Father’s Day Haiku

The calloused farmer with his son.
The calloused farmer
cradles his newly born son,
awkwardly tender.


Notes:

I’m descended on both sides from dirt farmers.  My father was a brilliant man, who didn’t have the opportunity to finish high school because he had to go to work to survive in the midst of the Great Depression.

I recall him telling stories of working for a dollar a day as a hired farm hand, performing such long-forgotten tasks as stripping bluegrass and threshing grain.

He had to lobby hard with his boss to get Saturday off to get married.  His new father-in-law served the wedding guests watermelon.  Mainly because he was a watermelon farmer and that was what he had on hand.

It was a brief honeymoon over in the nearest town, and then back to work on Monday.

My folks started having kids right away because if God blessed you with children, you were grateful.

This photo is my father with my oldest brother, John, back in May, 1934.

I’m re-blogging this one in honor of Father’s Day.

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Published by

Bobby Ball

I love poetry. But I'm picky. No one pays me to read and write poems. It's more of a labor of love. I guess that puts me in good company. This is a project to discover why some poems strike you deep, deep down, while others leave you cold. I've got some ideas, and I'm eager to learn. I'll show you some of mine. Maybe we'll learn something new.

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