i.) Clown
A trifold mirror,
Lighted within
Showed a man transformed.
Grease paints,
A faded red nose,
Chuck Taylor sneakers,
(Bright green), and
A plaid suit
With over-sized buttons
Made him
A clown,
When clowns were still
Innocent.
He was
The bringer of joy.
Painting on a face,
He became
Something.
ii.) Trucker
A young man
With empty hands
And emptier pockets
Faced the world,
Standing at the cusp of
Adulthood.
What did he know?
He could drive a truck,
Riding high above
Tiny cars,
Feeling the rumble of
A bigger engine,
The freedom
Of the open road.
With the windows down
And the radio on,
His left arm
Gained a suntan,
His wallet filled,
And the days slipped by
Like white dashes
On an endless highway.
With a dusty trucker hat
Perched atop his curly head,
He whistled an old song
And cracked jokes on the CB radio.
He was
Something.
iii.) Christian
A broken heart leaves an empty hole.
What to do?
Hurt and searching,
A young man
Stumbled over the doorstep
Of a church.
Loving arms
Caught him.
Kind faces
Welcomed him.
Holy hands
Lifted him.
He made friends,
Learned new songs,
And put all of his swear words
Up on a shelf.
He bought a shirt with a collar
And a pair of Sunday shoes.
He even found
The perfect wife.
Dreaming of
Missionary adventures and
Holy callings,
He really felt like
Something.
iv.) Work Boots
When the shine wears off
Of brand-new boots
Sometimes a man
Finds himself
With two stiff hunks of leather
That rub his heels,
Blister his toes,
And just don't seem to fit.
Sometimes, he tries on
Someone else's boots
To see if he made a mistake
In purchasing his own.
Maybe he returns to throw them out,
But finds them willing
To stretch and yield,
To be forgiving.
He keeps them after all
To break them in,
Yet every day,
He nurses blisters
And curses the boots,
Wearing them
As little as possible,
Preferring to leave them
Neatly paired and polished
In the closet at home.
Even boots that don't fit are
Something.
v.) Engineer
What does a man do
When his life doesn't run smoothly,
When the world is big
And unruly,
When adulthood
Squeezes the joy
Out of every day?
He builds trains.
Oh, the wonder
Of creating a world
Where everything is small,
Lovely,
Perfect in detail,
And functions
Just as it should!
Visitors to his apartment
Marveled
At the beautiful layouts,
Bitty buildings,
Mâché mountains,
Twisting tracks, and
Tiny trees.
"You made all of this?!"
They would exclaim.
Surveying his world
From beneath the brim
Of his engineer hat,
The man knew
He was
Something.
vi.) Bluegrass Musician
A young man loved music.
He could play the guitar-
Nothing fancy,
Just a handful of chords
With a run or two
Thrown in
Like a pinch of salt.
What would he play?
Something easy,
Something alive,
Something happy.
He became
A bluegrass player.
With rhythm and drive,
A capo and six strings,
He could sing the saddest of stories
While making toes tap in time.
Hands clapped, heads nodded,
People smiled and even danced.
Up on the stage,
He really felt like
Something.
vii.) Farmer
Tired of rules, traffic, and suburbs,
A man bought some land,
A house and a barn,
Two horses,
A creek,
And some tractors.
He would be
A farmer.
He built a bigger barn,
Bought a bigger tractor,
A plough, a disc, and a wagon.
In a rented field,
He ploughed the earth
In straight rows,
Covered the garbage
With fertile soil,
And planted
Corn and beans.
Trucking all day, then
Tending his crops
Evenings and weekends,
He was a working man.
When the corn poured out
From the combine's auger,
The man knew he was
Something.
viii.) Cowboy
Saddles and spurs,
An old lariat,
Ten gallon hats,
And cowboy songs
Called to a boy,
Stirring his soul
With a longing for
Purple canyons,
Lonely plains,
Lowing cattle, and
Star-swept skies.
The blood of a cowboy
Ran in his veins.
The song of a cowboy
Swelled in his heart.
When he became a man,
The South Dakota plains
Lay far away in the west,
Yet he sang their songs,
Told their stories,
And dreamed of campfires,
Coyotes, and cattle calls.
When he donned his Stetson,
Neckerchief, and boots,
When he yodeled and yipped,
It seemed like he was really a part of
Something.
ix.) Dad
On a day in July,
Then September,
Then August,
A man became
Dad.
Protector, educator,
Disciplinarian,
Tickle-fighter,
Santa,
Playhouse builder,
Go-kart track maker,
Hayride driver,
Rainbow mural painter,
And school board member,
He stood tall on his pedestal,
The hero.
Watching his son play basketball,
Reading good report cards,
Attending concerts,
Snuggling and laughing, and
Watching John Wayne movies
Made being a dad really
Something.
x.) Truck Owner
Working for a cranky, old man
Year in and out
Made a man dream of
Self-employment.
Freedom hung like a star,
Lofty and bright
Before his eyes.
One day,
The man left the trucking yard
For the last time
And bought a truck of his own.
A purple Kenworth beauty
With a swan on the hood
And a sleeper cab
Crowned the top of the cake
At his celebration party.
Family and friends gathered
To wish him well.
As he set off from home and family
In a truck of his own,
With open roads before him,
The man swelled with pride.
Finally he was going to become
Something.
xi.) Praise Band Leader
A pastor asked a man
To lead the church praise band.
Enthusiastically, the man
Began selecting music.
He bought CDs,
An amp,
And two new guitars.
He bought a multi-effects guitar pedal
And printed up chord sheets.
Assembling a team,
He held practices,
And on Sunday mornings,
The drums and bass pulsed
As melodic guitars and keys
Filled the church
With songs of praise, light, and hope.
As the man strummed his guitar,
He looked out over a congregation
Of worshippers with raised hands,
And he felt he was chosen for
Something.
xii.) Biker
A young man owned a motorcycle,
But sold it when his children were small.
Once they had grown up,
He remembered
Wind in his hair,
Freedom,
Sound, and scenery, so
He bought a Harley Road King.
Flying down the road,
Leather-clad and goggled,
He gave the biker wave
To other riders
Like a secret handshake
In a club.
With gold hoops in his ears,
Patches on his jacket,
Betassled handlebars,
And loud chrome pipes,
He rode to motorcycle rallies,
Poker runs,
And Biker Sunday.
Astride his bike, he really was
Something.
xiii.) Sometimes
Not all dreams last.
Sometimes a man
Awakens
To a mountain of debt,
A barn full
Of silent tractors,
Stalls piled with junk,
Fields scattered with
Dead snowmobiles,
An abandoned wagon,
And an empty tractor cab
Drowning in tall, brown grass.
Sometimes model trains
Sit in boxes,
Mâché mountains crumble,
And dust covers the tracks
Of layout pieces stacked in the barn.
Sometimes society decides that
Clowns are creepy.
Sometimes your adorable children
Become surly teenagers
Who challenge authority,
Defy the rules,
Or leave for college
Wearing studs and combat boots.
Sometimes the trucking business fails
And all that remains
Is the Kenworth,
Lonely and forlorn,
With nowhere to go.
Sometimes your boots still give you
Blisters
Because you just couldn't bear
To wear them
Until they really broke in.
Sometimes the church hires
A new music pastor
To pack the pews,
And you end up
Back in one
Instead of on the team.
Sometimes
Your life falls apart,
And you stumble back out of the church
With a broken heart.
Sometimes
Sad songs
Are just sad songs
No matter how fast you play them.
Sometimes
You're just a guy
In a cowboy hat
A long way
From South Dakota.
But you know what?
I still think
You're
Something.
