Writing Dad Poems

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Details | Light Poetry |
Have you ever squeezed a lemon before?
(you very might well have and just not realized it).
Each time you grab the steering wheel, you feel determined:
There's no way in hell you're waiting another minute!

A lemon is sure a close call,
and anyone's capable of it - every Tom, Dick and Harry.
Sometimes you don't see it at all,
until you look up and realize it's already turned cherry.

It's a rarer site to see someone squeezing that one,
but there's no doubt it happens now and then.
Some call it stupid, others brave and daring.
Me? I just wanna get out of the car and grab a pen.

Squeezing a lime sounds much more safe.
Feeling a bit less brave, a small price to pay,
for living another glorious day.
But my dad is a different sort all together.
He goes through the entire fruit smoothie, it's just his way.

There'll be honking from behind,
people yelling, "What are you friggin' color blind?
Get off the Bluetooth, man!".
And I'm just sitting in the front seat thinking,
"I have such great writing material, so close at hand".

I'll have my head crouched low
feigning embarrassment, but in reality
this man, driving me, where I need to go
is the spitting image of myself
forty years down the road...

Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2013




Details | Elegy |
"Daddy" the way I call my father
The man who loves my mother
The man who gave life to me
And the man who will risks his life to protect his family.

He's not showy about his feelings
But I know he loves us unconditionally
He gets angry when his siblings were hurt
And he makes us laugh the way he dances and tells us jokes

Now..he left us already
His silly jokes,crazy dance moves now were gone
Coz he went to a far away land
In a place where  hurt and sorrow has no place in man

I miss my daddy a lot
His voice,
His jokes,
His crazy dance moves
And his being father to us
I miss everything about him!

I know God has a plan
And I give everything into His merciful hand
Pls.take care ofmy daddy in heaven
Coz someday we'll see him again
And continue the sing and dance with him again...

Copyright © Jerica Sanchez | Year Posted 2013

Details | Bio |
Teach me how to speak your history. Do not judge my sense of hearing or abilities of my vision. I was born after you took a rest from your freedom fight poetry protest actions and the rest. Please teach me how to speak your poetry. I have no threats behind my pen. My inspiration rose from the love of words.  Mounted from poets that turned words into swords cutting through dark images carrying oppression. Soldiers, who puked words inspired by anger, hope, desperate needs and i am a part of that breed. Is it a fault if i enjoy the victory of your fight without the knowledge of your history? Amandla spirits has turned into commercial songs please teach me how to speak your volume.

I am that kid chasing composers of protest songs instead of cleaning my skin with the meaning of those songs. My writing exposes self-taught language that speaks in mute sentences when the kings of spoken word throw punches of disbelieves from their highness expectations. My history is only relevant to the now as the then history has been buried with the ideology of writing poetry for money and fame.  Discussions run within beer sessions in favor of competing with poets instead of sharing poetic languages with disciples.

I am living in times were promises are faded by images of enemies practicing my tradition. Times were heartbroken souls return favors in death beds with no remorse.  Fingers pointed at leaders who promise flipping pages that give hope to empty tummies in that African book. Draining pockets with tax i know it sounds perplex. Please teach me how to speak your time your rhymes. My writing has only been a celebration of my abilities as tears emerge only in sessions in honor of appreciations screams falling from prophets who know nothing about your history. Dad, my dad had no clue in your time so his views make no sense a talk about ancestors becomes mystery. Please teach me how to spell your history. Teach and speak your culture.

My face is covered in spoken words but nobody sees them. My heart drives through Photoshop pictures we can never find our real leaders.  As i write this letter, my hopes and wishes are directed straight to your pen and paper, petrol bomb expert. I turn to question your existence as I am glued in this venomous pen yet still no reply to my status. I have never walked your struggles yet expectations rumble in bulk sounds anticipating my story in your history spelling victory please teach me how to understand these mystery.

Yours Lyrically

Copyright © Raymond Ngomane | Year Posted 2013




Details | Limerick |
I'm writing this poem for my Dad,
I hope it will make him quite glad,
And if he get's sick,
Of this Limerick,
It'll prove that I'm Limerick mad!

Copyright © Sharon Smith | Year Posted 2012

Details | I do not know? |
*A assignment was due in class. *

Every time a gun shoots
A tree looses its roots
Every time there is bloodshed
Along with it millions of tears are shed
Every time a heart is stabbed
Someone else’s life gets barren
As violence grows
Many more mothers moan
The sounds of destruction
Overpowers the voice of those
Who are innocent
Who suffer with no reason
Who beg for life
Who have heart full of innocence

Why do so much violence?
That the child’s cry cannot be heard
When his father is killed
Why do so much violence?
That a mother moans
Over her child’s dead remains
Why do so much violence
For winning any stupid battle
Which is taking lives
Of people who have wives
And mothers and children

When you can keep calm
Talk things out
Do whatever you can
To keep violence out
Because there is no sin as big as
VIOLENCE

Copyright © donna lu | Year Posted 2013

Details | I do not know? |
Dear Dad, 
Hey I miss you, been a good long two years since I had seen you. I was just thinking about the jokes you used to tell "laugh out loud" and how mom used to smile when you looked her way, she always use to say you made her day. 
I miss cooking those big meals on Father's Day and every holiday "man what fun times" my uncles use to say. You were like a dad to them, a hero in someway. 
You provided a roof for us and anyone who needed a place to stay, man those were the days, I could imagine your face when I was born, your one and only daddy's little girl, protective like a father suppose to be, you watch me grow and I grew to be kindhearted and humble like you. 
You taught me never to take anyone for granted and to spread love and laughter, that is what we need on this planet, you never showed anyone your stress, until that day I saw you were laying next to mom in the bed. 
She was on a call with 911, I could hear the pain and the panic in her voice as the operator on the other end was steady saying "stay calm I cant hear you" for 30 minutes strait, I grab my phone and call 911, told them we need an ambulance right away, I comfort mom as they came in and wheeled you away, trying to stay calm just for her sake. 
We did not know god was going to call you home that day. 
Dear Dad, 
Hey I miss you........

Copyright © Dxanna Monroe | Year Posted 2017

Details | Sonnet |
In his tiger eye's 
I could see his wild side 
all the pain he had to combat 
Oh, how cold his heart can be
when he starts too think about his history,
 
Out in that pouring rain
he feels his own pains
forgetful he was not 
He could spot you from far
and remember every word you ever said,

But he can be warm and sweet 
when he is off his feet 
His eye's has witnessed more then most 
I could talk to him about truth and Love 
But I would be only wasting time 
Because he only hears one sided stories.

Poetic Judy Lilly Emery (c)

Copyright © Judy Emery | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose |
At the doorstep the little girl sits
Misled by a false hope
Daddy will come soon
And gather into his arms his sweet dove
What will he bring for her today?
A flower? A bar of chocolate?

The young wife grows silent as the night
Grief pouring out of her eyes
Her youth, her dreams lost 
Just like that, in a flash
Wishing she could be like the little girl
Too young to understand death and demise

Shuzbee wonders why his master aint home yet
His wagging tail drops down
His ears alert to pick up the silliest sound
Its time to play fetch
Shouldn’t master be walking up the path right now?
Flattening the grass?

A silence hangs over the house
Death eminent from a mile away
The air is heavy
Deprived of breath
A step into the house of the deceased
And you feel the chill of the dead

Copyright © varenya raina | Year Posted 2014

Details | I do not know? |
I am thinking of putting all of my poems in a book.  I have around 80-90 of them.  
This is what I have come up with so far for an intro.  Your comments will be 
greatly appreciated.  This may take two entries so be sure to check.  Thank you.

My life has always been a little different.  My parents divorced when I was 4 years 
old so that meant every other weekend and for a month in the summer I was with 
my dad, other than that I was living with my mom.  The atmospheres at each 
house were quite different.  Now, not o say that both parents didn’t love me 
because I know they did, but they were two completely different environments.  My 
dad liked to drink and there was usually quite a shindig at his house, my mom’s 
was always a little more relaxed and “family oriented” so to speak.  We went to 
church with my mom every Sunday and it wasn’t always so with my dad.  My dad 
remarried for the first time when I was about 6 or 7.  He and this woman had a 
baby and shortly after divorced.  After the divorce my half-sister and her mom 
moved to Michigan, we didn’t get to se a lot of her and eventually my dad let her 
step-dad adopt her and that changed a lot of things.  My dad remarried again 
when I was about 8 or 9.  He and this woman, Sheila, had two children.  She was 
the love of his life and she is an amazing woman.  My mom remarried for the first 
time when I was 11.  The marriage lasted for about 7 years. He was very 
controlling and they divorced, it was probably the best thing for all of us.  My mom 
remarried again when I was 19.  He is a wonderful man; I have never seen my 
mom as happy as she is now.  His name is Don.  I now have a total of 9 siblings, 
I don’t get to see all of them very often, but it’s always interesting.
	When I was 15 is when my world was turned completely upside 
down.

Copyright © Chandra Hart | Year Posted 2007

Details | Couplet |
Don't you tell me how you feel,
shut your trap now here's the deal,
you do all the things you should,
and if your'e really,really good,
I won't beat you with a switch,
I won't kick you in the ditch,
I won't scream and 
punch your head,
just be glad that you're
not dead.
Go share that and see what's what,
you think you're so stinking hot,
now go to bed or scrub the floor,
don't let me hear that stuff no more.

Copyright © Johnette Loefgren | Year Posted 2006