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

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

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

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
unless
it encompasses this:

his kiss.

Keywords/Tags: father, fatherhood, child, childhood, children, son, time, years, wisdom, kiss

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

He always lets them
braid petals into his hair,

✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿
(swept over his ear
and beside his eye),
✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿

and he breathes deeply
and smiles softly,

and knows
that he is loved
when he is
next to his flowers.

By birth most knew
This name of stern
As mentors too
Some take this turn

Few tamed in domicile
Less in passive right
Age takes this notice
Not wisdom nor sight

Whose care can nurture
Great strength in a foal?
To yield such future
Mere presence can scold

With great hope so few
Enjoy this manly art
That horses will march
Long after they depart

I await this fortune
Time takes my reign
My worships in court
Years cannot regain

How will my horses march
On life's steeple chase
Without their father's hold
From this their tender age?