Honor - Unsung

To my father, as thanksgiving on the anniversary of his birth.
I hold much love, for his patient smile, his joyous mirth.
His laughter and thrill at life as it is. -
Trained me to see blessings with eyes filled with bliss.
He raised me up, his firstborn son.
He bought a basketball goal in hopes of what I might become.
Though I still love that game, my younger brother's passion for it is more inflamed.
For I was also my mother's child, her love of books passed strongly with style.
My father loved sports from a young age.
A scrappy mop-topped twin, though susceptible to rage.
He overcame his temper with discipline and prayer,
And taught me long-suffering when my own anger brought me there.
I wonder how he raised me as he did.
I have nothing but fond memories when I was a kid.
Snipping my nasty habits in the bud before they grew
The moments of discipline pruned the old, kept the new.
I know am frustrating to converse with sometimes, holding my cards close to my chest.
My father waits for my play, he knows my potential best.

He trained himself as a thinker, analyzing for his career.
He is logical and methodical, doesn't play things by ear.
From a young age, the Word of God was his study.
Gifted with great memory, it kept his heart from being muddied.
That same faculty was passed on to me, his counsel and wisdom saved me from the pull of vain philosophies.
These verses I write cannot fully communicate,
The life of the man who trained me in the way narrow and straight.
He is an example for me to follow without fear or shame.
I am quite honored that I will ever bear his name.
No matter how far I fight and stubbornly push for my way.
He loves me deeply, and won't let me stray.
I owe God so much for giving Him life years ago to this day.