The bond between a father and son is a beautiful journey filled with love and growth, marked by shared experiences that shape both lives.
Together, they explore, learn, and create lasting memories that strengthen their connection.
Here are 10 poems that serve as tribute to this bond and celebrate the nurturing qualities of fatherhood.
Let’s get started!
My favorite poem on fathers fathers from sons
#1 “Distant Footsteps” by César Vallejo
My father is sleeping. His noble features
reflect a gentle heart.
How sweet he is;
if anything in him is bitter, it must be me.
There is solitude at home, and prayer,
and there isn’t any news of the children today.
My father wakes up. He considers
the flight into Egypt, the bitter goodbye.
How near he is;
if anything in him is distant, it must be me.
And my mother, who moves through
the orchard, tasting a taste grown tasteless:
how soft she is,
how very wing, how departure, how love.
There is solitude at home, no sound,
no news, no green, no childhood.
And if anything this afternoon is broken,
and is going down and creaking,
it’s two old lanes white and curving,
and my heart is walking along them now.
This poem is my favorite about fathers from sons because it beautifully captures the complexity of familial love and the bittersweet nature of memories.
The imagery evokes a deep sense of longing and reflection, highlighting the emotional connection between the speaker and his father.
It also makes a powerful reminder of the enduring bond we share with our parents.
9 more poems on fathers fathers from sons
#2 “A Boy and His Dad” 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.
#3 “Daddy’s Boy” by Jean Blewett
It is time for bed, so the nurse declares,
But I slip off to the nook,
The cozy nook at the head of the stairs,
Where daddy’s reading his book.
“I want to sit here awhile on your knee,”
I say, as I toast my feet,
“And I want you to pop some corn for me,
And give me an apple sweet.”
I tickle him under the chin – just so –
And I say, “Please can’t I, dad?”
Then I kiss his mouth so he can’t say no
To his own little black-eyed lad.
“You can’t have a pony this year at all,”
Says my stingy Uncle Joe,
After promising it – and there’s the stall
Fixed ready for it, you know.
One can’t depend on his uncle, I see,
It’s daddies that are the best,
And I find mine and climb up on his knee
As he takes his smoke and rest.
I tickle him under the chin – just so –
And I say, “Please can’t I, dad?”
Then I kiss his mouth so he can’t say no
To his own little black-eyed lad.
I want to skate, and oh, what a fuss
For fear I’ll break through the ice!
This woman that keeps our house for us,
She isn’t what I call nice.
She wants a boy to be just like a girl,
To play in the house all day,
Keep his face all clean and his hair in curl,
But dad doesn’t think that way.
I tickle him under the chin – just so –
And I say, “Please can’t I, dad?”
Then I kiss his mouth so he can’t say no
To his own little black-eyed lad.
“You’re growing so big,” says my dad to me.
“Soon be a man, I suppose,
Too big to climb on your old dad’s knee
And toast your ten little toes.”
Then his voice it gets the funniest shake,
And oh, but he hugs me tight!
I say, when I can’t keep my eyes awake,
“Let me sleep with you to-night.”
I tickle him under the chin – just so –
And I say, “Please can’t I, dad?”
Then I kiss his mouth so he can’t say no
To his own little black-eyed lad.
#4 “Dad’s Lad” by John Hartley
Little patt’rin, clatt’rin feet,
Runnin raand throo morn to neet;
Banishin mi mornin’s nap, –
Little bonny, noisy chap, –
But aw can’t find fault yo see, –
For he’s Dad’s lad an he loves me.
He loves his mother withaat daat,
Tho’ shoo gies him monny a claat;
An he says, “Aw’ll tell mi Dad,”
Which ov coorse maks mother mad;
Then he snoozles on her knee,
For shoo loves him ‘coss shoo loves me.
He’s a bother aw’ll admit,
But he’ll alter in a bit;
An when older grown, maybe,
He’ll a comfort prove to me,
An mi latter days mak glad,
For aw know he’s Daddy’s lad.
If he’s aght o’ sect a minnit,
Ther’s some mischief, an he’s in it,
When he’s done it then he’ll flee;
An for shelter comes to me.
What can aw do but shield my lad?
For he’s my pet an aw’m his Dad.
After a day’s hard toil an care,
Sittin in mi rockin chair;
Nowt mi wearied spirit charms,
Like him nestlin i’ mi arms,
An noa music is as sweet,
As his patt’rin, clatt’rin feet.
#5 “Father, I Bring Thee Not Myself” by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
Father, I bring thee not myself, —
That were the little load;
I bring thee the imperial heart
I had not strength to hold.
The heart I cherished in my own
Till mine too heavy grew,
Yet strangest, heavier since it went,
Is it too large for you?
#6 “The Fathers” by Siegfried Loraine Sassoon
Snug at the club two fathers sat,
Gross, goggle-eyed, and full of chat.
One of them said: “My eldest lad
Writes cheery letters from Bagdad.
But Arthur’s getting all the fun
At Arras with his nine-inch gun.”
“Yes,” wheezed the other, “that’s the luck!
My boy’s quite broken-hearted, stuck
In England training all this year.
Still, if there’s truth in what we hear,
The Huns intend to ask for more
Before they bolt across the Rhine.”
I watched them toddle through the door –
These impotent old friends of mine.
#7 “The Father” by Madison Julius Cawein
There is a hall in every house,
Behind whose wainscot gnaws the mouse;
Along whose sides are empty rooms,
Peopled with dreams and ancient dooms.
When down this hall you take your light,
And face, alone, the hollow night,
Be like the child who goes to bed,
Though faltering and half adread
Of something crouching crookedly
In every corner he can see,
Ready to snatch him into gloom,
Yet goes on bravely to his room,
Knowing, above him, watching there,
His father waits upon the stair.
#8 “Do not go gentle into that good night” by Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
#9 “Father” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
He never made a fortune, or a noise
In the world where men are seeking after fame;
But he had a healthy brood of girls and boys
Who loved the very ground on which he trod.
They thought him just a little short of God;
Oh you should have heard the way they said his name –
‘Father.’
There seemed to be a loving little prayer
In their voices, even when they called him ‘Dad.’
Though the man was never heard of anywhere,
As a hero, yet you somehow understood
He was doing well his part and making good;
And you knew it, by the way his children had
Of saying ‘Father.’
He gave them neither eminence nor wealth,
But he gave them blood untainted with a vice,
And the opulence of undiluted health.
He was honest, and unpurchable and kind;
He was clean in heart, and body, and in mind.
So he made them heirs to riches without price –
This father.
He never preached or scolded; and the rod –
Well, he used it as a turning pole in play.
But he showed the tender sympathy of God
To his children in their troubles, and their joys.
He was always chum and comrade with his boys,
And his daughters – oh, you ought to hear them say
‘Father.’
Now I think of all achievements ’tis the least
To perpetuate the species; it is done
By the insect and the serpent, and the beast.
But the man who keeps his body, and his thought,
WORTH bestowing on an offspring love-begot,
Then the highest earthly glory he has won,
When in pride a grown-up daughter or a son
Says ‘That’s Father.’
#10 “Father” by Edward 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.