It feels like yesterday,
when your tiny hand held my finger and ran.
You would steal my glasses,
wear them proudly, and say,
“Daddy, I look just like you!”
Between the pages of my books,
you built little homes for your dolls.
Whenever I left for work,
you stood at the door and whispered,
“Come back soon, Daddy…”
With the little coins in my pocket,
I bought you chocolates—
those simple days
were richer than anything I own today.
Yesterday, you walked holding my hand;
today, you walk your own road.
When I remember your mischief,
a smile touches my face,
while tears quietly fill my eyes.
My daughter, you have grown up,
but inside my heart,
you are still that little girl
running with her tiny braids.
No matter how far you go,
the sound of your footsteps
will forever echo
inside your father’s heart.
the child is father of the man
...got that right
...my kids taught me how to become one
On mornings stitched with quiet light,
he stood before the day took shape—
not loud, not crowned with ceremony,
but steady as a door that doesn’t break.
His hands knew maps no one had drawn,
the routes through doubt, through hunger, through fear,
he built a language out of small acts—
“I'm here,” he said, by being here.
A father is not only thunder,
not only walls against the storm,
but also rain that feeds the garden,
a patient heart that helps us form.
In worn-out shoes and late-night sighs,
in lessons given without show,
in every “try again” he offers—
that’s where the deepest roots will grow.
He carries futures in his silence,
dreams he sets aside to raise
a child who may not see the cost
until much later in their days.
And still he gives, in ways unseen—
a compass set to what is right,
a quiet faith that we will find
our own true path, our own good light.
So here’s to him, and those like him,
who shape the world with unseen art—
for every life he’s helped to steady
is proof of fatherhood’s true heart.
Before I knew the weight of days,
or how the world could bend and strain,
your voice was there—steady and low—
like distant thunder promising rain.
You taught me not in grand displays,
but in the rhythm of your deeds—
how patience grows in quiet soil,
how strength is shaped by tending needs.
Your hands were worn from unseen wars,
from lifting more than I could see—
not just the burdens of the day,
but all you carried quietly for me.
A father’s love is rarely loud,
it does not always seek the stage,
it lives in presence, firm and sure,
a guiding line on every page.
Through every doubt I dared to face,
through every fall, each uncertain start,
you were the map I didn’t know
was folded gently in my heart.
And in the world beyond our home,
in every life that fathers raise,
there echoes something strong and kind
that shapes the future’s unseen ways.
So here’s to you, and those who stand
as roots beneath what we become—
for in your care, both fierce and calm,
the best of who we are is begun.
He did not speak in shining lines
or carve his name in sky or stone,
yet everything I’ve come to be
has roots in all he’s quietly sown.
In early light and closing dusk,
in every hour he chose to stay,
he showed me love is less a word
and more the work we give away.
He stood between the world and me
when storms arrived without a sound,
not as a shield that blocked all pain—
but as the strength that kept me ground.
A father’s touch is time itself:
it shapes, it steadies, lets us grow,
it loosens grip when we must leave,
yet trusts the paths we’ll come to know.
And far beyond our single home,
in countless lives we’ll never see,
are echoes of such steady care
that build what kind of world will be.
For every child who dares to dream,
for every hope that finds its start,
there stands a father, known or not,
who helped to light that fragile spark.
So on this day, I honor you—
not just for all that you have done,
but for the ways your quiet love
will live in me, and carry on.
He never called it teaching,
just small repairs on ordinary days—
a tightened bolt, a patient pause,
a way of looking twice at what life says.
In his silence lived instruction,
not carved in stone, but lived instead—
in how he met the hardest hours
with steady hands and level head.
I learned the world from how he walked it:
not rushing where the ground was thin,
but placing care in every footprint,
as if each step must count within.
A father is a kind of builder
who measures more than wood or wall—
he frames the space where hope can stand
and learns to catch you when you fall.
And there are fathers all around us
whose names the world may never know,
yet cities rise in their quiet labor,
and generations learn and grow.
They shape the laws of love and waiting,
the grammar of resilience taught,
in lunches packed, in doors left open,
in every battle never fought.
So here’s to him, and all such fathers,
who turn the unseen into art—
for what they build is not just life,
but the steady shape of every heart.
My father was not made of thunder,
though storms seemed to know his name—
he moved through life like steady weather
that never needed praise or claim.
He taught me time is not a rival,
but something you can learn to hold,
in quiet mornings, patient evenings,
in stories half-retold, half-bold.
His love was never loud or polished,
no grand display, no shining art—
just showing up, again, unbroken,
a constant beating of the heart.
I learned from him that strength is softer
than all the myths the world repeats—
it lives in listening, in staying,
in choosing kindness when it’s least.
And in the wider world he echoes
through every father, near and far,
who shapes a child without applause,
who helps them know just who they are.
For cities rise on unseen tending,
on hands that guide but do not own,
on fathers who plant future forests
whose shade they’ll never sit beneath alone.
So here’s to him, and all his quiet
and all the ways he’s made me see:
that love, when steady as his footsteps,
becomes what carries history.
My son—
do not run.
Stay close,
the world is full of snares.
I have carried you
through nights of thunder,
through roads of hunger and dust.
My arms were a shield,
my breath your lullaby.
But now—
I cannot hold the storm.
My voice cracks,
yet still I sing:
My son, dear son,
walk gently,
do not stumble.
Your name is carved
in the marrow of my bones.
If the earth swallows me,
remember this:
I fought for the light
so you could rise.
Sing my song when you are weary.
Sing it as your shield.
And know—
even in silence,
I am beside you.
It's difficult to define a father precisely
So, let's imagine how a father would be
A father may be figuratively similar to these:
A starting point, a fulcrum, a roof, a piece of land
A mountain, a sky, a star, a beam of sunshine
A lamp, a mirror, a book, a guide,a set of minds,
...
I reckon a father can be similar to each of them
if he is viewed from different perspectives
However, fatherhood will not be fairly defined
If all the pieces above aren't yet combined ?
Fathers are familiar with their children
Attitudes of responsility are mandated
Teaching is best learned from modeling
Heaven painted perfect fatherhood pictures
Every action and word should be weighed
Respect can be demanded when earned
Heroes of children should be their parents
Offering prayers for our children is a must
Obligations to kids should never be a chore
Dedicated fathering is to train and give our best
Have I failed as a father? I asked myself.
As You questioned, with anger in your eyes.
And my heart is torn by your disregard,
For all the sacrifices I've made in your life.
You want to know what I've done for you? ,
What I've given, and why I've held back?,
But you don't see the late nights I worked,
Or the dreams I gave up to put you first.
You accuse me of not saving for your future,
Not working enough to give you what you want,
But I know that sometimes less is more,
And you are blind to all the blessings you've got.
I couldn't give you everything you asked for,
Because a parent must make tough choices too,
And I may not have succeeded in all my efforts,
But I hope that my love for you shines through.
So don't judge me by what you see,
Or by the things I didn't provide,
Instead, appreciate the memories we've shared,
And the love that always resides.
27/10/2023
Father’s toes are steel-capped,
Rough, worn-out leather, a layer
Of thick polish that cracks
With each bend, each step.
His feet carry a child’s weight,
A bundle of laughter and bouncing curls
Balanced at his ankles, shuffling
Across outdated carpeted floors.
A moment of decompression
After a day of hard labour, father
Carried the child from infantile morning
To the matured evening.
There came a time when the child,
Older and weary, thrust father’s feet
Upon her own, her arms under his.
Mimicking the act of childhood,
The child walked her fatherly puppet,
The body limp, unresponsive,
Across those once-carpeted floors
And into a place of refuge.
Father and child rely on each other
To pick the other from sullen ground,
Shake off the dirt and grime of worry
And lift them pridefully to their feet.
Father and child are joined in blood,
The same small features, the wide smile
That consumes half the face, and the ethic
Of working hard for little merit.
Father’s steel-capped toes stepped aside,
Gave way to slow movements with purpose,
And heavy breaths subside
Any desire to pick up the pace.
I remember a place where I've told you once
That if I've told you once it was a thousand times
To let me make mistakes and spare you the burden
And it seemed to reasonably rhyme
But amidst self righteous indignation I realized
The true wisdom earned through self remedied flaw
And thought to myself, now, two thousand times if twice
If anything it meant nothing at all
But what should anything mean really
If not least a lesson
As though teaching lessons
Weren't some twisted obsession
As if any of pain it would lessen, at all
But I can't help but try
Seeing angst in your eyes
On hands and knees as you struggle to crawl
06/05/2023
Mothers of the world, I plead with you,
For each child you nurture, a life anew.
Be they good or bad, in your arms they grew,
Amidst a harsh world, let anger subdue.
Fathers standing tall, can you comprehend?
The struggles they face, the wounds they must mend.
Frowns breed chaos, let compassion ascend,
Boys forced into men, a cycle we must transcend.
And who should carry the weight of this plight?
The child who cries out, seeking solace in the night?
The mother balancing, with all her might,
The father, a pillar, when darkness takes flight?
Or is it society, the one to blame,
Muting our cries, labeling them as tame,
But who's there for you, in sorrow and flame,
A listening mother, with love as her name.
A father toiling, his devotion unyielding,
While you weep, he senses the pain you're concealing,
Society looms, its blows ever revealing,
Can we recreate a world where compassion is healing?
Let us rise together, mothers and fathers as one,
In a symphony of love, our battles undone,
Where society listens, its heart truly won,
And the silent cries find solace in the sun.
Raising these babies,
As a father I done had my ups and downs,
As a man I be praying I don't let my babies down,
As a brother my religion has me focused on The Highest,
As I pray and you know I got my babies right beside me,
As a father gotta teach them that within there's something greater,
As a man I love their mothers without them I couldn't make them,
As a brother my religion has me focused on a better way,
I know I'm far from perfect but at least I taught them how to pray.
Raising these babies,
As a father I done cried so many times,
As a man if I can't feed them I'll turn to a life of crime,
As a brother my religion tells me put them babies first,
After God life is hard but I know it could be worst,
As a father I'll protect them cause I love my sons and daughters,
As a man I'm responsible to nurture and support them,
As a brother my religion tells me teach them equity,
They're my heart and without them I don't think that I can breathe.
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