One could tell that these were hands of hard labour When young he plowed the land just using rope and animal With large muscular hands he carried his mothers’ luggage Aboard a ship that would bring them to America Those same hands caressed his mothers’ face when she left this world Lines on his tattered Czech hands matched a weathered face Working in the steel mill…hands of callus The tenderness of his touch reassured us Despite the times the wrinkled fist shook in the air His one hand could engulf our entire skull We loved when he took those mighty hands… Held us up high to touch the sky These were the hands that didn’t ask for much Hands that made us feel safe and loved.
Loving tribute to your father's hands. A knot in my throat as I read the poem of simple, but strong love between you and your father... what an endearing read this is. Well Done.
Helen,
What a touching tribute to your father! The images are very clear as the work is read.Thanks for sharing this moving poem.
To your continued success~
Barbara Henry
Let this coming of age story of a boy named Bean take you back to a simple time. Set in a small southern town in the 1960's, encircled by a river and gleaming white cotton fields.
Let this coming of age story of a boy named Bean take you back to a simple time. Set in a small southern town in the 1960's, encircled by a river and gleaming white cotton fields.
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Joy L. Hale
What a touching tribute to your father! The images are very clear as the work is read.Thanks for sharing this moving poem.
To your continued success~
Barbara Henry
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in tx., karen lynn. :D