Silent Strong Dad | Dad Father Poems

Silent Strong Dad
(Dad Father Poems)

He never looks for praises
He’s never one to boast ..
He just goes on quietly working
For those he loves the most.

His dreams are seldom spoken
His wants are very few ..
And most of the time his worries
Will go unspoken too.

He’s there…. A firm foundation
Through all our storms of life ..
A sturdy hand to hold to
In times of stress and strife.

A true friend we can turn to
When times are good or bad ..
One of our greatest blessings
The man that we call Dad.

My Dad | Father Dad Poems

My Dad
(Father Dad Poems)

When I was just a tiny kid
Do you remember when ..
The time you kissed my bruises
Or cleaned by soiled chin?

You scrambled for the balls I hit
Short-winded more than not ..
Yet, every time we’d play a game
You praised the “outs” I caught.

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.

Fathers Young Fathers Old | Father Dad Poems

Fathers Young Fathers Old
(Father Dad Poems)

Fathers young
fathers old ..
Remembering good times
are our gold.

Value earned
through guidance given ..
Helping us
go forth in living’.

Each father adding
to our trove ..
A treasure chest
of love untold.

Remembering father
in our lives ..
Taking time
to realize.

Fatherly love
brings wealth to living ..
Remembering this
we go forth in giving.

Fathers young
fathers old ..
We remember you all
as life unfolds.

– Ragini

My Dad’s Hands | Father Dad Poems

My Dad’s Hands
(Father Dad Poems)

Bedtime came, we were settling down
I was holding one of my lads ..
As I grasped him so tight, I saw a strange sight
My hands. . .they looked like my dad’s!

I remember them well, those old gnarled hooks
there was always a cracked nail or two ..
And thanks to a hammer that strayed from its mark
his thumb was a beautiful blue!

They were rough, I remember, incredibly tough
as strong as a carpenter’s vice ..
But holding a scared little boy at night
they seemed to me awfully nice!

The sight of those hands – how impressive it was
in the eyes of his little boy ..
Other dads’ hands were cleaner, it seemed
the effects of their office employ.

I gave little thought in my formative years
of the reason for Dad’s raspy mitts ..
The love in the toil, the dirt and the oil
rusty plumbing that gave those hands fits!

Thinking back, misty-eyed, and thinking ahead
when one day my time is done ..
The torch of love in my own wrinkled hands
will pass on to the hands of my son.

I don’t mind the bruises, the scars here and there
or the hammer that just seemed to slip ..
I want most of all when my son takes my hand
to feel that love lies in the grip.

– David Kettler