Father's Day

[flyguy69]

Yes, I know every newspaper in America will print it this weekend, but it is such a wonderful Father's Day sentiment that I simply had to beat them to it!

Those Winter Sundays

by Robert Hayden​

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 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?

 

[PatCarrington]

that's a perfect sentiment.

and top-shelf poetry.

 

[annaswirls]

I have one about waking up early, it is under the bar quality but someday I hope to finish it.


3 am

Cold air on nose wakes the farmer
like it does every December morning
but not usually this early.

He rises to throw more wood
on remaining embers that shake off
their thick grey coat of dead ash.
The vent is opened wide,
sucking in oxygen for a steady burn.

Coals, red; furnace, black;
concrete floor; oil stained.
Sleds and wooden bats all hung on pegs;
everything is in order here.

Mud crunches under heavy boots
as he walks across stubbled fields
to check the animals.

3 a.m.
cows are curious and barn cats, annoyed
but no pipes have frozen in the barn tonight.

Heading home,
a flash of green light
grows into a frozen cloud
that rains down pale yellow streaks.

He awakens his family in time to watch
yellow curtains drape darkness
with transparent sheets hung to dry,
fluttering in the Northern sky.

They soon return to their warm beds,
except Madeline, whose patchwork quilt
is tucked tight under flannel gown,
and eyes still opened Christmas morning wide.

They sit under a red haze
that blows a fog over purple waves
until dreamscape lights
are washed away by sunrise.

No one speaks at breakfast.

 

[Angeline]

Happy father's day

daddy. wish you were here.

528 Hobart Avenue

Sitting by the screen door
on late summer nights,
Daddy and I watch storms
as if in theater box seats.

With the kitchen to one side,
and basement steps the other,
a weird musty savory smell
lingers in the doorway,

but we are comfortable,
companionable even,
in our rump-sprung chair,
sharing root beer.

We don't talk much.
We watch the sky flash,
and count seconds.

One Mississippi,
Two Mississippi.

When you feel safe,
it's easy to predict thunder.
You don't have to hold your ears
or cringe. You just say

there it is.

Sometimes we walk in the rain
and get really soaked, and he says

See? You won't melt.
You're not a sugar cookie,
Cookie.

 

[flyguy69]

I have one about waking up early, it is under the bar quality but someday I hope to finish it.


3 am

Cold air on nose wakes the farmer
like it does every December morning
but not usually this early.

He rises to throw more wood
on remaining embers that shake off
their thick grey coat of dead ash.
The vent is opened wide,
sucking in oxygen for a steady burn.

Coals, red; furnace, black;
concrete floor; oil stained.
Sleds and wooden bats all hung on pegs;
everything is in order here.

Mud crunches under heavy boots
as he walks across stubbled fields
to check the animals.

3 a.m.
cows are curious and barn cats, annoyed
but no pipes have frozen in the barn tonight.

Heading home,
a flash of green light
grows into a frozen cloud
that rains down pale yellow streaks.

He awakens his family in time to watch
yellow curtains drape darkness
with transparent sheets hung to dry,
fluttering in the Northern sky.

They soon return to their warm beds,
except Madeline, whose patchwork quilt
is tucked tight under flannel gown,
and eyes still opened Christmas morning wide.

They sit under a red haze
that blows a fog over purple waves
until dreamscape lights
are washed away by sunrise.

No one speaks at breakfast.

I love the use of color in this poem! Very strong images without seeming contrived. Is this about your dad?

 

[flyguy69]

...
but we are comfortable,
companionable even,
in our rump-sprung chair,
sharing root beer.
....

What a wonderful image!

 

[annaswirls]

I love the use of color in this poem! Very strong images without seeming contrived. Is this about your dad?

My dad? The one and only Superman.

True story, down to the curious cows.
Um except it was just a yellow flowered comforter, not a quilt

love,

Madeline

 

[RhymeFairy]

Time To Get Up~

4:00 am
waking me up early
dad cuts the light on
"time to go milk"
throwing on
whatever clothes i can reach
i rush out the door

still half asleep
as i slide in the passenger door
dad has the heat on high for me
buckles me in
and off we go

soft country music
flows through the air
dad so quiet
letting me sleep in just a lil

gears grinding
long curvy road sways
me asleep thanks to dad

truck comes to a slow stop
dad opens his door
"you coming?"
i can hear the smile in his voice
i have amused him yet again
as i do every morning
on our ride to the dairy...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

my dad has a way of being tickled and ya can just feel it.
you don't have to see it.
just knew...

think most dads are the same.
thing is.
his being tickled at me,
well it tickled me too...

RhymeFairy~

 

[Angeline]

What a wonderful image!

It was a forever ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday.

Thank you.

 

[eagleyez]

Yes, I know every newspaper in America will print it this weekend, but it is such a wonderful Father's Day sentiment that I simply had to beat them to it!

Those Winter Sundays

by Robert Hayden​

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 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?

Here in the far north of half-year fozen winters, that poem has always been a favorite of mine. Im using it in a scene from a prose project I am working on. I was so pleasantly surprised to see it here.

In the scene, a teacher reads it to the class of teenagers, and then asks them for opinions of their own fathers.

Lonely offices indeed.

 

[champagne1982]

Hush now, and let me passion this one out. My dad isn't much for poetry, but I just can't imagine a pilot without giving him wings of words to fly with.

I remember dragging that bag
through the garage door
dumping it down those three
tall steps
then your hands,
around my middle as you lift me
Fly me to the car, Daddy!

We'd emerge through frosty haze
into the severe clarity of twenty below
and moonlight
then your hands,
around my mittens as we hustle
Fly me to the ice, Daddy!

Someday I want to know the joy
of offering the love and security
of your arms to one who'll beg
Fly me to the moon, Grandpa!

and you will.

 

[flyguy69]

...

and you will.

Umm, are you sharing some news here, Champ?

Congratulations?

 

[champagne1982]

OMG


No freakin' way! I have too much to do.

I merely meant that some day...
some-in-the-foggy-future-day...
I will hand him a grandchild.
Heaven forbid that the happy event would be before I'm through at the U.

It would be kinda neat, just not right now.

edited to add: Did I mention I live in an adults only condo?

 

[BooMerengue]

This isn't a poem, per se, but I sure wish you could hear it, and I hope you already have!

For My Father
Melanie Safka

I'm gonna spend all my money
Gonna spend all my time
I'm gonna spend the music
Cause the music is mine
I'm gonna spend myself
For the sake of the rhyme
But I'll save a little bit for my Father
Gonna save a little bit for my Father

I'm gonna pack my suitcase
Gonna run to the sea
I'm gonna run as far
As I can away from me
I'm gonna take comfort
In the town of the tree
I would stop but then I wouldn't go farther
And that would really break the heart of my Father

Gonna spend all my money
Gonna spend all my time
I'm gonna spend the music
Cause the music is mine
And I'm gonna spend myself
For the sake of the rhyme
But I'll save a little bit for my Father

I'm gonna pack my suitcase
Gonna run to the sea
And I'm gonna run as far
As I can away from me
I'm gonna take comfort
In the town of the tree
I would stop but then I wouldn't go farther
And that would really break the heart of my Father

I know my Dad knows what this means. He was a cool Dad!

Happy Father's Day, Daddy!

 

[annaswirls]

Happy Father's Day!

I know there are many men here who have been and who are still dedicated and loving fathers to their children and who have played father roles to children who are not their biological offspring.

To them, Thank You! For them,

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!​

There are no power tool smilies or ties, so here are some kisses and flowers...

​

 

[Angeline]

Here in the far north of half-year fozen winters, that poem has always been a favorite of mine. Im using it in a scene from a prose project I am working on. I was so pleasantly surprised to see it here.

In the scene, a teacher reads it to the class of teenagers, and then asks them for opinions of their own fathers.

Lonely offices indeed.

Happy Father's Day. You're a wonderful daddy.

 

[eagleyez]

Happy Father's Day. You're a wonderful daddy.

TY sweetheart.

Its easy with boys like mine.