Death Dad Poems | Examples
These Death Dad poems are examples of Dad poems about Death. These are the best examples of Dad Death poems written by international poets.
Ten years
Of joy
You gave,
Before
Death’s bell
Was struck
So fast.
Ten years
Since then,
Your love
Still blooms,
Yet I
Remain
Downcast.
Daddy,
I miss
Your laugh,
Your love,
And all
The care
You showed.
If tears
Could wake
The dead,
My God
Would grant
Prayers
I sowed.
One of many, yet set apart,
A seed without its tree.
Still, the roots take hold,
Still, the branches reach.
One in four, rising strong,
To lift the old tree from its sorrow.
One in four, breaking through clouds,
Carrying the light he once followed.
In hope that one becomes all,
And all become four,
So his dream, even in silence,
Will never die.
The world, my son
is one big market
people buying, people selling
some winning, some just walking through.
I was once a loud voice in it
Trading dreams, chasing deals
but today, I feel quiet
like the shop is closing.
Lying here, I hear something
a whisper, maybe a name
and I think it’s time
to pack my things.
Son, listen to me
life is trade and timing.
When your chance comes
don’t hesitate to sell your best.
Now go
make your profit with grace.
My work is done.
Farewell.
When Dad got Leukemia, he put up a fight.
He took chemo but lost his battle 12 years ago tonight.
After months of taking chemotherapy, he died.
He couldn't beat cancer even though he tried.
He died less than two hours before the fourteenth of July.
He was a good provider and that's something I can't deny.
When a person loses a parent, it's always sad.
Twelve years ago, I had to say goodbye to Dad.
[Dedicated to Charles F. Johnson (1947-2013) who died 12 years ago tonight on July 13, 2013]
Eight years old in short pants clad,
I am going with my dad,
Dodger stadium, surreal -
but Heaven is for real.
Late at night, lifeguard station,
tenderness and elation -
first kiss, how does it feel -
like Heaven is for real.
It seemed I never could persuade,
but, in my dorm, that night she stayed -
Another first - a big deal,
like Heaven is for real.
Like, everyone, one day I'll die.
I wonder if my soul will fly.
At that time, He will reveal
if Heaven is for real.
If you hadn't held down a job, we would've been screwed.
If you hadn't worked, we would've had no shelter or food.
You worked hard for years to keep a roof over our heads.
You became ill in 2011 and twenty months later, you were dead.
About three years after you retired, you died at the age of sixty-five.
Even though you had months of chemotherapy, you did not survive.
When I learned that you had Leukemia, I started to pray.
If you were still alive, I'd wish you a happy Father's Day.
[Dedicated to Charles F. Johnson (1947-2013) who died on July 13, 2013]
Sat alone again, sipping a few
The old whiskey jar
It's as empty as you
Now you're gone I can see
All that you did
Just one more day
To be your friend
They say to live
Each day as your last
The reality is
We're all tied to a mast
Don't dream away
These ideas that you have
Because the moment is now
Just remember to laugh
I think it's the greatest of gifts
If you've got some then share it with friends
We don't know when this ride will end
Just where it begins
We don't have much time
To have a good time
the sky is painted with hues of yellow, pink, blue, red, and purple
the burning sun sinks into the horizon
clouds are littered across the sky, like strokes on a canvas
someone is making the sky this way for me
so, i give my thanks to you
dad.
The most important person in his life was his daughter
He couldn't live without her
She was his whole heart
Life without her wasn't worth it
He reminisced on a life that slowly killed him
Weakened him
Mistreated him
But when he found out he was going to be a father
He felt like for him life had just started
He vowed she would have a better life than his
That he would protect her innocence
With his everything
He had hoped she would outlive him
But life could be cruel to little black kids
One moment She happily playing with her friends
The next moment She had been shot dead
A little black life taken because of hatred
This world disgusted him
He knew she wouldn't get justice
So he himself would get it instead
An eye for an eye
Was his motto
He stalked his daughters killers home
Only to realise he wasn't alone
He had a daughter of his own
He entered their home
Walking in
He raised his gun
And shot them
Theman who shot his daughter was a white man
Who died not because of being shot but because of his hatred
To black children
What once was was now red
I guess we aren't so different
"...Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern. [7] Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it." ~Ecclesiastes 12:6-7 KJV Bible
he isn't there...
i remind myself again
must keep from digging and digging...
and climbing in with him
"absent from the body...
present with the Lord"
i repeat this Biblical mantra...
my mental shield and sword
it hurts me so to see his grave...
so lonely in our cemetery
a gentle meadow close to home...
the peaceful plot where he's buried
when it is our time, my husband and i...
we wish to be cremated
our remains mixed with soil and seed...
and thus to grow and life created
two stately trees, that reach up high...
our limbs~ his head stone shade
and pointing to our heavenly home...
and to our baby boy... not in his grave.
Take me down the cobbled path
Where moss and grasses grow
Sink my heels in dampened sand
Where oceans ebb and flow
Let the breeze sweep through my lips
The sunshine warm my skin
Let the dew drops gently fall
Where mornings will begin
Dance me though the scattered corn
And twirl amongst the stars
Let the rain splash down the stream
To the world that once was ours
If I feel the sun upon my face
The wind rush through my hair
If I breathe in the salt and close my eyes
I pause, and you are there
"It's all going to be okay" he would say,
with no scent of doubt in his breath,
even as its aroma reeked from mine,
as I'd blurt out "how can you be so sure?"
I never figured out what made my dad so positive in life,
though I'm positively sure his life wasn't free from trial
and the upsetting detours that can uproot our foundations
and upend the tables of tradition we depended on.
On and on life goes like this,
until it ends.
I wonder
What traditions did my father depend on
and, lay to rest,
for something, better?
What pressures pressed him so thin
that he'd give up those things
he once loved so dearly?
Is that what transformed him
into the appreciative, hopeful, happy guy
we laid to rest?
This, is where it began
A scream
Blood curdling
An amalgamation of acid and iron
Coagulates my blood
Mother
Instinct seizes
Heart racing
Legs race faster
Thoughts race out of hand
A gun to her head?
No time for weapons
Fists will do
Around the corner
My eyes catch glimpse
five golden corners
two solemn eyes
Mother
One word resounds
From shrieking lips
No
Over and over
Over
And
Over
That word
His badge
Her sobs
His gaze
Say one shrilling word
Her lover
My father
My father
Gone
Visibility is low, wear a bright vest,
Cycle with lights on, caution is best.
Stay on the bike path across the Tappan Zee
The Hudson's below, but you can't see
You can't see the water, the fog is like a wall
It might be a blanket, it might be a pall
You peer through glasses - an ancient man smiles.
Your bike hums in tune as it laps up the miles.
Turn south to the rail trail above Grandview
When you see a face, you seek for a clue
a man emerges, with dogs on each side
He looks sarcastic, but you nod as you ride.
You reach Piermont Pier, last stop Erie train
Soldiers embarked, not all came back again
The white in the sky obscures the sun
Seagulls rest but your peace won't come
Memories like waves begin.
The air is soft, so what stings your skin?
Father couldn't speak before life disappeared.
You dream of him as you stand on the pier.
Fog as a cloak, you hide in a cloud
People are scarce, but you don't like a crowd.
Head down in the fog, try hard to shed a tear.
Stark bare trees on a foggy pier.
Last look back on Piermont Pier.
The night before my father’s heart attack,
my brother and I were splayed across a bed
watching a re-run of “Happy Days”
and eating Oreo cookies.
My father sat stiff and upright
in a wooden chair. By then, his back
felt like it was being pierced by daggers
and the pain made his face pale and clammy.
I offered him an Oreo,
one of his favorite snacks,
as I gently twisted apart the dark discs
to reveal the snowy treasure
in between.
He watched as I scraped the cream
from the dry, crisp chocolate with my teeth,
then he turned his head
and said, “No, thank you.”
I never wondered if he knew
in those final hours
that his emerald eyes
were about to close forever,
or if he felt death spread inside of him
like a cool drink.
Because if he did,
he would have taken the Oreo,
if only for one small bite,
just to feel the gritty chocolate,
that ordinary joy,
crumble over his tongue
one last time.