My Father's Hands (a poem of inspiration and sharing)
My father's hands, both, so very coarse and rough,
His whole life was so full, and to make him tough,
There was never, for him, a single job too hard,
By all, he was held in the highest regard.
As his only son, and at the tender age of just one,
Was my stepfather, this to be only by its name.
He raised me very well, and of his story I must tell,
And with his loss, was such a terrible shame.
He gave me the finest praise, times, in all my days,
Was so strict, for my future, would soon to be,
As fine an example he set, and with no regret,
His resolve, as strong and sure, like an Oak tree.
His hands were there, to give all, of his fine care,
When my sisters, each, were then to be born,
Then, us three, together, in his love, he did share,
Treated us the same, with no difference, or scorn.
His hands were so gentle, then in times of need,
Hardened, when any occasion, there to meet,
Family chores, never ignored, as each agreed,
All were respected and liked, on our street.
Though his hands, always, so calloused and sore,
They gave us all, our shelter, good food to eat,
We were resilient and steadfast, in days, to deplore,
Raised up in goodness, our family complete.
When we were all grown, had families of our own,
Our father's unselfishness, was always shown,
Caring for our precious mother, and to his end,
His loss of life, tragic, yet, to heaven, he did ascend.
My father's hands are now a part of me, my own.
For by his resolve, are as my rock, as I have grown.
Now with my hands I shall be my own father's tree,
A guiding shepherd and a guardian angel, I will be.
