Father Poems

A black river flows down the center
of each page
& on either side the banks
are wrapped in snow. My father is ink falling
in tiny blossoms, a bottle
wrapped in a paperbag. I want to believe
that if I get the story right
we will rise, newly formed,
that I will stand over him again
as he sleeps outside under the church halogen
only this time I will know
what to say. It is night &
it’s snowing & starlings
fill the trees above us, so many it seems
the leaves sing. I can’t see them
until they rise together at some hidden signal
& hold the shape of the tree for a moment
before scattering. I wait for his breath
to lift his blanket
so I know he’s alive, letting the story settle
into the shape of this city. Three girls in the park
begin to sing something holy, a song
with a lost room inside it
as their prayerbook comes unglued
& scatters. I’ll bend
each finger back, until the bottle
falls, until the bone snaps, save him
by destroying his hands. With the thaw
the river will rise & he will be forced
to higher ground. No one
will have to tell him. From my roof I can see
the East River, it looks blackened with oil
but it’s only the light. Even now
my father is asleep somewhere. If I followed
the river north I could still reach him.

A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip—
There is a glorious fellowship!
Father and son and the open sky
And the white clouds lazily drifting by,
And the laughing stream as it runs along
With the clicking reel like a martial song,
And the father teaching the youngster gay
How to land a fish in the sportsman’s way.I fancy I hear them talking there
In an open boat, and the speech is fair.
And the boy is learning the ways of men
From the finest man in his youthful ken.
Kings, to the youngster, cannot compare
With the gentle father who’s with him there.
And the greatest mind of the human race
Not for one minute could take his place.Which is happier, man or boy?
The soul of the father is steeped in joy,
For he’s finding out, to his heart’s delight,
That his son is fit for the future fight.
He is learning the glorious depths of him,
And the thoughts he thinks and his every whim;
And he shall discover, when night comes on,
How close he has grown to his little son.A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip—
Builders of life’s companionship!
Oh, I envy them, as I see them there
Under the sky in the open air,
For out of the old, old long-ago
Come the summer days that I used to know,
When I learned life’s truths from my father’s lips
As I shared the joy of his fishing-trips.

Sunday mornings I would reach
high into his dark closet while standing
on a chair and tiptoeing reach
higher, touching, sometimes fumbling
the soft crowns and imagine
I was in a forest, wind hymning
through pines, where the musky scent
of rain clinging to damp earth was
his scent I loved, lingering on
bands, leather, and on the inner silk
crowns where I would smell his
hair and almost think I was being
held, or climbing a tree, touching
the yellow fruit, leaves whose scent
was that of a clove in the godsome
air, as now, thinking of his fabulous
sleep, I stand on this canyon floor
and watch light slowly close
on water I’m not sure is there.

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself.The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

He never looks for praises.
He’s never one to boast.
He just goes on quietly working
For those he loves the most.
His dreams are seldom spoken.
His wants are very few,
And most of the time his worries
Will go unspoken, too.
He’s there…a firm foundation
Through all our storms of life,
A sturdy hand to hold onto
In times of stress and strife.
A true friend we can turn to
When times are good or bad.
One of our greatest blessings,
The man that we call Dad.

Only a dad, with a tired face,
Coming home from the daily race,
Bringing little of gold or fame,
To show how well he has played the game,
But glad in his heart that his own rejoice
To see him come, and to hear his voice.Only a dad, with a brood of four,
One of ten million men or more.
Plodding along in the daily strife,
Bearing the whips and the scorns of life,
With never a whimper of pain or hate,
For the sake of those who at home await.Only a dad, neither rich nor proud,
Merely one of the surging crowd
Toiling, striving from day to day,
Facing whatever may come his way,
Silent, whenever the harsh condemn,
And bearing it all for the love of them.Only a dad, but he gives his all
To smooth the way for his children small,
Doing, with courage stern and grim,
The deeds that his father did for him.
This is the line that for him I pen,
Only a dad, but the best of men.

When I was a baby,
you would hold me in your arms.
I felt the love and tenderness,
keeping me safe from harm.
I would look up into your eyes,
and all the love I would see.
How did I get so lucky?
You were the dad chosen for me.
There is something special
about a father’s love.
Seems it was sent to me
from someplace up above.
Our love is everlasting.
I just wanted you to know
that you’re my special hero,
and I wanted to tell you so.

Old women say that men don’t know
The pain through which all mothers go,
And maybe that is true, and yet
I vow I never shall forget
The night he came. I suffered, too,
Those bleak and dreary long hours through;
I paced the floor and mopped my brow
And waited for his glad wee-ow!
I went upstairs and then came down,
Because I saw the doctor frown
And knew beyond the slightest doubt
He wished to goodness I’d clear out.I walked into the yard for air
And back again to hear her there,
And met the nurse, as calm as though
My world was not in deepest woe,
And when I questioned, seeking speech
Of consolation that would reach
Into my soul and strengthen me
For dreary hours that were to be:
‘Progressing nicely!’ that was all
She said and tip-toed down the hall;
‘Progressing nicely!’ nothing more,
And left me there to pace the floor.And once the nurse came out in haste
For something that had been misplaced,
And I that had been growing bold
Then felt my blood grow icy cold;
And fear’s stern chill swept over me.
I stood and watched and tried to see
Just what it was she came to get.
I haven’t learned that secret yet.
I half-believe that nurse in white
Was adding fuel to my fright
And taking an unholy glee,
From time to time, in torturing me.Then silence! To her room I crept
And was informed the doctor slept!
The doctor slept! Oh, vicious thought,
While she at death’s door bravely fought
And suffered untold anguish deep,
The doctor lulled himself to sleep.
I looked and saw him stretched out flat
And could have killed the man for that.
Then morning broke, and oh, the joy;
With dawn there came to us our boy,
And in a glorious little while
I went in there and saw her smile!

I must have looked a human wreck,
My collar wilted at the neck,
My hair awry, my features drawn
With all the suffering I had borne.
She looked at me and softly said,
‘If I were you, I’d go to bed.’
Hers was the bitterer part, I know;
She traveled through the vale of woe,
But now when women folks recall
The pain and anguish of it all
I answer them in manner sad:
‘It’s no cinch to become a dad.’

In 1915 my grandfather’s
neighbors surrounded his house
near the dayline he ran
on the Hudson
in Catskill, NY
and thought they’d burn
his family out
in a movie they’d just seen
and be rid of his kind:
the death of a lone black
family is the Birth
of a Nation,
or so they thought.
His 5’4” waiter gait
quenched the white jacket smile
he’d brought back from watered
polish of my father
on the turning seats,
and he asked his neighbors
up on his thatched porch
for the first blossom of fire
that would bring him down.
They went away, his nation,
spittooning their torched necks
in the shadows of the riverboat
they’d seen, posse decomposing;
and I see him on Sutter
with white bag from your
restaurant, challenged by his first
grandson to a foot-race
he will win in white clothes.I see him as he buys galoshes
for his railed yard near Mineo’s
metal shop, where roses jump
as the el circles his house
toward Brooklyn, where his rain fell;
and I see cigar smoke in his eyes,
chocolate Madison Square Garden chews
he breaks on his set teeth,
stitched up after cancer,
the great white nation immovable
as his weight wilts
and he is on a porch
that won’t hold my arms,
or the legs of the race run
forwards, or the film
played backwards on his grandson’s eyes.

Dedicated to the Women

Here’s to the men! Since Adam’s time
They’ve always been the same;
Whenever anything goes wrong,
The woman is to blame.
From early morn to late at night,
The men fault-finders are;
They blame us if they oversleep,
Or if they miss a car.
They blame us if, beneath the bed,
Their collar buttons roll;
They blame us if the fire is out
Or if there is no coal.
They blame us if they cut themselves
While shaving, and they swear
That we’re to blame if they decide
To go upon a tear.

Here’s to the men, the perfect men!
Who never are at fault;
They blame us if they chance to get
The pepper for the salt.
They blame us if their business fails,
Or back a losing horse;
And when it rains on holidays
The fault is ours, of course.
They blame us when they fall in love,
And when they married get;
Likewise they blame us when they’re sick,
And when they fall in debt.
For everything that crisscross goes
They say we are to blame;
But, after all, here’s to the men,
We love them just the same!

I have a very special Dad
One which I would never trade.
He is kind and considerate too
He makes me laugh when I am blue.He has had his share of ups and downs
But he determined he is and holds his ground.
His family is important to him
And when he is with them he has a grin.

He loves us just the way we are
He is the best Dad by far!

for my father, 1922-1944

Your face did not rot
like the others—the co-pilot,
for example, I saw him

yesterday. His face is corn-
mush: his wife and daughter,
the poor ignorant people, stare

as if he will compose soon.
He was more wronged than Job.
But your face did not rot

like the others—it grew dark,
and hard like ebony;
the features progressed in their

distinction. If I could cajole
you to come back for an evening,
down from your compulsive

orbiting, I would touch you,
read your face as Dallas,
your hoodlum gunner, now,

with the blistered eyes, reads
his braille editions. I would
touch your face as a disinterested

scholar touches an original page.
However frightening, I would
discover you, and I would not

turn you in; I would not make
you face your wife, or Dallas,
or the co-pilot, Jim. You

could return to your crazy
orbiting, and I would not try
to fully understand what

it means to you. All I know
is this: when I see you,
as I have seen you at least

once every year of my life,
spin across the wilds of the sky
like a tiny, African god,

I feel dead. I feel as if I were
the residue of a stranger’s life,
that I should pursue you.

My head cocked toward the sky,
I cannot get off the ground,
and, you, passing over again,

fast, perfect, and unwilling
to tell me that you are doing
well, or that it was mistake

that placed you in that world,
and me in this; or that misfortune
placed these worlds in us.

A father, a dad,
Sometimes happy or mad.
Can be playful and fun,
Mostly happy and glad.Can give tickles or hugs,
Or give us a stern talking to.
Love everlasting,
No matter what we do.

He can be funny at times,
And serious when stern.
He is so smart and wise,
So many things from him we learn.

We are thankful for our father,
In all circumstances too.
We couldn’t ask for a better father,
As the one we have in you!

Strange bird,
His song remains secret.
He worked too hard to read books.
He never heard how Sherwood Anderson
Got out of it, and fled to Chicago, furious to free himself
From his hatred of factories.
My father toiled fifty years
At Hazel-Atlas Glass,
Caught among girders that smash the kneecaps
Of dumb honyaks.
Did he shudder with hatred in the cold shadow of grease?
Maybe. But my brother and I do know
He came home as quiet as the evening.He will be getting dark, soon,
And loom through new snow.
I know his ghost will drift home
To the Ohio River, and sit down, alone,
Whittling a root.
He will say nothing.
The waters flow past, older, younger
Than he is, or I am.

First I must say how sorry I am,
That you ended up, raising me.
But second I say that I’m happy to state,
You ended up being someone like thee.You fought and you held out for happier times,
And it took a little longer, than you had first thought.
But all that waiting and hoping for those children to accept you,
Has allowed you to finally get what you sought.

You’re apart of our family, we hope you are happy,
It was tough, but you pulled through.
You’ve been a great father, never a bother,
We can only hope you think so too!

So thank you for being someone so beaming,
Not occasionally but every single day!
At first it annoyed us, but now we enjoy, thus,
Wanting to yell out hip, hip, hooray!

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

The doctor said to my father, “You asked me
to tell you when nothing more could be done.
That’s what I’m telling you now.” My father
sat quite still, as he always did,
especially not moving his eyes. I had thought
he would rave if he understood he would die,
wave his arms and cry out. He sat up,
thin, and clean, in his clean gown,
like a holy man. The doctor said,
“There are things we can do which might give you time,
but we cannot cure you.” My father said,
“Thank you.” And he sat, motionless, alone,
with the dignity of a foreign leader.
I sat beside him. This was my father.
He had known he was mortal. I had feared they would have to
tie him down. I had not remembered
he had always held still and kept quiet to bear things,
the liquor a way to keep still. I had not
known him. My father had dignity. At the
end of his life his life began
to wake in me.

To pull the metal splinter from my palm
my father recited a story in a low voice.
I watched his lovely face and not the blade.
Before the story ended, he’d removed
the iron sliver I thought I’d die from.I can’t remember the tale,
but hear his voice still, a well
of dark water, a prayer.
And I recall his hands,
two measures of tenderness
he laid against my face,
the flames of discipline
he raised above my head.

Had you entered that afternoon
you would have thought you saw a man
planting something in a boy’s palm,
a silver tear, a tiny flame.
Had you followed that boy
you would have arrived here,
where I bend over my wife’s right hand.

Look how I shave her thumbnail down
so carefully she feels no pain.
Watch as I lift the splinter out.
I was seven when my father
took my hand like this,
and I did not hold that shard
between my fingers and think,
Metal that will bury me,
christen it Little Assassin,
Ore Going Deep for My Heart.
And I did not lift up my wound and cry,
Death visited here!
I did what a child does
when he’s given something to keep.
I kissed my father.

The child held to her
daddy’s hand.
She stood upon his feet,
and as they danced to the music,
their closeness was complete.Excitedly, the little girl
would wait for her daddy to speak,
and as she danced in his footsteps,
he knew one day another’s love
she would seek.Time whirled her far
from her daddy’s footsteps,
into lost dreams of a magic time,
void of knights and steeds
and damsels saved
and music filled with rhyme.Old daddy wiped away his daughter’s
tears of sadness and then the
tears of strife,
and then held to his child’s hand,
quietly rectifying her life.

The child held to her
daddy’s hand
and danced to music filled with rhyme,
and felt a touch of happiness
and wondrous magical times.

He grew up in a town where people were poor,
In a family quite wealthy with love.
He was raised by two parents who were stable but strict
And taught him to trust God above.The days of his youth were like everyone else,
Filled with both good times and bad.
But he learned to look forward and follow his dreams
And be grateful for all that he had.And then at 19, it was time to escape
From the shelter and safety of home.
So he went off to the Navy in search of himself
And to finally stand up on his own.When tragedy struck and his ship was destroyed,
Torpedoed and lost to the sea,
He learned just how quickly his whole world could change
And how frightening and short life could be.

So when he returned to family and home,
He found where his future now lied,
And he studied and worked and had children,
With the love of his life by his side.

And the rest, as they say, is just history,
But my story all started with him.
He raised me and loved me and taught me what’s right,
And I hold him forever within.

The man I’ve described is my father,
A man of whom I feel so proud.
He was loving, and honest, and decent,
And his humor brought sunshine through clouds.

And it’s true that today he’s no longer with me.
His laughter and hugs are now gone,
But my deep love for him remains in my heart,
And his memory forever lives on.

But I hope from the heavens he still could look down,
And I hope through the years he could see
Just how hard I have strived to be just like him,
So he could still feel proud of me.

He was always my pillar when I knew I’d fall,
Always my anchor so strong and tall.
His hard face changes only for me.
His softer side, so careless and free.
He knows my dreams are too big for this place.
His little girl’s leaving, ready to begin her race.
He knows I’ll be thinking of him wherever I go.
I know I’m ready to do this on my own,
But still I cry and he holds me tight,
He tries to be strong, not a tear in sight.
I’m ready to reach for the stars in the sky.
He’s ready to watch his princess fly.
It’s time to let go, sure of a path to take,
But now I know, even pillars can break.
For when I drive away, trying to stifle my cries,
All I could see were tears in my father’s eyes.

34

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if (so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who, his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep
my father’s fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer’s keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly (over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father’s dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is

proudly and (by octobering flame
beckoned) as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he’d laugh and build a world with snow.

My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine, passion willed,
freedom a drug that’s bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit, all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth
—i say though hate were why men breathe—
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all

Shiny as wax, the cracked veneer Scotch-taped
and brittle. I can’t bring my father back.
Legs crossed, he sits there brashwith a private’s stripe, a world away
from the war they would ship him to
within days. Cannons flank his faceand banners above him like the flag
my mother kept on the mantel, folded tight,
white stars sharp-pointed on a field of blue.I remember his fists, the iron he pounded,
five-pound hammer ringing steel,
the frame he made for a sled that winterbefore the war. I remember the rope in his fist
around my chest, his other fist
shoving the snow, and downhill we dived,his boots by my boots on the tongue,
pines whishing by, ice in my eyes, blinking
and squealing. I remember the troop train,

steam billowing like a smoke screen.
I remember wrecking the sled weeks later
and pounding to beat the iron flat,

but it stayed there bent
and stacked in the barn by the anvil,
and I can’t bring him back.

Yesterday, against admonishment,
my daughter balanced on the couch back,
fell and cut her mouth.Because I saw it happen I knew
she was not hurt, and yet
a child’s blood so red
it stops a father’s heart.My daughter cried her tears;
I held some ice
against her lip.
That was the end of it.Round and round: bow and kiss.
I try to teach her caution;
she tries to teach me risk.

If I could see nothing but the smoke
From the tip of his cigar, I would know everything
About the years before the war.
If his face were halved by shadow I would know
This was a street where an EATS sign trembled
And a Greek served coffee black as a dog’s eye.
If I could see nothing but his wrist I would know
About the slot machine and I could reconstruct
The weak chin and ruin of his youth, the summer
My father was a gypsy with oiled hair sleeping
In a Murphy bed and practicing clairvoyance.
I could fill his vast Packard with showgirls
And keep him forever among the difficult buttons
Of the bodice, among the rustling of their names,
Miss Christina, Miss Lorraine.
I could put his money in my pocket
and wearing memory’s black fedora
With the condoms hidden in the hatband
The damp cigar between my teeth,
I could become the young man who always got sentimental
About London especially in Las Vegas with its single bridge­-
So ridiculously tender–leaning across the river
To watch the starlight’s soft explosions.
If I could trace the two veins that crossed
His temple, I would know what drove him
To this godforsaken place, I would keep him forever
Remote from war–like the come-hither tip of his lit cigar
Or the harvest moon, that gold planet, remote and pure
American.

He never made a fortune, or a noise
In the world where men are seeking after fame;
But he had a healthy brood of girls and boys
Who loved the very ground on which he trod.
They thought him just little short of God;
Oh you should have heard the way they said his name –
‘Father.’There seemed to be a loving little prayer
In their voices, even when they called him ‘Dad.’
Though the man was never heard of anywhere,
As a hero, yet somehow understood
He was doing well his part and making good;
And you knew it, by the way his children had
Of saying ‘Father.’He gave them neither eminence nor wealth,
But he gave them blood untainted with a vice,
And opulence of undiluted health.
He was honest, and unpurchable and kind;
He was clean in heart, and body, and in mind.
So he made them heirs to riches without price –
This father.He never preached or scolded; and the rod –
Well, he used it as a turning pole in play.
But he showed the tender sympathy of God.
To his children in their troubles, and their joys.
He was always chum and comrade with his boys,
And his daughters – oh, you ought to hear them say
‘Father.’Now I think of all achievements ‘tis the least
To perpetuate the species; it is doneBy the insect and the serpent, and the beast.
But the man who keeps his body, and his thought,
Worth bestowing on an offspring love-begot,
Then the highest earthly glory he was won,
When in pride a grown-up daughter or a son
Says ‘That’s Father.’

As we look back over time
We find ourselves wondering …..
Did we remember to thank you enough
For all you have done for us?
For all the times you were by our sides
To help and support us …..
To celebrate our successes
To understand our problems
And accept our defeats?
Or for teaching us by your example,
The value of hard work, good judgment,
Courage and integrity?
We wonder if we ever thanked you
For the sacrifices you made.
To let us have the very best?
And for the simple things
Like laughter, smiles and times we shared?
If we have forgotten to show our
Gratitude enough for all the things you did,
We’re thanking you now.
And we are hoping you knew all along,
How much you meant to us.

A giant pine, magnificent and old
Stood staunch against the sky and all around
Shed beauty, grace and power.
Within its fold birds safely reared their young.
The velvet ground beneath was gentle,
and the cooling shade gave cheer to passers by.
Its towering arms a landmark stood, erect and unafraid,
As if to say, “Fear naught from life’s alarms”.It fell one day.
Where it had dauntless stood was loneliness and void.
But men who passed paid tribute – and said,
“To know this life was good,
It left it’s mark on me. Its work stands fast”.
And so it lives. Such life no bonds can hold –
This giant pine, magnificent and old.

I know that no matter what
You will always be with me.
When life separates us
I’ll know it is only your soul
Saying goodbye to your body
But your spirit will be with me always.
When I see a bird chirping on a nearby branch
I will know it is you singing to me.
When a butterfly brushes gently by me so care freely
I will know it is you assuring me you are free from pain.
When the gentle fragrance of a flower catches my attention
I will know it is you reminding me
To appreciate the simple things in life.
When the sun shining through my window awakens me
I will feel the warmth of your love.
When I hear the rain pitter patter against my window sill
I will hear your words of wisdom
And will remember what you taught me so well
That without rain trees cannot grow
Without rain flowers cannot bloom
Without life’s challenges I cannot grow strong.
When I look out to the sea
I will think of your endless love for your family.
When I think of mountains, their majesty and magnificence
I will think of your courage for your country.
No matter where I am
Your spirit will be beside me
For I know that no matter what
You will always be with me.

From the time I was born
I guess you would know
Ten perfect fingers
Ten little toes
When you first put your finger in my tiny hand that’s when I first knew
You were my papa no one else would do
As I grow older
and reach for the sky
My Papa is still there
to keep that twinkle in my eye
When I need someone to hold me
you never say I’m too big
You pick me up and squeeze me
and whisper you’re my little kid
Most other people don’t understand me
or maybe just not as well
That’s why you’re the one I run to
when I have something to tell
I love you Papa
as you can see
I’m so glad
that you’re a part of me

Fathers are wonderful people
Too little understood,
And we do not sing their praises
As often as we should…For, somehow, Father seems to be
The man who pays the bills,
While Mother binds up little hurts
And nurses all our ills…And Father struggles daily
To live up to “HIS IMAGE”
As protector and provider
And “hero or the scrimmage” …And perhaps that is the reason
We sometimes get the notion,
That Fathers are not subject
To the thing we call emotion,But if you look inside Dad’s heart,
Where no one else can see
You’ll find he’s sentimental
And as “soft” as he can be…But he’s so busy every day
In the grueling race of life,
He leaves the sentimental stuff
To his partner and his wife…But Fathers are just WONDERFUL
In a million different ways,
And they merit loving compliments
And accolade of praise,For the only reason Dad aspires
To fortune and success
Is to make the family proud of him
And to bring them happiness…And like OUR HEAVENLY FATHER,
He’s a guardian and a guide,
Someone that we can count on
To be ALWAYS ON OUR SIDE.

You were there when we took our first steps,
And went unsteadily across the floor.
You pushed and prodded: encouraged and guided,
Until our steps took us out the door…
You worry now “Are they ok?”
Is there more you could have done?
As we walk the paths of our unknown
You wonder “Where have my children gone?”
Where we are is where you have led us,
With your special love you showed us a way,
To believe in ourselves and the decisions we make.
Taking on the challenge of life day-to-day.
And where we go you can be sure,
In spirit you shall never be alone.
For where you are is what matters most to us,
Because to us that will always be home…

I will take this special moment
To turn my thoughts to Dad
Thank him for the home he gave
For all the things we had.We think about the fleeting years
Too quickly, gone for good
It seems like only yesterday
I’d go back if I could.A time when Dad was always there,
No matter what the weather.
Always strong when things went wrong
He held our lives together.He strived so hard from day to day
And never once complained.
With steady hands, he worked so hard
And kept the family name.He taught us that hard work pays off,
You reap just what you sow.
He said that if you tend your crops,
Your field will overflow.My life has been bountiful
He taught me how to give
In his firm and steadfast way
He taught me how to live.Dad dwells among the angels now
He left us much too soon
He glides across a golden field
Above the harvest moon.I see him in the summer rain,
He rides upon the wind
And when my path is beaten down
He picks me up again.

Don’t think of him as gone away
his journey’s just begun,
life holds so many facets
this earth is only one.
Just think of him as resting
from the sorrows and the tears
in a place of warmth and comfort
where there are no days and years.
Think how he must be wishing
that we could know today
how nothing but our sadness
can really pass away.
And think of him as living
in the hearts of those he touched…
for nothing loved is ever lost
and he was loved so much.

We’ll always remember
that special smile,
that caring heart,
that warm embrace,
you always gave us.
You being there
for Mom and us
through good and bad times,
no matter what.
We’ll always remember
you Dad because
they’ll never be another one
to replace you in our hearts,
and the love we will always
have for you.

My father, my father,
I love he,
my father, my father,
made me see,
how beautiful this world really can be.
My father, my father,
said to me,
my daughter my daughter,
come see me,
I wont be around forever, and I have things that must be.
My father, my father,
don’t die on me.

Moments before our walk that afternoon,
I realized the path ended too soon.
Not long enough to hold his hand,
this amazing person, this loving man.
Not long enough to engage his eyes
and remember his always brimming with pride.
Not long enough to stand by his side,
as he was by mine after every rough tide.
Not long enough to laugh with him still,
after every bad joke,
after every tough hill.
Not long enough to walk with this man,
who has taught me to be the person I am.
Not long enough as we walked by his wife,
to thank them both for my wonderful life.
In all the walks I’ve taken in my life,
first as a girl and now as a wife,
I’ll remember that walk I took with my father
and always wish it could have been longer.

That man is a success –
who has lived well, laughed often and loved much;
who has gained the respect of intelligent men and the love ofchildren;
who has filled his niche and accomplished his task;
who leaves the world better than he found it;
who has never lacked appreciation of earth’s beauty or failed to express it;
who looked for the best in others and gave the best he had.

There is a train at the station
With a seat reserved just for me
I’m excited about its destination
As I’ve heard it sets you freeThe trials and tribulations
The pain and stress we breathe
Don’t exist were I am going
Only happiness I believeI hope that you will be there
To wish me on my way
It’s not a journey you can join in
It’s not your time todayThere’ll be many destinations
Some are happy, some are sad
Each one a brief reminder
Of the great times that we’ve hadMany friends I know are waiting
Who took an earlier train
To greet and reassure me
That nothing has really changedWe’ll take the time together
To catch up on the past
To build a new beginning
One that will always lastOne day you’ll take your journey
On the train just like me
And i promise that I’ll be there
At the station and you will seeThat Life is just a journey
Enriched by those you meet
No one can take that from you
It’s always yours to keep’

But now as no seat is vacant
You will have to muddle through
Make sure you fulfill your ambitions
As you know I’ll be watching you

And if there’s an occasion
To mention who you knew
Speak kindly of that person
As one day it will be you

Now i can’t except this ending
And as it’s time for me to leave
Please make haste to the reception
To enjoy my drinks, they’re free!

He was a jolly little man full of fun and laughter,
He played jokes on his fellow men
And to him it did not matter.
Education he had not,
But what he learned he never forgot.
He wrote what he knew all about cancer
so that someday, there will be an answer.
He joined the Canadian Medical Corps.
And served in the Second World War.
He risked his life, to save others,
This man, that I call my Father.
Seein’ my Father in me is the title of a song
Which I can relate to as I do see my Father in me.
I have a French accent just like my Father,
I love walking, just like my Father,
I love being with people, just like my father.
But most of all, is my love for children, like my Father.