Celebrates Father’s Day

“It’s Father’s Day this Sunday so let’s celebrate Dad!” said the Poet in Residence of Wolverhampton`s WCR FM which broadcasts on 101.8 FM and online.

“My Dad used to run a newsagents in Leicester Street in Whitmore Reans when he came out of the Royal Air Force” said Ian Henery, Poet in Residence. “As a special treat he used to take us to the paddling pool in Tettenhall and I am pleased to see that it has been restored by Wolverhampton City Council. This means that other fathers can take their kids just like my Dad took me when I was a child”.

Father`s Day is the celebration of fathers in the UK and many other parts of the world.  It is a special day to show your Father, Stepfather or other male relative or friend who cares about you just how much you love him.

“Love is stronger than death” said Ian Henery “and love never dies.  Just because your Father has passed doesn`t mean that you can`t celebrate their memory and legacy on Father`s Day.  If you have a faith you will know that death isn`t final and we will see our loved ones again.  It`s why having a faith helps.  I know that my Father lives on and walks beside me everyday.”


My Father`s Hands

My Father`s hands
Large as saucepans;
Battered like blades,
Worn like old spades,
My Father`s hands.

My Father`s hands,
Weathered like land;
Engrained with dirt
Ignoring hurt.
My Father`s hands.

Are eyes the mirrors of the soul?
My Father`s hands looked like a mole`s,
Battered and calloused from his work
And hard graft, he would never shirk.

His hands looked like his life`s roadmap,
Where truth is revealed and unwrapped
And he laboured, all of his days,
God his compass on the highway.

From the coalfields to Royal  Air Force,
A uniform changed his life`s course
Mining the thick Durham coal seams
And learned to fly with lofty dreams.

My Father loved aircraft engines,
A science without an ending.
Hands in oil, permanently engrained,
Dirt in his skin, forever stained.

My Father`s hands
Finger nails short,
Vanity nought,
No polish bought,
My Father`s hands.

My Father`s hands
Gripped like a vice,
Screws pulled and prised
In snow and ice,
My Father`s hands.

My Father loved God and believed
His hands unworthy to receive
In church, the Holy Communion,
Jesus, the Body of God`s Son.

At alter rail, bread on his tongue,
Worn hands held down, those hands so strong.
Air craft engines replaced by cars,
His own repairs to beer and bars.
A big man, he did tug of war:

The anchor, his hands were rubbed raw.
He also boxed, his hands weapons
And I was proud to be his son.

His hands provided, they supplied,
Not once did they tan my backside.
I could be silenced with a stare,
A child looking at a big bear.

My Father`s hands
Full of old oil,
Engines, he`d toil,
Dug into soil,
My Father`s hands.

My Father`s hands
Scarred, bruised and worn,
From dusk to dawn
As soon as born,
My Father`s hands.

A scout leader, magic with knots,
Hands working rope, never forgot.
Big hands planting seeds in the ground,
Loving his garden all year round.

Roses, holly hocks and fruit trees,
Refuge from the world, sanctuary.
I watched my Father`s hands bring life,
A garden in a world of strife.

My Father`s hands, clasped on his chest
In his coffin, at home of rest.
Scout badge in his left, in his right
Grandchildren`s cross made by candlelight.

My Father lying there, in state,
Bound for Heaven and Pearly Gates.
His hands and heart, bigger than mine
With the angels in the divine.

My Father`s hands,
Tough as old boots,
Thistles by roots,
Nettles by shoots,
My Father`s hands.

Still his hands, bigger than mine
My Father`s hands
Large as saucepans,
Battered like blades,
Worn like old spades,
My Father`s hands.

With the angels in the divine
MY Father`s hands
Bigger than mine,
End of the line,
My Father`s hands.

– Ian Henery

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