Activity Centre :Poems

My Dad and I  My dad and I-we think alike,  He knows just what I mean  Before I even say a word  He reads, well, in between.  My dad and I-we like to fish

My Dad and I

 My dad and I-we think alike,
 He knows just what I mean
 Before I even say a word
 He reads, well, in between.
 My dad and I-we like to fish
 Or build a model plane,
 Or fix a broken chair or two
 Or just a windowpane.
 My dad and I-we know the score
 Of every single game;
 Sometimes he’s really busy, too
 But he takes me just the same.
 My dad and I-we go swimming too,
 Each year and sometimes twice.
 My dad and I-we do everything;
 My dad-he’s really nice.

My Dad’s Hands

 Bedtime came, we were settling down,
 I was holding one of my lads.
 As I grasped him so tight, I saw a strange sight:
 My hands. . .they looked like my dad’s!
 I remember them well, those old gnarled hooks,
 there was always a cracked nail or two.
 And thanks to a hammer that strayed from its mark,
 his thumb was a beautiful blue!
 They were rough, I remember, incredibly tough,
 as strong as a carpenter’s vice.
 But holding a scared little boy at night,
 they seemed to me awfully nice!
 The sight of those hands - how impressive it was
 in the eyes of his little boy.
 Other dads’ hands were cleaner, it seemed
 (the effects of their office employ).
 I gave little thought in my formative years
 of the reason for Dad’s raspy mitts:
 The love in the toil, the dirt and the oil,
 rusty plumbing that gave those hands fits!
 Thinking back, misty-eyed, and thinking ahead,
 when one day my time is done.
 The torch of love in my own wrinkled hands
 will pass on to the hands of my son.
 I don’t mind the bruises, the scars here and there
 or the hammer that just seemed to slip.
 I want most of all when my son takes my hand,
 to feel that love lies in the grip.

 

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