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Poetry By: Ousma

This was inspired by my amazing dad and the poem 'Those Winter Sundays' by Robert Hayden, which is one of my favorite poems ever. I don't thank my dad enough for all he does, and I realized that today after coming home from lacrosse practice that I got up early for and did chores for the first time in weeks. I may get weeks off from school, and a whole summer, but he doesn't get any days off. And he comes home and cooks and cleans on top of that. He's always busy with something, and he's the kind of man who will work until he's in the grave. I wouldn't be who I am without him. Thanks, Dad. 

Submitted:Apr 18, 2011    Reads: 406    Comments: 10    Likes: 4   

His body is scarred and battered
From a life of hard work and toil
He doesn't complain; the pain, it never mattered
So long as the table had bread, milk, and potatoes in the foil.
In the winter, while we hide in bed from cold
He labors outside, chopping wood and shoveling snow
He gets up early while we sleep until the morning's old
Not waking until he kindles a warm fire aglow.
He comes home from long work hours, but doesn't rest
There are dishes piled high and errands to be run
He cooks all the meals, shaming a chef's best
He hits the pillow late and rises early, work never done.
As his joints grow weary and his muscles grow tired
He just rubs some dirt in and pushes through
We rarely thank him for all he's bled and perspired
Is he a father or a caretaker? A difference I never knew.


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