A Man of the Hand,
Surveyor of Lands,
Captain of his Fate,
Master of his own soul and ship.
Octogenarian,
Weathered and gray,
I see him in memory,
Young, pale, and brave.
Slaying the clock,
And racking his brain,
Facing down ruin,
When Black Friday came.
Embracing the sea,
Enjoying her gifts,
Weathering storms,
Bringing home gifts.
Tender with children,
Tough bastard in business,
Forever in love,
With his own Persian princess.
Alert, astute,
In age as in youth,
A turner of lathes,
A teller of truth.
Less curmudgeon; more ‘gator,
He is clearly strong still,
A formidable foe,
A man of strong will.
Taught me to work,
To be bold despite fear,
Accept with forbearance,
The passage of years.
As a child I grasped,
His huge callused hand,
Beheld this black Russian,
My first image of Man.
Paula Lyons, MD
2 Responses
That’s my brother!
Paula – Thank you so much for the beautiful poem. The original poem. which you wrote, is hanging on the office wall. In this rendition you had to change from Septuagenarian to Octogenarian. Where did those years go? Dad