Happiness Is Served by Celebration

Happiness is served by celebration,
As one could use reminders of one's worth.
Praised be days devoted to relation,
Preserving ties of friendship, love, and birth.
Yet uncles have no day, so this must do --
Father's Day, on which we recognize
All close male relatives, so, too,
They might see themselves through our eyes.
Here's to you, then, an uncle who plays well
Each well-considered role in which you're cast,
Restoring far more faith than you can tell --
'Tis the smallest gestures that will last.
So may you enjoy your destined part,
Devoted to the duties of the heart,
An uncle, near or distant, who remains
Yet one of those whose love a child sustains.
Happiness Lies Just This Side of Heartache
Happiness lies just this side of heartache,
As both are set aflame by one desire.
Perhaps one would best never light that fire,
Pursuing pleasure purely for its own sake.
Yet joy can be as fragile as a snowflake,
Full as oceans, brutal as barbed wire.
All your love is all that you require,
The grace that inundates the granite heartbreak.
How beautiful to take on such a burden,
Entering into contract with the void,
Responsible to some judgmental stranger,
'Ere meeting, for the seedtime of its soul!
Sing, then, of a quest that gains no guerdon,
Dearer far than pleasures now enjoyed,
A journey arduous and full of danger,
Yet sacred for the gift that is its goal.
Hands Are a Bond Between Father and Son
Hands are a bond between father and son,
A tool that one teaches the other to use,
Needing to pass on the passion, or lose
Doing what long generations have done:
Sowing the seeds of what they have begun.
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