Every year, Father’s Day stirs a thousand memories in my heart, each one more tender than the last.
I’ve always found that poems are one of the easiest ways to share feelings that are hard to put into words.
Here are 10 poignant Father’s Day poems that speak to the gratitude, love, and memories we hold close.
Let’s get straight to it!
My favorite father’s day poems for family- oriented women
#1 “My Father” by Yehuda Amichai
The memory of my father is wrapped up in
white paper, like sandwiches taken for a day at work.
Just as a magician takes towers and rabbits
out of his hat, he drew love from his small body,
and the rivers of his hands
overflowed with good deeds.
I chose “My Father” by Yehuda Amichai as the top poem for family-oriented women this Father’s Day because it captures the quiet, everyday love fathers give.
The image of a father’s care wrapped like sandwiches for work speaks to the simple, constant acts of kindness many women recognize and cherish in their own families.
It also sparks feelings of gratitude for the small sacrifices fathers make, often unnoticed but deeply felt.
The metaphor of a magician pulling love from his small body shows how fathers give endlessly, even without grand gestures.
#2 “To My Father This Little Book Not As Being Worthy But As All I Have Is Dedicated” (From: Earthwork Out Of Tuscany) by Maurice Henry Hewlett
I cannot add one tendril to your bays,
Worn quietly where who love you sing your praise;
But I may stand
Among the household throng with lifted hand,
Upholding for sweet honour of the land
Your crown of days.
#3 “Only a Dad” by Edgar Guest
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.
#4 From “To My Father (Upon His Retirement)” by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
And now you’ll rest the evening long and cheery
From the day’s work in fair or troubled weather,
And of the by-gone time you’ll talk together,
Of many a mile you trod with footsteps weary, –
Now will as sunlight on the winter’s snow,
A warmth of thanks in through the window glow,
Harsh memories mellow with its golden shining,
Your life in faith complete find its refining.
But none gives thanks as now that son in gladness,
For whom you lived in anxious fear unceasing,
Since forth he flew with strength of wing increasing,
For whom to God you prayed in joy and sadness.
Oh, know, when hot my blood burned over-much,
I felt your soothing hands my forehead touch,
And oft, my heart in mute repentance bleeding,
In thoughts of you I heard God’s gentle pleading.
And so I pray that I may have the power
(Since we again for life shall be united,
And hope ‘mid mirthful mem’ries be relighted),
To brighten now their every evening-hour!
When children’s children in their arms shall be,
Oh, let them morning in their evening see!
So shall they gladly lay, when death gives warning,
Their gray heads down to greet the dawning morning.
#5 “To My Father” by George MacDonald
I.
Take of the first fruits, Father, of thy care,
Wrapped in the fresh leaves of my gratitude
Late waked for early gifts ill understood;
Claiming in all my harvests rightful share,
Whether with song that mounts the joyful air
I praise my God; or, in yet deeper mood,
Sit dumb because I know a speechless good,
Needing no voice, but all the soul for prayer.
Thou hast been faithful to my highest need;
And I, thy debtor, ever, evermore,
Shall never feel the grateful burden sore.
Yet most I thank thee, not for any deed,
But for the sense thy living self did breed
That fatherhood is at the great world’s core.
II.
All childhood, reverence clothed thee, undefined,
As for some being of another race;
Ah! not with it departing–grown apace
As years have brought me manhood’s loftier mind
Able to see thy human life behind–
The same hid heart, the same revealing face–
My own dim contest settling into grace
Of sorrow, strife, and victory combined.
So I beheld my God, in childhood’s morn,
A mist, a darkness, great, and far apart,
Moveless and dim–I scarce could say Thou art:
My manhood came, of joy and sadness born–
Full soon the misty dark, asunder torn,
Revealed man’s glory, God’s great human heart.
#6 “To Her Father with Some Verses” by Anne Bradstreet
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.
#7 “Little Brown Baby” by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Little brown baby wif spa’klin’ eyes,
Come to yo’ pappy an’ set on his knee.
What you been doin’, suh — makin’ san’ pies?
Look at dat bib — you’s es du’ty ez me.
Look at dat mouf — dat’s merlasses, I bet;
Come hyeah, Maria, an’ wipe off his han’s.
Bees gwine to ketch you an’ eat you up yit,
Bein’ so sticky an sweet — goodness lan’s!
Little brown baby wif spa’klin’ eyes,
Who’s pappy’s darlin’ an’ who’s pappy’s chile?
Who is it all de day nevah once tries
Fu’ to be cross, er once loses dat smile?
Whah did you git dem teef? My, you’s a scamp!
Whah did dat dimple come f’om in yo’ chin?
Pappy do’ know you — I b’lieves you’s a tramp;
Mammy, dis hyeah’s some ol’ straggler got in!
Let’s th’ow him outen de do’ in de san’,
We do’ want stragglers a-layin’ ‘roun’ hyeah;
Let’s gin him ‘way to de big buggah-man;
I know he’s hidin’ erroun’ hyeah right neah.
Buggah-man, buggah-man, come in de do’,
Hyeah’s a bad boy you kin have fu’ to eat.
Mammy an’ pappy do’ want him no mo’,
Swaller him down f’om his haid to his feet!
Dah, now, I t’ought dat you’d hug me up close.
Go back, ol’ buggah, you sha’n’t have dis boy.
He ain’t no tramp, ner no straggler, of co’se;
He’s pappy’s pa’dner an’ play-mate an’ joy.
Come to you’ pallet now — go to yo’ res’;
Wisht you could allus know ease an’ cleah skies;
Wisht you could stay jes’ a chile on my breas’—
Little brown baby wif spa’klin’ eyes!
#8 “To his Father” by Robinson Jeffers
Christ was your lord and captain all your life,
He fails the world but you he did not fail,
He led you through all forms of grief and strife
Intact, a man full-armed, he let prevail
Nor outward malice nor the worse-fanged snake
That coils in one’s own brain against your calm,
That great rich jewel well guarded for his sake
With coronal age and death like quieting balm.
I Father having followed other guides
And oftener to my hurt no leader at all,
Through years nailed up like dripping panther hides
For trophies on a savage temple wall
Hardly anticipate that reverend stage
Of life, the snow-wreathed honor of extreme age.
#9 “Father” by Edgar Guest
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.
#10 “My Father’s Tunes” by Michael Earls
My father had the gay good tunes, the like you’d seldom hear,
A whole day could he whistle them, an’ thin he’d up an’ sing,
The merry tunes an’ twists o’them that suited all the year,
An’ you wouldn’t ask but listen if yourself stood there a king.
Early of a mornin’ would he give “The Barefoot Boy” to us,
An’ later on “The Rocky Road” or maybe “Mountain Lark,”
“Trottin’ to the Fair” was a liltin’ heart of joy to us,
An’ whin we heard “The Coulin” sure the night was never dark.
An’ what’s the good o’ foolish tunes, the moilin’ folks ‘ud say,
It’s better teach the children work an’ get the crock o’ gold;
Thin sorra take their wisdom whin it makes them sad an’ gray,–
A man is fitter have a song that never lets him old.
A stave of “Gillan’s Apples” or a snatch of “Come Along With Me”
Will warm the cockles o’ your heart, an’ life will keep its prime.
Yarra, gold is all the richer whin it’s “Danny, sing a song for me”
Or what’s the good o’ money if you’re dead afore your time.
It’s sense to do your turn o’ work, it’s healthy to be wise,
An’ have the little crock o’ gold agin the day o’ rain;
But whin the ground is heaviest, your heart will feel the skies,
If you know a little Irish song to lift the road o’ pain.
The learnin’ an’ the wealth we have are never sad an’ gray with us,
The dullest times in all the year are merry as the June:
For we’ve the heart to up an’ sing “Arise, an’ come away with us,”
The way my father gave it, an’ we laughin’ in the tune.