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Joey Jones Sep 26
The sun slowly rises outside the window,
I watch the peaceful ascension for a while
drinking coffee from an old chipped mug
tasting the moment as much as the brew.

The day before me is one that is far too busy
breakfast is to be made and errands to run
but in this moment my mind can only drift,
a leaf lost on an autumn field of reflection.

I savor a sip and allow the moment its due
thinking back on my youth and its ambitions
I find them unfulfilled but lacking in regret
then weep as I realize there will be one to come.

Daughter, I have worn so many hats in my life
played the roles of heroes and foes on its stage
obtaining my titles and fighting for positions
but your father has been my favorite one.

It is through your eyes I’ve seen this world,
as your tiny fingers unveiled for me it’s beauty,
in my lessons to you, you taught me to dream,
gave voice to my song, and rhyme to my verse.

With you I’ve surfed the shores of foreverland
holding your hand along its tides and beaches
living this amazing dream that began with you
a dream my youth could have never dreamed.

Today, we’ll laugh and play our games together,
finding joy in all those tasks that lay before us,
I’ll hold your hand and call you my baby girl
assuring you my hand would always be there.

But one day, like me today, you’ll watch a sunrise
with your tears blurring its wondrous beauty
my promise will break, the one all fathers make
and that day will fulfill my life’s only regret.

On that morning my breeze will have calmed
my leaf will have found its place in the field,
leaving you with just a memory for a father,
daddy’s little girl without my hand to hold.

Weep child if you must, for that’s living too
then close your eyes and lift up your hand
and I’ll find it, I’ll be the caress of the wind
to lift you back to the shores of foreverland

Where each wave is a forgotten memory
that crashes on those timeless beaches
where a father’s promise is never broken
and daughters are forever daddy’s little girls.

Joey Jones
Zac Shawhan Sep 10
Is it another year so soon?
My little man, my dear big boy
as time goes on it begins to wound
yet still there remains a lasting joy.
Surprise hugs and silly kisses
shrink my world to you and I
and time’s wounding power decreases
as you teach me to deny
all I have and all I desire
to give it up, to self forget.
This is a truth that reaches higher,
to become content as vignette
Son’s third birthday
Sirad Jul 30
I imagine you at my age
Younger, stronger and ambitious
You literally cracked your spine
Once healed, cracked again by soil foreign  
That bore you no fruit
But fruit were born from the womb
Of the love of your life

I imagine you had it all
But poverty was placed between your eyes
Tried to go back home
Catch the dream you once had
Build a home your children could inherit
But all they wanted, was to snuggle in your strength
Listen to a strong heartbeat
Reading them nursery rhymes

Tears begin to flood my vision
When I realise, your life
Is mirror to my own
I inherited recycled dreams and hope
From a land that bore me no fruit
When all I wanted, was to inherit extra time with you
Snuggle in your strength
And listen to lullabies
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 of 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 gruelling 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 accolades 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.
(Helen Steiner Rice)

አባቶች ግሩም ሰዎች ናቸው

አባቶች ግሩም ሰዎች ናቸው ፣
ምንም እንኳ ባይታደሉም በደንብ የሚረዳቸው
የሚገባቸውን ምስጋና፣
በስፋት አልዘመርንም ገና!

ምክንያቱም አባታችን
የወጪያችን ሽፋን ሆኖ
ስለሚሳል በእይታችን፣
በአንፃሩ እናታችን
ሐኪም የቁስላችን
ለሷ ህመማችን ነው የጋራችን፡፡

ቆፍጣና፣ የተንከባካቢነት፣ የአስተዳዳሪነት
ብሎም የችግር ፍቺነት ተግባር
ለማስጠበቅ የሚጥር ዘወትር
ለዚህ ይሆን ምናልባት
አባቶች ተገዢ የማይመስሉን ለስሜት?

ግን የአባባን ልብ ብታዩት
ባትታደሉም ያን ለማየት
ታስተውሉ ነበር በውነት
ያቺን ቡብነት የሚያምሳትን
የልቡን ስሱነት!

በሥራ ከመጠመድ ነው
በዚህ አታካቹ ሩጫ የህይወት
ጉዳዮችን የስሜታዊነት
ለውሀ አጣጩ ለሚስቱ የሚተውላት!

ግን አባቶች በጣም ግሩሞች ናቸው
በሚሊዮን መንገድ
የፍቅር ምላሽ ምስጋና የሚገባቸው
ብቸኛው ምክንያት፣ አባባ ሁሌ የሚሯሯጠው
ቤተሰቡን ለማስደሰት ለማኩራት ነው
ልክ እንደሰማዩ አባታችንሁሌ ያለ ከጎናችን
ነው መከታችን

በሄለን ስቲነር ትርጉም ዓለም ኃይሉ
In connection with fathers' day. I love the sweet and uplifting poems of Helen Stiner Rice(An ambassador of sunshine) from America. I have translated many of her poems including her book in The Vineyard of the Lord.
She lived 1900-1991
Keiya Tasire May 11
Is a Child
A mirror of himself
his father,  and his father's fathers.
All culminating within the palms
Of his own two hands
His newborn babe.

He wonders in awe,
"How can I best teach, support, and love you?"
With ears of compassion
Eyes of love, and a heart of gratitude
His Spirit spoke,

"Allow your light to shine."
Allow your heart to breathe.
Allow your your ego
to slip away into the shadow
Of your Ancient Wise Soul.

He felt it!
As he breathed deeply
Down to the depths of his soles.
A heartfelt love
A love that was only imagined
Until this very moment
The very moment we realize that we are a father, and that another generation has risen through the union of the one we love  to create a new precious loved one to welcome to this world.
Kyle Reeves May 11
my daughter is almost 5
and my son is nearly 2
I could simply say they're one and four
but when the number's higher it sounds a little better
they're less babies and more childlike
you know, bigger and more wise
I'm more wise

my daughter is almost five
and my son is nearly two
they're in our yard with twig berrets
and mud stained smiles posing for a postcard to make the hose drinking generation proud.
he straddles the ground, chest bare like he's Tarzan and howls at the blue sky
challenging the sun

I look at him like he's made of stone
she's a daisy pedal I crush in my hand and compress into a diamond
the toxins dripping from the curling edges of my lips burn the dirt from her face
the shine of the light washes out the blood on my knuckles.
a ring on my finger and my hands look clean

my daughter is almost five
and my son is nearly two
their muddy fingers comb their feral hair
and their green feet clip the grass till they find jagged rocks
they weep over skinned kneecaps and with one arm I pull her close
with the other I slug his shoulder, "buck up kiddo, you'll be alright"
I hold a stone in each hand, and call one a precious gem while I build my house out of the other

my skin has washed against those stones since they were none and none
built into the houses of a thousand graveyards I've watched daisies pile over golden sarcophaguses
watched them wilt at the bottom of alters built on stone
I won't carve epitaphs into these hearts I hold

my daughter is almost five
and my son is nearly two
we drag fallen branches to our firepit and dance to music next to the flames
like weightless stone his strength surges to his tippytoes
she powders his nose with ash and pretends she's a cheetah
her game isn't to **** she just wants to chase
princes have their feet welded to pedestals and the sport's no fun for her

my children aren't rocks, they're stardust
I won't make kings or queens I've no providence  over their future
so I'll **** the venom from the sky and watch them walk back to the stars
I may not be a champion but I'll be their father
Future generations deserve the best from our histories, not toxic artifacts
Passages on Fatherhood
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy Michael Burch

He is my treasure,
and by his happiness I measure
my own worth.

Four years old,
with diamonds and gold
bejeweled in his soul.

His cherubic beauty
is felicity
to simplicity and passion—

for a baseball thrown
or an ice-cream cone
or eggshell-blue skies.


It’s hard to be “wise”
when the years
career through our lives

and bees in their hives
test faith
and belief

while Time, the great thief,
with each falling leaf
foreshadows grief.

The wisdom of the ages
and prophets and mages
and doddering sages

is useless
it encompasses this:

his kiss.

Keywords/Tags: father, fatherhood, child, childhood, children, son, time, years, wisdom, kiss
Jack Boucher Feb 6
The surgery room makes you nauseous

He’s the only doctor you have
He understands how your cane helps you walk
And what music helps you relax
So when he tells you he should resign, that he’s a bad doctor,
You insist he isn’t.
He’s the only doctor you have.

He’s not so kind to his other patients,
Ignoring and laughing off their concerns
He insults and yells at his coworkers
And won’t help keep the hospital running.
Only you get his attention
So he takes you specifically under his wing,
Like a disciple instead of a patient

He’s a hypocrite, your doctor.
He tells you how fragile your lungs are
While puffing his cigarette.
He explains the benefits of a sound mind
With empty bottles across the floor
A cautionary tale, that would be fine,
If he wasn’t so lousy at being a doctor.

You’re the only one who listens to him
Because you don’t know any better.
He shows you his injuries and scars from long ago
That run for feet across his back
You hear the stories of how he and his sisters got those scars
With little detail spared.
Ironic, then, that when you get a scrape on your little knee
You can’t imagine telling him.

Other patients resent you for having his attention
Saying your music tastes stole him from them,
Leaving them with only harsh neglect.
Truly it’s because the drunk, depressed doctor
Sees them as a weaker version of those he hates most
Like the nurses, left to do their best to comfort you
Leaving them alone to run the hospital they want to leave so badly.

He has helped you
You wouldn’t walk today if not for him
His medical advice is fairly sound
You have conversations,
But those good things became perverse
As each and every hug being haunted by tickling
As he always sleeps naked, always.
As sometimes he sits you down
And forgets what grade to put certain education courses

You hate needles to today. Naturally.
It’s in your nature. can’t be helped.
But your doctor didn’t help.
He would show syringes and explain their beauty.
Syringe displays were smaller parts of overall sessions,
But it was always integral to it.
At every squirm he repeated how you wouldn’t live without medicine
Which objectively is true.
But the Heavy weights criminals lift in Prison
And the Metal children learn about in School
Could be lifted and taught without extra indecency.
A Grove does not need Hemlock bushes

Maybe he could be a good doctor
If he wasn’t drunk
If he wasn’t poor
If he didn’t have so many scars
But the fact is that he should never have been a doctor.
And he knows that. And he tells you he knows.
But you tell him he’s the best doctor in the world.
He's the only doctor you have.

The ambulance hurts your head within a moment of being in
The waiting room has more dread every time
The *** test hits the water twice as strong
The surgery room makes you nauseous
The operating table makes time move ten times slower.

He should comfort you.
You should take comfort in him.
That's his job.
But he only takes comfort in you.
And it’s only that.

The surgery itself came throughout a whole life
Little by little
His influence holds to this day.
I won’t be a doctor. And I’ll never go to that hospital again.
not the man you used to be
and we do not know why
everything is suffocating
strangled by the lies

in the end it all felt wrong
like it was born to burn
scarring all your little ones with
nothing left to learn

by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
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Psychostasis Dec 2019
Sometimes I see my past in your present
The twinkling eyes with each smile that radiates a room
The disappointment in self each lecture and post tantrum
I get scared about that sometimes because I want you to be better than me

But then I remember that people aren't "better" or "worse" than one another
And I shouldn't expect something I don't personally believe in
To apply to any situation
Let alone to you

So I struggle between

Raising you around your happiness, because I want you to have what I couldn't so ******* bad

Raising you with discipline, for the most righteous fist is the one that holds back when it isn't needed

Raising you as carefully as if we called a claymore mine home, and walked a driveway of tripwires

I parent in a tip-toe style
Hoping the foot prints I leave for you aren't too large for you to be unable to fill
While simultaneously hoping you don't follow them too closely
Or even that if you do, you won't be afraid to stray the path

I want you to be a great person
By your own volition
And sometimes I feel like I influence you too much
But you're still only a child
And have much to learn
And I as your humble caretaker, teacher, and protector
Really wish I knew exactly what the lesson plan you need is
But until I know what to do
I'll continue to try my hardest for you
Until the day my heart stops,
My teeth shatter like frozen tissue paper
And my last breathe and effort dissipates into the clarity you'll need when you need it.
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