Long Dad Poems
Long Dad Poems. Below are the most popular long Dad by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dad poems by poem length and keyword.
I am guided into the day by a beautiful ribbon of flowing cloud streams
It looks like several jet planes left their streaks across the sky,
Each one getting a bit lower, until they nearly touched the sea.
The sea is calm, it is one of those days that you find the best shells.
I walk with my bag, optimistic that the best conch will be lying here, waiting.
I am rewarded too, it is pink, with unusual striping.
I thank the ocean, and she winks.
She is a streak of precision this morning,
as if she was drawn by an engineer’s level.
My companion is silent,
skipping ahead now and then running back to take my hand.
Her hand is soft and warm.
She is eight, my daughter, and I am thrilled she is here.
I only have her on weekends, so I am reveling in her company, loving today.
The sun is coming out slowly, peeking among the streams. Life is glorious!
When the greatest of all judges of the
universe gives a judgment, it is ever
thus,
It’s been a long while since you both
left,
You each went separately in peace
and without any fuss,
I felt gutted then, and even now, I am
still utterly bereft.
You were two of the most generous,
tolerant and loving people I have ever
known and met,
You lived your lives selflessly, pleasing
others without any regret,
In your love and care, not once did I
ever feel neglected or deprived,
Our shared memories will never fade,
and without fail, every day they are
revived.
I know we are born, and then we will
die,
I hear it, I see it, but I still struggle to
understand why,
I know you are both looking down on
me from the skies,
That’s why I tell myself every day not
to be sad and not to cry.
There’s no one now to wipe my tears
or to chase away my gloom,
I selfishly believe you were taken from
me way too soon,
Your absence has left a void in my soul
and a hole in my heart,
And the heaviness of things not said
and unfinished still lingers, refusing to
depart.
You were both deeply loved and are
now sorely missed,
I have accepted your absence and
found solace in the knowledge that
you are both resting in a place of
comfort and bliss.
For in the loss of a loved one, there’s
a lesson in the gloom,
To live, love and treasure each other
in the now, and to avoid regrets that
can consume.
By Zyrool
A tribute to my
Loving parents.
This a phrase I hear a lot;
Who’s your man, who you got?
Mine’s the man who at games end;
When death has crept up to his cot;
In peace will dream his final dreams;
And these would be those fateful scenes;
A man, a boy, with ball and gloves;
Their eyes alive with a big-league gleam;
In a back yard lit with evening sun;
A mystical moment then on the dream runs;
My man is sitting on a bedroom floor;
Sipping imaginary tea with a girl about four;
She’s telling a story with dramatic flair;
Oh my! But it’s a tale of epic lore;
Dreams shift quickly, so it is with our story;
My man, a woman basking in morning’s glory;
Coffee aroma permeates the air;
They hold hands and he has to stare;
A dream will suddenly fade to black;
But mine’s the man who’d spend his last dime;
To drink imaginary tea, just one more time.
Bubblicious, not Bubble Yum
was my dad's favorite bubble gum.
Outperforming the second best,
on the coffee table it would rest
like a power nap between meals.
(Just one of dad's daily ordeals.)
Chomp, chomp, he'd continue the same,
whether reading or watching a ball game.
Again, it'd rest on the coffee table
while he'd jog, both strong and stable.
Not behind ears, where hair could cling,
not stuck on plates or any such thing.
On the coffee table it would be
as comfortable as family.
Grum, grum, upon the gum he'd graze,
each piece lasting two whole days.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Long, the coffee table's been laid bare,
save waxy steaks and a vacant stare.
3/9/2021
Bone-drained, there is no respite, no split second of peace. The “sundowner”, a hyper-active toddler in a man’s vehicle, never sleeps nor sits.
When I succumb to that one precious moment of rest; I am awakened to a furnace running full blast in a freezing cold house and on a nineteen degree night. A butter knife has removed a window; the culprit and dementia-mind panics; he’s terrified of being trapped in a fire. There’s no arguing with dementia-mind; it’s best to play along with the his ideas.
Another day of madness and I awake to a frantically screeching doorbell; it’s his nurse. I've revived in the floor. A migraine faint pulled me down; I’ve had no sleep for eight nights, you see. Sweet respite…she says she’ll, “sit with him”, so I can lie down a bit; a pleasant miracle; such happenstance is a rarity.
Dementia-mind has no solutions, only hallucinations, delusions; absence of mind and aggression for the “sundowners”. I watch at breakfast, as he pours his milk upon the floor; he has no clue of what he is doing or why;
he stares, mindless. When the eyes go blank it’s obvious; he’s not in there. A robot gone haywire, used to be my Father. The last thing to go, were his mathematical skills. Dementia-mind has forgotten so many people; how to swallow, but recalls numbers…
“Who is that man?” he demands, pointing at himself in the mirror. My exhausted mind briefly forgets and I mistakenly reply, “You dad.” The firestorm is initiated; he calls me a, “liar”. Self recognition has failed him now; the flame of his mind is burning low; soon to extinguish.
He’s fed and dressed, but I’ve no time to eat; if he should sleep an hour today; I must cook for the week. It’s the only opportunity I have…when and if he sleeps. I must not go to the bathroom; he’ll break something or fall. I must hold myself until my sister arrives.
The “passives” are painful to watch, as they deteriorate, but the “sundowners” are constant exhaustion. I was in the ER, almost as much as, he. You see, there’s no one to care for the caregiver, but themselves and when they can’t, exhaustion and malnutrition escalate. Dementia-mind is round-the-clock work and two doing the work of six people, takes its’ toll. The disease never discriminates; it destroys everyone.
(My Father died with dementia, a form of Alzheimer's in 2003, after a 15 year battle.)
How sad it was to watch that boy,
Who in his hands, ne’er held a toy,
Walked aimlessly, a subdued child.
He mostly trudged with his head down,
If he looked up, it was with frown.
He took the same route every day,
which led him past a barn with hay.
the farmer childless, his wife had died
his farm his life, Nelly his bride,
was ill, to stay alive for him, she tried.
One day the boy and farmer met,
‘twas winter, close to Christmas, yet,
no feeling for this season either had.
The boy found this man to be kind,
The farmer spoke ‘bout his wife and sighed.
Come inside the old man said, warm your feet,
the boy’s tattered clothes gave him no heat.
The first thing that the farmer did,
found a jacket rather big, a bowl of soup
he gave the boy baked bread, the soup to scoop.
They chatted till late that night, the boy told
of his dad who beat him bad, when behold,
a bright light shone outside the house,
and angel’s voices carols sang out loud,
they sang with them, one young, one old.
This story ends with love, to have, to give and get,
the boy stayed with the farmer, neither had regret.
The old man died and joined his so missed bride.
The young boy now a fine young man and wealthy too,
forgave his dad for miseries endured, when just a lad.
He didn’t have fame or fortune.
He wasn’t interested in the climb.
He was always going on and on about love
and he was happy...all the time.
When it came my turn to say goodbye
I was angry.
I was sad.
I rested my head upon his chest...
for love was all I had.
“I wish I had more to offer you,” I said,
“before you go away,
something more that I can give you
something more that I can say.”
With what little strength he had left
he took my hand in his.
“You’ve given me love and not only is that important,” he said,
“It’s the only thing that is.”
I used to wish for fame and fortune
but that was just a whim.
Now I wish for a life filled with love...
and to be happy...
just like him.
"How sweet to the heart are the scenes of my childhood"
Samuel Woodworth, 1785-1842
I remember wonderful childhood days
many special ones were spent with my Dad
reminiscing makes me sad in some ways
Going with you to auctions made you glad
watching the bidding sometimes was a bore
bittersweet memories make me feel sad
You took me to auctions and antique stores
We ate cooked onions and steamed red hot dogs
You bid on the set with the white drawers
It wasn't the one with the pinecone knobs
excited you won the white bedroom set
dreaming of pink bedding in catalogues
For years we laughed about that winning bet,
it wasn't the one you wanted me to get
11/19/2020
Contest: Terza Rima Form
Sponsor: Constance La France
Father was strong, and there were only two emotions I remember.
One was the kind he portrayed when filled with anger. Secondly,
our father often laughed with his friends, but seldom with his family.
But that observation by me and my siblings would not hold forever.
It fell apart one evening when he came home after drinking, and
clearly, he was very 'high' and talking a lot. Our father invariably
never drank alcohol except on weekends. However, we also
discovered that night that something had gone seriously wrong.
We all were taken by surprise as daddy came home, and not only
had he been drinking, but he began to cry in front of his entire family.
I can see him in the bed now. More than 59 years have passed, but I can feel my present emotion responding to this story as I write. I don't remember how or why the reason for our father's crying was clear to us,
but our father was visibly crying, and it proved to be his last sigh.
Four years prior, our father had a serious illness and was informed that
he should expect to live four more years. Well, the four years occurred,
and daddy knew that his time was near, that life was about to end. The
prior four years had been good ones. He returned to Christ and his life had
changed from drinking and gambling on weekends to becoming a deacon
and going regularly to church.
The doctor's accuracy was amazing. The moment of truth had arrived,
and we all knew. The knowledge of an impending death is one thing,
but accepting death is one giant challenge to the best of us. We had
never seen daddy cry, and this cry by no means revealed any weakness.
I sense that daddy was not afraid to die, but I think that years of loss
flashed before him, years that were now history. Presently, he wanted
to make our lives better, but it was too late. The crying was not about him, but us.
082621PSCtest, This Or That, Vol 6, Edward Ibeh
Title chosen, 'Last Sigh'. 4P
Chucky's atonement
1. Used to be scared of the rain. He would drag me out of the shelter and make me dance.
It always drives him insane. Dressed me like a little Chucky doll and spared me no glance.
Frozen toes in winter were warmer than the hot tears of fall. He would knit me a polyester, same color as his cat.
2. Used to be scared of his footsteps and the timbre sound of the bell until I sniffed your inviting pine cologne.
My heart palpitates at the notification of your message/call. Trapped in your fancy hell.
Called me your wife in public. Treat me like a pet at home. Jagged scars on my back memories of your love.
Only meant for us to see, Right?
3. Used to be scared of his belt till I tasted your kiss. It eats me from inside out and leaves me torn.
Trapped in your elegant world, in your embrace so tight it killed my every dream.
Like the gold jewelry from Valentine. Alluring and heavy.
4. Used to be scared of his voice till I heard your laugh. Honey, I fell for it before I even knew you. Smooth and unrestrained, engraving it on every marble wall.
5. Used to be scared of his stares until I faced your smile, kept me frozen in a daze. Silent but brutal.
One minute you kissed me like you meant it, just to treat me like the sand underneath your feet.
6.Used to be scared of you until I knew the location of the key.
The beginning of my downfall. Chucky's atonement.