Mother does not like her room.
I promised her it would be private,
Yet nasty children pass through her walls.
The family that lives behind her mirror laughs as she undresses.
Snakes surround her bed, nest in her shoes.
…river snakes!
…should never have built this place so near the river!
If you only knew how it scares me
to ride that ferryboat to work each day!

I hand her roses… “so proud of you!
You are ninety-one, and still beautiful!”
Distracted by the roses, she forgets to remind me
of the awful thing I let happen.

Jim Owens

The boys called him crazy. Well, he wasn’t like me or you.
He could quote from his head The March Of The Dead, or The Shooting of Dan McGrew,

Or anything else that Service wrote—like that poem To Sunnydale,
For his mind was in the Klondike, and his heart on the Dawson Trail.

Did I know Jim? I worked with him! And counted it my good luck.
See, I worked in Receiving, and Jim drove a forklift truck.

And the boys called him crazy when he’d drop a load of skids,
But I knew that he was snow-blind, frozen crystals beneath his lids.

For thirty years we ate our lunch together, side by side,
And my mind went so numb that I lost this thumb the day his baby died.

But, Jim didn’t talk about bad luck. He knew his luck would change,
If he could leave that forklift truck and get out to the Northern Range.

He didn’t see the factory aisles he drove down every day.
His eyes were on the snowy miles from Whitehorse to Skagway.

And, yes, I told my dreams to Jim, and he told his to me.
But Jim never went to the Yukon, and I never went to sea.

They’ll tell you Jim died in a nursing home, like other crazy old coots.
But he didn’t. Jim died just east of Nome, while pushing his Malamutes.

The Soup-Strainer

    Through all the years I knew him, my granddad wore a mustache. I’m not talking about a candy-assed, 1930s, three-hair mustache; I’m talking about a Soup-Strainer!
    I don’t remember who told me it was a Soup-Strainer—that almost unbelievable meadow below my granddad’s nose. Goodness knows, his nose itself was monumental! It was a nose glorious enough to invite remark—maybe even worth a few words on a bronze plaque—but it was not his preeminent feature. Oh my no—that would be his Soup-Strainer!
    He never ate a meal without offering thanks, my granddad. And I wish I could have caught all of the words: “Dear heavenly Father…mumph, for that which we are about to receive…mumph, mumph for the strength of our soul and body…Blessed be thy mumph. In the name of the Father, the mumph, and the Holy Goats.”
    See, it was all filtered through that Soup-Strainer!
    Likely, God had a sharper ear than I, or maybe he just accepted the good intent and went back to more pressing problems…in Duluth or St. Louis.
    Through more meals than I could count, I watched him. I watched him gobble down green beans, potatoes, meat and soup. I watched to see if anything really got strained through that mustache. It was hard to tell, but I honestly believe his digestive system had a pretty easy and comfortable life.
    The night the barn burned I watched as the Soup-Strainer became covered with frost. Unembarrassed tears of helplessness slid into it and became the ice of another lost hope.
    Later, too late for anything on God’s green earth to save the barn, I watched him pour grandma’s too-hot coffee into his saucer and sip it, leaving tiny droplets of Folgers on the Strainer. The disbelieving shaking of his head was too gentle to dislodge those drops.
    I crawled into his lap, needing comfort more than offering it.
    He shoved his saucer aside and nuzzled me, using that bristly old Soup-Strainer to give me growling, snorting, tickling, scratchy—barn-gone—love.

Other work online by Max Yoho:
Kansas Poets
Kansas Poems
Poetry of Kansas

MY: I've always been a reader. I love to read. I'm retired and often, when I'm not writing or cooking, I'm reading. I read mostly fiction…in a wide variety. Among my favorite works are Canterbury Tales by Chaucer; Candide by Voltaire; the poetry of Poe, Kipling, and Robert W. Service; slice-of-life short stories by A. E. Coppard; and commentary by cowboy poet and philosopher Baxter Black.

My writing evolved from reading. The first bit of my writing I can remember was in a high school English class. I thought it was a pretty good essay. My teacher read it and seemed to have a new appreciation for having a school psychologist near at hand—in case she needed help in settling me down.

NWR: Who and what has influenced your writing?

MY: My dad should have been the writer. He never went beyond the eighth grade—those endless rows of corn were waiting. But, oh my, he could tell a story—subtly poking and prodding from all directions. He was an inspiration.

Also, Robert Benchley's many books motivated me. He wrote for The New Yorker magazine. See, Benchley could have leapt over the tallest building at a single bound…but why bother when one can take a cab?

Just before my twelfth birthday I was burned in a serious fire. While I don't recommend this as a way to gain insight, during my year of recuperation I believe I gained an understanding of what is important in life and what is not.

NWR: What started you on your journey as a writer?

MY: I was an older student, about twenty-five, when I first enrolled in English at Washburn University of Topeka. My Freshman Composition instructor was a rare jewel. She gave validation to my crazy mind, and I became a feature writer for the student newspaper, The Washburn Review. By then I was married, with sons and family obligations. I was trained as a machinist and worked for thirty-eight years in that trade. I wrote several short stories, songs and poems during those years, but tucked them away to focus on raising my family.

At the age of fifty-four—with my three sons grown—I was widowed. It was a difficult time for me. I found myself learning many new skills, including cooking and housekeeping.

Ah, but I was not alone. I had a very large gray cat who licked my nose and let me know I had a friend. I found myself sorting out my thoughts and feelings in a journal at that time—and writing poems and stories about, and for, my cat.

Through a series of fortunate incidents I found myself involved with a local writers' group, A Table for Eight. We used the Peter Elbow Method in critiquing each other's work. That group was a pivotal force in my growth and development as a writer. By the early 1990s my poems, essays and short stories were being accepted regularly for publication in Inscape, the literary journal of Washburn University. I owe a debt of gratitude to my colleagues in A Table for Eight.

NWWR: What has been the path of your writing career?

MY: My favorite form of writing is the short-short story. I try to make each short story a photograph in words, allowing the reader to fill in the blanks—to smell the dirt under the porch, maybe know that the dirt under the porch became a ball diamond and, then, a parking lot for WalMart.

I decided to retire in the spring of 1992 and devote serious attention to my writing. What started as a coming-of-age short story expanded into my first novel, The Revival, a humorous tale of one week in the life of an eleven-year-old boy growing up in a small Kansas town. I bought my first computer and worked steadily on the novel for a couple of years—reading it, one page a week, to A Table for Eight until they urged me to go on without them. It took several more years for The Revival to be published, but reader response has been gratifying. The Revival had its fifth printing in Spring, 2005.

My second novel, Tales from Comanche County also started as a very short story, originally published in the Topeka Capital-Journal at the time of the millennium celebration. I had dreamed up two crusty, loving characters, Great-uncle Jack and Great-aunt Tildy. I realized that I had much more to say about them than any newspaper article could contain.

I often speak at events around the state of Kansas. Sometimes I read one of my poems or short stories and I am asked by listeners whether these pieces exist in print. In 2004 my collected poems, essays, and short stories became book #3: Felicia, These Fish Are Delicious. There is no "Felicia" and no "fish" mentioned within its pages, but the name is fun to say aloud. Try it. I always had in mind to write a book with that title…so now I have.

I was nervous about exposing my serious side in Felicia, but readers seem to accept this serious writing as well as my humorous work. Some have even told me they like it best.

I was pleased to gather good reviews of Felicia, including its listing as one of the "2004 Ten Best Reads" by Nancy Mehl of the Wichita Eagle.

I recently completed my fourth book and third novel, The Moon Butter Route. I seem to have not yet worked out my need to deal with adolescence. My twelve-year-old protagonist, living down in southeast Kansas, has inadvertently become a bootlegger. His mother is in the kitchen preparing her most famous (and only) meal: fried weenies. His father plots to move the courthouse a few feet to the south to make room for a steam whistle—which he believes will alleviate all the suffering of mankind.

Where is the school psychologist when I need her?

Topeka Capital-Journal, by Angela Deines, May 1, 2017: "Max Yoho, Topeka author, remembered for his creativity, zest for life"
Video review of Max's writing career, from "Around Kansas," hosted by Frank Chaffin and Deb Goodrich.
An interview by Kristyn Morris, "The Man Who Conquered Reality: A Look into the Unusual Mind of Max Yoho"
"Max's Fire," compiled by Carol Yoho
Kansas Authors Club's 2013 Award of Merit, "Lifetime Achievement Award."
Iola Register, 1-16 -2012: "Colony native, author: Iola like heaven"
Begin Again:150 Kansas Poems, Woodley Press, 11/11/2011: "1942" by Max Yoho
ArtsConnect, 5-2011: "Arty" Award: Distinguished Literary Artist
The Moon Butter Route awarded "2007 J. Donald Coffin Award"
Eye on Kansas feature, by Morgan Chilson, 10-2006: "The Joy of Writing in Kansas: Colony native spins the grit of Kansas to tales"
The Moon Butter Route awarded "2006 Kansas Notable Books"
Emporia Gazette, by Cheryl Unruh, 3-1-2005: "The Storyteller"
The Revival awarded "2002 J. Donald Coffin Award"
Max Yoho on Wikipedia

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