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by Dan Beams How many times have you heard women complaining that men just never seem to grow up? I'm certain there are few men out there that would try to come up with excuses for our often impetuous behavior, but having reached forty years of age I'm inclined to admit to you that it's the truth. I believe we're wired that way from inception. No amount of responsibility heaped upon a young boy can make him a man, and no matter how mature a man may seem on the surface, he can never completely separate himself from the mischievous imp that lurks deep in his soul. Over the years I've observed the fact that it seems the gathering process is the catalyst for ill-behavior. One man alone is typically manageable, by one good woman, but when they amass unsupervised, that's when the boy rises to the surface and we all know nothing good can come from that! What else could explain a group of grown men huddled around a television set on Sunday afternoon, screaming out passionate instructions to their beloved team and equally hateful obscenities at the rival? Only after the three hour melee do any of them realize they managed to sling beer and pizza across a freshly vacuumed floor. That very same floor some loving wife spent hours cleaning. We, as men, must find a socially and spouseally (that's not a word, but you get the idea) acceptable balance. As much as we love our spouses, mothers, and girlfriends, we occasionally crave certain things that normally can't be found at home. Sports, hunting, fishing, poker, scratching inappropriately, occasional belching, etc.; whatever it is that allows a man the opportunity to socialize with and compete against another man. A brief feeding of that primordial urge is essential to us remaining men. The following poem I wrote isn't about a rowdy Super Bowl party, although that might not be a half-bad idea, but it does deal with the boy that still lurks inside of me and occasionally must rise to the surface. I reflect on the only responsibility I had at the time; the exploration of my inner-self. Toy soldiers, worn and tattered from the frays, Painted expressions long since rubbed from view, Vicious battles had whittled my troops to two. The faceless duo still stands staunch in place, Awaiting commands and fierceness of my battle face. White hot smoke pouring from her stack. The multicolored cars swirling, merely now a blur, My urgent need for speed, the engineer could not concur. I backed the throttle down a bit, atop the track she'd stay; The engineer tipped his hat, and flashed a smile my way. My sheriff's badge and lawman eyes always called their bluff. Slick Sam had robbed the coach, left three passengers for dead; Left a bloody trail to follow, two women full of lead. In the street he made his fatal choice, deciding he should draw; My .45 barked twice, reminding him you can't outrun the law. Not a little boy on the floor, but a man who's fully grown. Even my blind soldiers without their painted eyes, Have no trouble seeing through my manly-like disguise. The engineer welcomes me with his wry and gnarly grin, He also can see past the man I am, to the boy within.
Dan Beams is a 40-year-old self-described simple man. He lives in a small town in central Illinois, with his wife, Beth, and two children, Allie 15, and Jacob 12. By a strange twist of fate, the loss of his job last year, led to his love of writing. Although this new passion is less than a year old Dan has established a great connection to the intrinsic power of the written word. Writing has again impressed upon him the fact that the key to a successful life is to possess, in great abundance, those things not easily measured. You can read more of Dan's
poetry at http://poeticjustice-dan.blogspot.com/
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