Father's Day Poem

Here is a poem I wrote for my dad on Father's day one year; it had to have been at least five years ago. I don't remember. But since it is father's day tomorrow I thought I should put it up.



My Father's Hands:

My father's hands are the kind that although strong,
When I was growing up they taught me no wrong,
When I was a baby they held me gently,
Those hands, when I would fall, picked me up and set me down lightly,
Those hands showed me how to tie my shoes the right way,
When crossing the street those hands held mine, and in those warm, strong, beautiful hands, my hand would stay.

But one thing that my father's hands did that was the greatest,
Was, with those hands, he held his Bible as he read aloud,
The truth of what he read would always give me rest,
And his voice, proclaiming God's love, was firm and loud.

Through my father's hands I learned about my father God,
Through my father's hands I see the likeness of my God,
My God's hands are strong, yet gentle,
God's hands work through my life goodly and subtle,
He will never teach me wrong,
And like my earthly father I proclaim God's truth with song,
And when I fall my Lord helps me up, and helps me to again take flight,
My eyes now see with my Lord's sight,

With my father's hands it is now known,
The love our Father God has for the world, is shown.

Giant Oak

I am ancient, old, and still,
I have stood in this same place for an age,
Other's before have been cut down and brought to a mill,
But here I stay anceint, old, and still in this cage.

For years here I've stayed, for years I sleep,
My roots bend low and grow quite deep,
My life is never ebbing like the sea,
Only in this same wood doth stand me,

I am anceint, old, and still and here I'll stay,
Until my roots are taken away,
But for now I will stand and not sway,
And I am ancient, old, and for now...still.

The Dictionary

This is the very first poem that I wrote. I had to write a poem in my Senoir year about an inanimate object and there happened to be a dictonary right in front of me, and I realized that I hadn't been using the dictionary so much anymore. I used to use it for school alot but as I came to my later teens I stopped using it, and so I wrote this poem from the dictionary's point of view. What does the dictionary feel about not being used so much, and so thats how I came up with this poem; enjoy!





The Dictionary

Who am I? I am no more,
Will my life ever again be filled?
In this dark corner it seems my fate is sealed,
On this shelf I sit, and there I’ll be forevermore.

Once I was looked upon as wise,
People would see inside of me,
The answers that were meant to be,
But now, here I stay with great demise.

For the dust and the lint upon me sit,
It seems to me I am now beat,
Someday near I may be used as flint,
To make a great fire with whom I will heat.

Who am I? For I am no more,
No one looks to me for wise words,
For it seems I have been cut up by swords,
Here I sit, not so great anymore.