Father’s Day Poems, Happy Father’s Day Poems from Daughter and Son


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Father's Day Poems, Happy Father's Day Poems from Daughter and Son

Father’s Day Poems, Happy Father’s Day Poems from Daughter and Son

My Daddy Is The Greatest

My daddy is the greatest;

The best dad there ever was.

He always brings me lots of joy;

He’s my very own Santa Claus.

My daddy can do anything;

He’s smart as smart can be.

I love to walk and hold his hand

To show he belongs to me.

I love my daddy!
By Karl Fuchs

 

Tears In My Daddy’s Eyes

He was always my pillar when I knew I’d fall

Always my anchor, so strong and tall

His hard face changes only for me

His softer side, so careless and free

He knows my dreams are too big for this place

His little girl’s leaving, ready to begin her race

He knows I’ll be thinking of him wherever I go

I know I’m ready to do this on my own

But still I cry and he holds me tight

He tries to be strong, not a tear in sight

I’m ready to reach for the stars in the sky

He’s ready to watch his princess fly

It’s time to let go, sure of a path to take

But now I know, even pillars can break

For when I drive away, trying to stifle my cries

All I could see were tears in my father’s eyes.
By Unknown Mystery

 

A Little Girl Needs Daddy

A little girl needs Daddy

For many, many things:

Like holding her high off the ground

Where the sunlight sings!

Like being the deep music

That tells her all is right

When she awakens frantic with

The terrors of the night.

Like being the great mountain

That rises in her heart

And shows her how she might get home

When all else falls apart.

Like giving her the love

That is her sea and air,

So diving deep or soaring high

She’ll always find him there.
By Author Unknown

As a decrepit father takes delight

As a decrepit father takes delight

To see his active child do deeds of youth,

So I, made lame by Fortune’s dearest spite,

Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.

For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,

Or any of these all, or all, or more,

Entitled in thy parts, do crownèd sit,

I make my love engrafted to this store.

So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,

Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give

That I in thy abundance am sufficed

And by a part of all thy glory live.

Look what is best, that best I wish in thee.

This wish I have; then ten times happy me!
By William Shakespeare

Star Dad



I love you, Dad, and want you to know,

I feel your love wherever I go.

Whenever I’ve problems, you’re there to assist,

The ways you have helped me would make quite a list.

Your wisdom and knowledge have shown me the way,

And I’m thankful for you as I live day by day.

I don’t tell you enough how important you are,

In my universe, you’re a bright shining star.
By Karl Fuchs

 

Dear Daddy

In all things I try to do,

I want to do them just like you,

I’m watching every move you make,

and trying to take each step you take,

Although right now I’m sort of small,

When I’m with you, I feel ten feet tall,

Like you, I want to be brave and smart,

because I love you daddy, with all my heart,


When I’m older I’ll be so glad,

if I grow up to be,

JUST LIKE DAD.
By Author Unknown

Only a Dad

Only a dad, with a tired face,

Coming home from the daily race,

Bringing little of gold or fame,

To show how well he has played the game,

But glad in his heart that his own rejoice

To see him come, and to hear his voice.

Only a dad, with a brood of four,

One of ten million men or more.

Plodding along in the daily strife,

Bearing the whips and the scorns of life,

With never a whimper of pain or hate,

For the sake of those who at home await.

Only a dad, neither rich nor proud,

Merely one of the surging crowd

Toiling, striving from day to day,

Facing whatever may come his way,

Silent, whenever the harsh condemn,

And bearing it all for the love of them.

Only a dad, but he gives his all

To smooth the way for his children small,

Doing, with courage stern and grim,

The deeds that his father did for him.

This is the line that for him I pen,

Only a dad, but the best of men.
By Edgar Albert Guest

 

A father means



A Father means so many things

An understanding heart

A source of strength and of support

Right from the very start.

A constant readiness to help

In a kind and thoughtful way.

With encouragement and forgiveness

No matter what comes your way.

A special generosity and always affection, too.

A Father means so many things

When he’s a man like you

By Author Unknown

If-
If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream-and not make dreams your master;

If you can think-and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with triumph and disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,

And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings-nor lose the common touch;

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And-which is more-you’ll be a Man, my son!
By Rudyard Kipling


 

Do not go gentle into that good night



Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
By Dylan Thomas

 

Fathers Can Be Solitary Mountains
Fathers can be solitary mountains,

All their love rock-like, steep, and strong.

Though warm and caring, somehow they belong

Halfway home to mothers’ bubbling fountains.

Each of us needs love that knows no quarter,

Reminding us of bonds that cross a border,

Strengthening our sense of right and wrong.
By Edgar Albert Guest

My father moved through dooms of love






my father moved through dooms of love

through sames of am through haves of give,

singing each morning out of each night

my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where

turned at his glance to shining here;

that if (so timid air is firm)

under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which

floats the first who, his april touch

drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates

woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep

my father’s fingers brought her sleep:

vainly no smallest voice might cry

for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea

my father moved through griefs of joy;

praising a forehead called the moon

singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure

a heart of star by him could steer

and pure so now and now so yes

the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer’s keen beyond

conceiving mind of sun will stand,

so strictly (over utmost him

so hugely) stood my father’s dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:

no hungry man but wished him food;

no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile

uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the Pomp of must and shall

my father moved through dooms of feel;

his anger was as right as rain

his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend

less humbly wealth to foe and friend

than he to foolish and to wise

offered immeasurable is

proudly and (by octobering flame

beckoned) as earth will downward climb,

so naked for immortal work

his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:

no liar looked him in the head;

if every friend became his foe

he’d laugh and build a world with snow.

My father moved through theys of we,

singing each new leaf out of each tree

(and every child was sure that spring

danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men kill which cannot share,

let blood and flesh be mud and mire,

scheming imagine, passion willed,

freedom a drug that’s bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,

a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,

to differ a disease of same,

conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,

bitter all utterly things sweet,

maggoty minus and dumb death

all we inherit, all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth

—i say though hate were why men breathe

because my Father lived his soul

love is the whole and more than all
By E. E. Cummings

 

My Dad

When I was just a tiny kid,

Do you remember when,


It seems like only yesterday,

You wiped away my tears,

And late at night I called your name,

To chase away my fears.

Though time has changed your handsome grip,

Your hair is snowy white,

You gait’s a little slower now,

Thick glasses help your sight.

Oh, do I thirst for years gone by,

To be that growing lad,

Re-living all of the memories,

Of growing with my dad.
By Author Unknown

On the Beach at Night

On the beach at night,

Stands a child with her father,

Watching the east, the autumn sky.

Up through the darkness,

While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,

Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,

Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,

Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,

And nigh at hand, only a very little above,

Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.

From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,

Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,

Watching, silently weeps.

Weep not, child,

Weep not, my darling,

With these kisses let me remove your tears,

The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,

They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition,

Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge,

They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again,

The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure,

The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.

Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?

Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?

Something there is,

(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,

I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)

Something there is more immortal even than the stars,

(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)

Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter

Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,

Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.
By Walt Whitman

Anecdote for Fathers

I have a boy of five years old;

His face is fair and fresh to see;

His limbs are cast in beauty’s mold

And dearly he loves me.

One morn we strolled on our dry walk,

Or quiet home all full in view,

And held such intermitted talk

As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran;

I thought of Kilve’s delightful shore,

Our pleasant home when spring began,

A long, long year before.
By William Wordsworth

 

A Father Is


There in every memory

See his love and care

Strength and hands to count on

Freely he does share

Provider, toil so faithfully

To make our dreams come true

Give strong and tender discipline

Though it is hard to do

A Father is God’s chosen one

To lead the family

And point it to His will for life

Of love and harmony…


By Sue Skeen

Happy Fathers Day


Happy Fathers Day

Happy Fathers day means more

than have a happy day

It means i love you first of all

Then thanks for all you do

It means you mean a lot to me

and that I honor you.


By Jennifer

The Father

Come with me then, my son;

Thine eyes are wide for truth:

And I will give thee memories,

And thou shalt give me youth.

The lake laps in silver,

The streamlet leaps her length:

And I will give thee wisdom,

And thou shalt give me strength.

The mist is on the moorland,

The rain roughs the reed:

And I will give thee patience,

And thou shalt give me speed.

When lightnings lash the skyline

Then thou shalt learn thy part:

And when the heav’ns are direst,

For thee to give me heart.

Forthrightness I will teach thee;

The vision and the scope;

To hold the hand of honour:-

And thou shalt give me hope;

And when the heav’ns are deepest

And stars most bright above;

May God then teach thee duty;

And thou shalt teach me love.

By Sir Ronald Ross

A Boy and His Dad







A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip

There is a glorious fellowship!

Father and son and the open sky

And the white clouds lazily drifting by,

And the laughing stream as it runs along

With the clicking reel like a martial song,

And the father teaching the youngster gay

How to land a fish in the sportsman’s way.

I fancy I hear them talking there

In an open boat, and the speech is fair.

And the boy is learning the ways of men

From the finest man in his youthful ken.

Kings, to the youngster, cannot compare

With the gentle father who’s with him there.

And the greatest mind of the human race

Not for one minute could take his place.

Which is happier, man or boy?

The soul of the father is steeped in joy,

For he’s finding out, to his heart’s delight,

That his son is fit for the future fight.

He is learning the glorious depths of him,

And the thoughts he thinks and his every whim;

And he shall discover, when night comes on,

How close he has grown to his little son.

A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip

Builders of life’s companionship!

Oh, I envy them, as I see them there

Under the sky in the open air,

For out of the old, old long-ago

Come the summer days that I used to know,

When I learned life’s truths from my father’s lips

As I shared the joy of his fishing-trips.
By Edgar Guest

My first boyfriend

My first boyfriend,

My first hero

My father’s shoulder where fear is zero

My first bicyle ride

with you running by my side

with your muscles that strong

I still believe you are young

Father’s Day

is the time I should be telling

“I will love you forever dad”

And forever is just the beginning
By Author Unknown

My Father Was A Farmer


My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O,

And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O;

He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne’er a farthing, O;

For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.

Then out into the world my course I did determine, O;

Tho’ to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O;

My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O:

Resolv’d was I at least to try to mend my situation, O.

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted Fortune’s favour, O;

Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O;

Sometimes by foes I was o’erpower’d, sometimes by friends forsaken, O;

And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.

Then sore harass’d and tir’d at last, with Fortune’s vain delusion, O,

I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O;

The past was bad, and the future hid, its good or ill untried, O;

But the present hour was in my pow’r, and so I would enjoy it, O.

No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O;

So I must toil, and sweat, and moil, and labour to sustain me, O;

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O;

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for Fortune fairly, O.

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro’ life I’m doom’d to wander, O,

Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O:

No view nor care, but shun whate’er might breed me pain or sorrow, O;

I live to-day as well’s I may, regardless of to-morrow, O.

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in his palace, O,

Tho’ Fortune’s frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O:

I make indeed my daily bread, but ne’er can make it farther, O:

But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.

When sometimes by my labour, I earn a little money, O,

Some unforeseen misfortune comes gen’rally upon me, O;

Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my goodnatur’d folly, O:

But come what will, I’ve sworn it still, I’ll ne’er be melancholy, O.

All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O,

The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O:

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O,

A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.


By Robert Burns

 

To Her Father with Some Verses

Most truly honoured, and as truly dear,

If worth in me or ought I do appear,

Who can of right better demand the same

Than may your worthy self from whom it came?

The principal might yield a greater sum,

Yet handled ill, amounts but to this crumb;

My stock’s so small I know not how to pay,

My bond remains in force unto this day;

Yet for part payment take this simple mite,

Where nothing’s to be had, kings loose their right.

Such is my debt I may not say forgive,

But as I can, I’ll pay it while I live;

Such is my bond, none can discharge but I,

Yet paying is not paid until I die.

By Anne Bradstreet

Father

My father knows the proper way

The nation should be run;

He tells us children every day

Just what should now be done.

He knows the way to fix the trusts,

He has a simple plan;

But if the furnace needs repairs,

We have to hire a man.

My father, in a day or two

Could land big thieves in jail;

There’s nothing that he cannot do,

He knows no word like ‘fail.’

‘Our confidence’ he would restore,

Of that there is no doubt;

But if there is a chair to mend,

We have to send it out.

All public questions that arise,

He settles on the spot;

He waits not till the tumult dies,

But grabs it while it’s hot.

In matters of finance he can

Tell Congress what to do;

But, O, he finds it hard to meet

His bills as they fall due.

It almost makes him sick to read

The things law-makers say;

Why, father’s just the man they need,

He never goes astray.

All wars he’d very quickly end,

As fast as I can write it;

But when a neighbor starts a fuss,

‘Tis mother has to fight it.

In conversation father can

Do many wondrous things;

He’s built upon a wiser plan

Than presidents or kings.

He knows the ins and outs of each

And every deep transaction;

We look to him for theories,

But look to ma for action.
By Edgar A. Guest

 

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