which is no surprise to me.
He's always been like a lighthouse
that helps you cross a stormy sea.
But, I walk with my dad each day
I watch him sit up late at night,
My dad is like a tower of strength.
Hold his hand or pat his shoulder...
Now, as I watch over my precious dad
October 16, 1998
Dedicated to any man who has lost his child~!
All rights reserved!
It is illegal to take or use a copyright
poem or work without original authors permission.
Though no one ever told me why
So when I fell and skinned a knee
No one came to comfort me.
And when some bully boy at school
So as I grew to reasoned years
And I could play that stoic role
Then one long night I stood nearby
And still I cry and have no shame
So those of you who can't abide
For men do cry when they can see
Submitted by Janna Dougherty
And there among the isles,
Where perfect summer reigned complete,
I trod white beaches with glad feet,
That stretched out many miles.
But there was one beach not the same:
It was a beach of night.
Black sands, dark waves, a moon on high,
Where nightbirds gave their lovely cry;
I asked, "But is this right?"
"Is this dark scene, in Paradise,
"Misplaced, though beauty-filled?"
He answered, "No mistake was made.
"This beach was always Heaven-laid,
"And central in My will."
"You see," He said, "Now take a look,
"At this unusual sand."
I scooped a handful, held it, amazed,
For there, to my astonished gaze,
Were gemstones in my hand!
He smiled, and pointed to the moon,
The black beach, and the night.
I then remembered how I cried,
But found His living love inside,
As He made all things right.
"This beach," He said, "remembers all
"The dark times you went through.
"Its sands are crystal tears I shed,
"Its ocean is the love I said
"Will always be with you."
By Milo Tsukroff
23 December 2000
This pain is much too hard to bare, once again Iím kneeling by my chair.
You know griefís heartache and pain, you see my tears that fall like rain.
You know this has brought me to my knees, help me Lord, Iím begging, please.
This world has no meaning since that awful day, I had to stand by while you
led my son away. I know Heaven is our home and glory is so grand...
But, I canít help my family when I canít even stand.
Everyone expects more from me because I am, The Dad.
They donít understand he was the best friend I ever had.
Lord, Iíll never understand why our children have to die, but would
help others know when this happens....even strong men cry.
~Charlene Dickerson~ ©2001
of having his heart broken and tears that fall like rain.
Men you say are stronger and never show their fears,
they donít let life destroy them, a fortress through the years.
Let me tell you of a battle waged daily on this dad,
leaving his heart in shreds with no happiness to be had.
Death came to call and took his loving son,
it left his heart broken, his world undone.
This battle has him crying and crawling on his knees,
if you listen you can hear him begging, "Why God, please?"
He sees what it has done to his children and his wife,
as they live daily with griefís never ending strife.
Now his closest friend, his son, lives beyond the sky,
and when death comes to take your child..... even strong men cry.
~Charlene Dickerson~ ©2001
A father is a person who is forced to endure childbirth without an anesthetic. He growls when he feels good and laughs very loud when he is scared half-to-death. A father never feels entirely worthy of the worship in a child's eyes. He is never quite the hero his daughter thinks . . .Never quite the man his son believes him to be. And this worries him sometimes. (So he works too hard to try to smooth the rough places in the road of those of his own who will follow him.)
A father is a person who goes to war sometimes . . .and would run the other way except that war is part of his only important job in his life, (which is making the world better for his child than it has been for him.)
Fathers grow older faster than people, because they, in other wars, have to stand at the train station and wave goodbye to the uniform that climbs onboard. And, while mothers cry where it shows, fathers stand and beam . . .outside . . . and die inside.
Fathers are men who give daughters away to other men, who aren't nearly good enough, so that they can have children that are smarter than anybody's. Fathers fight dragons almost daily. They hurry away from the breakfast table, off to the arena which is sometimes called an office or a workshop. There, with callused hands, they tackle the dragon with three heads; Weariness, Works, and Monotony. And they never quite win the fight, but they never give up.
Knights in shining armor; fathers in shiny trousers: There's little difference as they march away each workday. I don't know where father goes when he dies, but I've an idea that, after a good rest, wherever it is, he won't just sit on a cloud and wait for the girl he's loved and the children she bore. He'll be busy there too . . .repairing the stars, oiling the gates, improving the streets, smoothing the way.
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