn into a dazzling, unspoiled universe.

In father’s game, global war seizes 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, drawing us to him.  

“God’s chosen will be spared his wrath

and rewarded with riches in heaven.”

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.

Yet, Gideon petitioned divine intervention

before signing on to the plan ─ three miracles

he required as proof of God’s intent.

I required only one:

  Dear Heavenly Father, hear my prayer.

Your holy scripture declares that to those 

who ask it will be given … I humbly ask 

that you demonstrate the truth of your power 

by turning these boiled soybeans into 

macaroni and cheese.  Amen.

~ Thomas

**First published in Hole In The Head Review

Drunk Driving Incident

       Corpus Christie, Texas (2005)

Once, after a night of Scotch whiskey 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 the tavern.

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

He promptly escorted the ladies to his car
and proceeded in the wrong direction
down a one-way thoroughfare.

"Hey, Sport, you trying to get us killed?" the ladies protested, 

triggering an abrupt maneuver onto 

a stranger's lawn and through the neighbor's 

meticulously groomed azalea bushes.

He was not so far gone to dismiss the sarcasm 

betraying their praise of his excellent driving.

"We'll pull over here for one more," he countered, 

and one became three, four, then a round for the bar.

It ended badly when patrons confronted
their one-eyed companion with a discernable note

of condescension.

"Are you a pirate?" one asked, signaling to her eye-patch.

"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 they hustled into the sapphire night.

He cursed the tyranny of traffic laws 

while racing past bicycle cops, crowded boardwalks,
and escalating appeals for steady passage,
finally coming to a screeching 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.

He marveled at their ability to hail a ride.

Within minutes his companions vanished

and he stumbled into the wild grass

above the freeway offramp.

The radio shouted Green Day's

"Boulevard of Broken Dreams" at him

as the car sputtered its dying gasps.

He wished he had turned off the engine

before reaching a state of no return.

There's never enough gas to get where you're going,

he thought, before passing out beneath

the warm, neon glow of a Motel 6 sign.

**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