Father’s old Bible
held together with duct tape.
Now he’s face to face.
Tag: duct tape
Thoughtful Christmas Gift
This Christmas, I received a couple of poetry-related gifts. The first was an original hand-drawn and illustrated version of a haiku I wrote.
It was done by my talented and thoughtful daughter-in-law, Sarah. I had written this haiku last year in honor of my late father.
Now, it is I who feel honored and delighted!
This is as close as I’ve ever come to having an authentic version of an original haiku. The old haiku masters produced total works of art, complete with beautiful hand-lettering and illustrations to complement the poignant words.
The idea for the verse came about while going through my parent’s belongings before getting their house ready to sell. I came across my father’s old Bible.
It was so well-worn that it was literally being held together by duct tape.
My father never finished high school, and spent his life as a farmer and mechanic. He didn’t travel, and he had no hobbies except for studying the Bible and ancient times.
He became a bit of an amateur scholar, ordering books on theology and history. I packed up a few of books to pass along to my scholarly son, but the prized possession from the old house was that Bible.
Now, my prized new possession is this illustrated haiku.
Father’s old Bible
Held together with duct tape.
Now he’s face to face.
Dad was not just interested in history for history’s sake, or out of a mere intellectual curiosity. He also had a deep faith. He had seen the difference that God had made in his own father’s life and he believed in Jesus as well. He did his best to introduce his own children to that faith.
I’ll write about my other poetry-related Christmas present in a subsequent post soon.
Happy New Year!
Hometown Haiku (and a note for Father’s Day)
A recent trip back to my old hometown prompted some haiku.
Thomas Wolfe may have said “you can’t go home again,” but you actually can. It just won’t be the same as it was.
I’m not sure if there were any satori moments on this trip, but there were pangs of the heart. I’m posting this as a Father’s Day remembrance.
The old hometown seems
Smaller than I remember.
Once, it was magic.
Last time going home,
The old place sitting empty.
Memories and dust.
Mother and Father,
And all three of my brothers.
I alone remain.
Well over sixty
Dad built a barn by himself.
Now it, too, molders.
Father’s old Bible
Held together with duct tape.
Now he’s face to face.
(A few years ago, on an earlier visit, my brother and I walked through the town cemetery)
Last time I saw him
We strolled between tombstones.
Now he has his own.
I left to find truth.
Yet here I am seeking scraps.
Scraps of memories.
Poetic Champions 