Bedtime came we were settling down, I was holding one of my lads
As I grasped him so tight I saw a strange sight, my hands…they looked like my dads!
I remember them well those old gnarled hooks, there was always a cracked nail or two
And thanks to a hammer that strayed from its mark, his thumb was a beautiful blue!
They were rough I remember, incredibly tough, as strong as a carpenters vice
But holding a scared little boy at night, they seemed to me awfully nice.
The sight of those hands-how impressive it was, in the eyes of his little boy
Other dads’ hands were cleaner it seemed, the effects of their office employ
I gave little thought in my formative years, of the reason for dad’s raspy mitts
The love in the toil, the dirt and the oil, rusty plumbing that gave those hands fits!
Thinking back, misty-eyed, and thinking ahead…when one day my time is done
The torch of love in my own wrinkled hands, will pass on to the hands of my son
I don’t mind the bruises, the scars here and there, or the hammer that just seemed to slip
I want most of all when my son takes my hand, to feel that love lies in the grip
This was the first poem that I ever had published in anything other than a coffee table book of poetry. My Dad’s Hands was published in Chicken Soup for the Soul part 5. Chicken soup also used it in one of their calendars. It’s kind of cool to also find this poem on many websites especially around Fathers day. I don’t remember the date that I wrote it. I think it was in the late Eighties. It’s hard to believe that now I have two adult sons and one fourteen year old. My oldest, Doug would now have hands that resembled mine when I wrote this poem…probably while holding him as a lad. If he was 2 years old at the time, that would have been around 1989. Dad will be 85 next month in March 2009. His hands have gotten pretty rough with sores brought on by his cancer. My brother Mark and I are going to try and go see Mom and Dad at their home in Eugene Oregon next month.
As I grasped him so tight I saw a strange sight, my hands…they looked like my dads!
I remember them well those old gnarled hooks, there was always a cracked nail or two
And thanks to a hammer that strayed from its mark, his thumb was a beautiful blue!
They were rough I remember, incredibly tough, as strong as a carpenters vice
But holding a scared little boy at night, they seemed to me awfully nice.
The sight of those hands-how impressive it was, in the eyes of his little boy
Other dads’ hands were cleaner it seemed, the effects of their office employ
I gave little thought in my formative years, of the reason for dad’s raspy mitts
The love in the toil, the dirt and the oil, rusty plumbing that gave those hands fits!
Thinking back, misty-eyed, and thinking ahead…when one day my time is done
The torch of love in my own wrinkled hands, will pass on to the hands of my son
I don’t mind the bruises, the scars here and there, or the hammer that just seemed to slip
I want most of all when my son takes my hand, to feel that love lies in the grip
This was the first poem that I ever had published in anything other than a coffee table book of poetry. My Dad’s Hands was published in Chicken Soup for the Soul part 5. Chicken soup also used it in one of their calendars. It’s kind of cool to also find this poem on many websites especially around Fathers day. I don’t remember the date that I wrote it. I think it was in the late Eighties. It’s hard to believe that now I have two adult sons and one fourteen year old. My oldest, Doug would now have hands that resembled mine when I wrote this poem…probably while holding him as a lad. If he was 2 years old at the time, that would have been around 1989. Dad will be 85 next month in March 2009. His hands have gotten pretty rough with sores brought on by his cancer. My brother Mark and I are going to try and go see Mom and Dad at their home in Eugene Oregon next month.
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