Buying Dad ties, power tools, ball game tickets, and other gifts for Father’s Day are all acceptable ways to thank dad. We tend to go for more sentimental ideas, though writing on a poem on a card attached to a gift goes over pretty well too.
Your kids can easily write their own poems as well. Just start with “Roses are red, Violets are blue,” and have them finish the rest. Even the grouchiest of dads can’t resist a young child reading an ode to them.
Here are a few noted poems for father’s day. These short father’s day poems can used on father’s day cards. Some are a bit corny; some are more literary. It’s up to you to write your own card, or decide what fits your dad best.
Father’s Day Poem #1: A Poem for Dads
Though we may not shower him with praise
Nor mention his name in song,
Though sometimes it seems that we forget
The joy he spreads as he goes along,
It doesn’t mean that we don’t know
The wonderful role that he has had.
And away down deep in every heart
There’s a place that is just for Dad…..
– Anonymous
Father’s Day Poem #2: Admiring fathers
Look at him there in his stovepipe hat,
His high-top shoes, and his handsome collar;
Only my Daddy could look like that,
And I love my Daddy like he loves his Dollar.
– William Jay Smith
Father’s Day Poem #3: To My Father
It matters not that Time has shed
His thawless snow upon your head,
For he maintains, with wondrous art,
Perpetual summer in your heart.
– William Hamilton Hayne
Father’s Day Poem #4: The Child Is Father to the Man
“The child is father to the man.”
How can he be? The words are wild.
Suck any sense from that who can:
“The child is father to the man.”
No; what the poet did write ran,
“The man is father to the child.”
“The child is father to the man!”
How can he be? The words are wild.
– Gerard Manley Hopkins
Father’s Day Poem #5: The Little Boy Lost
“Father! Father! where are you going?
O do not walk so fast.
Speak, father, speak to your little boy,
Or else I shall be lost.”
The night was dark, no father was there;
The child was wet with dew;
The mire was deep, & the child did weep,
And away the vapor flew.
– William Blake
Father’s Day Poem #6: Anecdote for Fathers
I have a boy of five years old;
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beauty’s mould,
And dearly he loves me.
One morn we strolled on our dry walk,
Our quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.
My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve’s delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.
A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.
The green earth echoed to the feet
Of lambs that bounded through the glade,
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet
From sunshine back to shade.
Birds warbled round me–and each trace
Of inward sadness had its charm;
Kilve, thought I, was a favored place,
And so is Liswyn farm.
My boy beside me tripped, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And, as we talked, I questioned him,
In very idleness.
“Now tell me, had you rather be,”
I said, and took him by the arm,
“On Kilve’s smooth shore, by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm?”
In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, “At Kilve I’d rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm.”
“Now, little Edward, say why so:
My little Edward, tell me why.”–
“I cannot tell, I do not know.”–
“Why, this is strange,” said I;
“For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm:
There surely must some reason be
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
For Kilve by the green sea.”
At this, my boy hung down his head,
He blushed with shame, nor made reply;
And three times to the child I said,
“Why, Edward, tell me why?”
His head he raised–there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain–
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.
Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
And eased his mind with this reply:
“At Kilve there was no weather-cock;
And that’s the reason why.”
O dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.
– William Wordsworth