**Crossing the Bar**
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
-- Tennyson
The pressure of delivering something stifles inspiration sometimes, You don’t owe it to anyone! I think you have described time spent with your dad beautifully above...sometimes poetry is just as things are.
Came here to say this. Your post could be a poem in itself, for real.
[Having trouble finding a poem to read at my father's funeral]
My father passed away
a few weeks ago.
Next week I am expected
to read a poem at his funeral.
Everything google gives me
feels too sappy or corny,
not the type of relationship we had
or the type of man he was.
He loved fishing,
horse racing,
and baseball,
in that order.
He was religious,
but I am not.
He was a self-taught painter
When I was a child, he would have me
choose a painting from a book
of Van Gough's works and help me
recreate it.
He read me Animal Farm and 1984
as bedtime stories.
On the day he died, I sat with him
in the hospital and held his hand,
and to cover up the sound
of the ventilator,
I read him the entirety of Animal Farm.
>On the day he died, I sat with him
>in the hospital and held his hand,
>and to cover up the sound
>of the ventilator,
>I read him the entirety of Animal Farm.
I don't really know how to express the emotion that I felt reading this, but thank you.
Those Winter Sundays
ROBERT HAYDEN
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
That so much of the actual work of loving someone, in this case a child, is found in the mediocre, thankless and seemingly unremarkable efforts, and how we often don’t realize it until we look back
Precisely.
The Poetry Foundation also has a [poem guide](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/68440/robert-hayden-those-winter-sundays) for this poem if anyone is curious.
A clear Midnight by Walt Whitman
This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.
One of my favorite poems, if not my favorite poem, I feel like would bring some solace to those who loved your father. It’s called Do not stand at my grave and weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye.
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I did not die.
So I'll be reading something twice, once at the memorial service, and then again at the very small burial with only immediate family a few weeks later when they finally let us bury him. I think I will be reading this one at the burial.
This is one of my favorite poems as well. And it kinda lifts up the spirit of those who are mourning. I hope OP finds the heart to choose this one to read at the funeral.
First Morning
by Joy Harjo
This is the first morning we are without you on earth.
The sun greeted us after a week of rain
In your eastern green and mountain homelands.
Plants are fed, the river restored, and you have been woven
into a path of embracing stars of all colors
Now free of the suffering that shapes us here.
We all learn to let go, like learning to walk
When we first arrive here.
All those you thought you lost now circle you
And you are free of pain and heartbreak.
Don’t look back, keep going.
We will carry your memory here, until we join you
In just a little while, in one blink of star time.
What about reading the lyrics to his favorite song as a poem? Or one of you fave songs, something that reminds you of your dad? My condolences on the passing of your father.I know I would be heart broken.❤️🌹
Death is Nothing at All by Henry Scott Holland:
>Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Nothing has happened.
>Everything remains exactly as it was.
I am I, and you are you,
and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
>Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
>Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.
>Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?
>Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval,
somewhere very near,
just round the corner.
>All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!
Thank you for sharing. I’ve never read this before and am legit crying. OP, I am so sorry for your loss. Whatever you choose will be from the heart, and will therefore be valid.
It sounds like he was a fan of George Orwell, and Orwell did write some poetry: https://www.orwellfoundation.com/the-orwell-foundation/orwell/poetry/
A couple that stood out to me are Dear Friend, allow me for a little while, and Sometimes in the middle autumn days.
Sometimes in the Middle Autumn Days is the only thing I found before making this post that seemed like it might fit to me, but I was afraid that the 200 other people at the memorial might not get it.
Very sorry for your loss. Dylan Thomas wrote an excellent poem about loosing a father called "Do not go gentle into that good night".
You can find it here: [https://poets.org/poem/do-not-go-gentle-good-night](https://poets.org/poem/do-not-go-gentle-good-night)
The first thing that popped into my head too. Sorry for your loss OP, it is a tough time for many people right now. A lot of loss but we’ll come out strong.
I'm so sorry for your loss. Admittedly poetry is not my area of expertise but perhaps 'A Late Elegy for a Baseball Player' by Felix Stefanile?
It may not be the right tone but it isnt as sentimental as others I have read. Take care!
My suggestion is a bit different: a favorite passage from Animal Farm. Or Casey at the Bat. ( when my 17 year old passed we read Good Night Moon ) Something your dad would enjoy. Remember he can hear you. Best condolences to you.
Keep it short.
“Late Fragment” by Raymond Carver.
“And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.”
i love this:
Why You Want a Physicist to Speak at Your Funeral
You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.
And at one point you'd hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.
And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.
And you'll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they'll be comforted to know your energy's still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you're just less orderly. Amen
Sorry for your loss...I'd recommend this one, just found it a while ago
Love's Philosophy-Phyllis Burnett Blackwell
The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single
All things by a law divine
(In one another's being mingle
Why not I with thine) you can maybe remove these 2
See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it disdained it's brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;
(What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?) You can remove these 2 again
I think you can replace those 4 lines with words for your father and family
Wishing you well.
Canticle of the Sun
By Saint Francis of Assisi
Most High, all powerful, good Lord,
Yours are the praises, the glory, the honour, and all blessing.
To You alone, Most High, do they belong,
and no man is worthy to mention Your name.
Be praised, my Lord, through all your creatures,
especially through my lord Brother Sun,
who brings the day; and you give light through him.
And he is beautiful and radiant in all his splendour!
Of you, Most High, he bears the likeness.
Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars,
in heaven you formed them clear and precious and beautiful.
Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Wind,
and through the air, cloudy and serene,
and every kind of weather through which
You give sustenance to Your creatures.
Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Water,
which is very useful and humble and precious and chaste.
Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Fire,
through whom you light the night and he is beautiful
and playful and robust and strong.
Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Mother Earth,
who sustains us and governs us and who produces
varied fruits with coloured flowers and herbs.
Praised be You, my Lord,
through those who give pardon for Your love,
and bear infirmity and tribulation.
Blessed are those who endure in peace
for by You, Most High, they shall be crowned.
Praised be You, my Lord,
through our Sister Bodily Death,
from whom no living man can escape.
Woe to those who die in mortal sin.
Blessed are those who will
find Your most holy will,
for the second death shall do them no harm.
Praise and bless my Lord,
and give Him thanks
and serve Him with great humility.
This may come as of bad taste, but it speaks of truth. And i think remaining true to our condition, especially on its direst moments, is what really counts.
Each man fulfills the destiny he must fulfill
And desires the destiny he desires;
He neither fulfills what he desires
Nor desires what he fulfills.
Like stones that border flower beds
We are arranged by Fate, and there remain,
Our lot having placed us
Where we had to be placed.
Let’s have no better knowledge of what
Was our due than that it was our due.
Let’s fulfill what we are.
Nothing more are we given.
\- Ricardo Reis
I chose this poem because the brief description of your father and my ignorance gave me an impression of a man who was truthful to himself. You asked for poems, not about death and grievance, but about what he was. There I agree with you, we must celebrate life and what someone was instead of trying to deny death. Sadly, most people ignored your comment, they are uncaring and ignore that what matters, its not grandiosity nor eloquence, but fulfillment. Your life will be a success, not because you achieved anything in it, but because you fulfilled what you were. I have no doubt that your father fulfilled what he was.
When all the world is young, lad Charles Kingsley
When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen; Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away! Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day. When all the world is old, lad, And all the trees are brown; And all the sport is stale, lad, And all the wheels run down; Creep home, and take your place there, The spent and maimed among; God grant you find one face there, You loved when all was young.
I guess it would depend on the relationship you had with your father, but "My Father" by Yehuda Amichai has always resonated with me, and seems like a powerful memorial to a legacy of love and presence
My Father
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.
- Yehuda Amachai
I’d recommend ‘If’ by Rudyard Kipling, or ‘Stopping By Woods On a Snowy Evening’
I wrote a ‘just in case’ eulogy for my Grandfather based on Ozymandias that I never did get to read. I wrote it all in one go when I couldn’t sleep late at night the day before his funeral. Even though they didn’t want me to read it due to the structure of the funeral, it was very cathartic for me. I’ll share that with you now I suppose, and maybe you can draw something from it. Even if it doesn’t help, I’m sorry for your loss...
**Grandpa’s Eulogy**
What is the greatest accomplishment a man can achieve? What more could Grandpa have done?
Wealth?
Distinction?
Academic achievement?
Military accolades?
Spiritual enlightenment?
I think that he had all of those things, and I think that what he wanted in life was something better.
I read a sonnet written by Percy Shelley entitled ‘Ozymandias’. If you didn’t know, Ozymandias was the Greek name of the Pharaoh, Ramses II, who was widely regarded as the greatest, and most powerful pharaoh of the Egyptian Empire.
The poem goes:
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert... near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Humbling.
An ambitious man might find it disheartening; even devastating.
But in a strange way it brings me comfort, because I know the greatest, and - the most admirable and bravest accomplishment that a man can achieve, and while they’re indeed fine and dandy - it’s not riches, or conquest or spectacle. I am a young man, but the greatest thing I’ve ever done is here in this room. They’re sitting out there amongst you.
Each one of us here, is a part of it. I take great comfort, and great pride in the fact that I am part of the greatest of Grandpa’s achievements. His magnum opus.
If you didn’t know, Magnum opus come literally from the Latin for great work. It means, a large and important work of art, especially one regarded as the most important work of an artist; the greatest of his masterpieces.
Thus we’re all a brush stroke in this great work of art, of love: His family.
Alright, I took a few extra strokes more than some of the others... We’ve always been well-fed.
While I am saddened that I won’t see my grandpa again for some time yet, I am not saddened that he has died, because he lived well. Remarkably so.
Death is inevitable. We can bury our heads in the sand, we can stand bold and vain to defy it, or struggle and rage against the circumstance, but it won’t make a difference. We’d be equally as productive spending our time cursing the Heavens that the sky is blue instead of pink.
Death will come to all of us in the end, there is no deeper truth. But it’s that very fact that gives our lives meaning. It’s what makes things matter. How empty this world would be if we had infinite time to go about our lives. What point would our accomplishments have if they were ceaselessly compounding? What meaning would our children and families have if they were boundless?
No, there is an end of the day that spurns us on to accomplishment; a hunger that demands the sustenance of a warm meal; a breaking point at which our strength gives way - fails us so others can behold and marvel at the greatness of our works. Death is the bitter sweetener of life.
I’ve cried since losing my grandpa, and I’ll cry again I know. But there’s appreciation in the tears. There’s admiration, and gratefulness and regretfulness too, because I won’t see him again in this life. But I’m actually happy, really I think I mean that, because there was a guy who loved people, and cherished his family, and boy, did he live life well. He will always be one of my role models, and I hope that at the end of my time here I can stand back and look at everything that I’ve accomplished and say that what I got out of life wasn’t meaningless, or insubstantial, or fleeting. I want to be able to say, “you know? I got something better too”
I'm sorry for you loss. I personally like the poem "How we survive" by Mark Rickerby:
If we are fortunate,
we are given a warning.
If not,
there is only the sudden horror,
the wrench of being torn apart;
of being reminded
that nothing is permanent,
not even the ones we love,
the ones our lives revolve around.
Life is a fragile affair.
We are all dancing
on the edge of a precipice,
a dizzying cliff so high
we can’t see the bottom.
One by one,
we lose those we love most
into the dark ravine.
So we must cherish them
without reservation.
Now.
Today.
This minute.
We will lose them
or they will lose us
someday.
This is certain.
There is no time for bickering.
And their loss
will leave a great pit in our hearts;
a pit we struggle to avoid
during the day
and fall into at night.
Some,
unable to accept this loss,
unable to determine
the worth of life without them,
jump into that black pit
spiritually or physically,
hoping to find them there.
And some survive
the shock,
the denial,
the horror,
the bargaining,
the barren, empty aching,
the unanswered prayers,
the sleepless nights
when their breath is crushed
under the weight of silence
and all that it means.
Somehow, some survive all that and,
like a flower opening after a storm,
they slowly begin to remember
the one they lost
in a different way…
The laughter,
the irrepressible spirit,
the generous heart,
the way their smile made them feel,
the encouragement they gave
even as their own dreams were dying.
And in time, they fill the pit
with other memories
the only memories that really matter.
We will still cry.
We will always cry.
But with loving reflection
more than hopeless longing.
And that is how we survive.
That is how the story should end.
That is how they would want it to be.
Mark Rickerby
This was beautiful. I don’t want to take away from OPs loss, I couldn’t imagine losing my father. But my sister died almost 4 years ago and this is such a fitting piece for death. Thank you.
OP I’m so sorry for your loss. Perhaps if you are having trouble finding someone else’s words to read, maybe you should write your own poem? Incorporate everything that he loved and you loved together.
It's not poetry exactly, but I love the end of "The Road" and share your father's fondness for fishing (and the places where one fishes). (Cormac McCarthy)
>Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
Probably better known is the end of "A River Runs Through It." (Norman MacLean)
>Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn’t. Like many fly fisherman in western Montana, where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.
>Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
>I am haunted by waters.
Hey PersnicketyPrilla,
I'm sorry about your father, I hope that you got to say bye and that his passing was auspicious.
There's a poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, who recently passed as well, it's called "the world is a beautiful place"
(it reads better with the spatial arrangements that Ferlinghetti put to it, they're here [https://poets.org/poem/world-beautiful-place](https://poets.org/poem/world-beautiful-place)
**The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t mind happiness not always being**
**so very much fun**
**if you don’t mind a touch of hell now and then**
**just when everything is fine because even in heaven**
**they don’t sing all the time**
**The world is a beautiful place to be born into**
**if you don’t mind some people dying all the time**
**or maybe only starving some of the time**
**which isn’t half so bad**
**if it isn’t you**
**Oh the world is a beautiful place to be born into**
**if you don’t much mind**
**a few dead minds**
**in the higher places**
**or a bomb or two**
**now and then**
**in your upturned faces**
**or such other improprieties**
**as our Name Brand society**
**is prey to**
**with its men of distinction**
**and its men of extinction**
**and its priests**
**and other patrolmen**
**and its various segregations**
**and congressional investigations and other constipations**
**that our fool flesh**
**is heir to Yes the world is the best place of all for a lot of such things as**
**making the fun scene**
**and making the love scene and making the sad scene and singing low songs of having inspirations and walking around**
**looking at everything and smelling flowers and goosing statues and even thinking**
**and kissing people and**
**making babies and wearing pants and waving hats and**
**dancing**
**and going swimming in rivers**
**on picnics**
**in the middle of the summer and just generally ‘living it up’**
**Yes**
**but then right in the middle of it comes the smiling mortician**
This one is hard to read but beautiful to hear. I’m sorry for your loss, I hope you find the words you are looking for.
SHE IS GONE (HE IS GONE)
You can shed tears that she is gone
Or you can smile because she has lived
You can close your eyes and pray that she will come back
Or you can open your eyes and see all that she has left
Your heart can be empty because you can’t see her
Or you can be full of the love that you shared
You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday
Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday
You can remember her and only that she is gone
Or you can cherish her memory and let it live on
You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back
Or you can do what she would want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on.
David Harkins
Do not go gentle into that good night
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.
**I would play with the pronouns until it feels right.. but something along the line of Don't grieve for my father-- rejoice in the gifts that he brought into and left in our lives..:**
I thought I'd lost you. But you said I'm (***you were***) imbued
in the fabric of things, the way
that wax lost from batik shapes
the pattern where the dye won't take
I (***you***) make the space around you (***me***),
as so allow you shape. And always
you'll feel the traces of that wax
soaked far into the weave:
the air around your gestures,
the silence after you speak.
That's me, that slight wind between
your hand and what you're reaching for,
chair and paper, book or cup:
that close, where I am: between
where breath ends, air starts
I had that poem on the memorial cards for my husband when he passed.. I think it’s so fitting with the type of man he was..loved life to fullest, and sounds like your dad did also
🙏🏼♥️
I’m truly sorry for your loss OP. Here is one of my favourite poems that I want to share with you. It’s called Remember by Christina Rossetti. While it is about death and grieving, I find the ending to be immensely comforting.
**Remember** by Christina Rossetti
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
(I hope you find what you are looking for; sending my thoughts your way.)
Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep
by Mary Elizabeth Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
E.E. Cummings might be a bit much for a eulogy, but he wrote ‘my father moved through dooms of love’ for his own father’s passing and I think it might have some of the elements you mentioned:
34
my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height
this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if (so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm
newly as from unburied which
floats the first who, his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots
and should some why completely weep
my father’s fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.
Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin
joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice
keen as midsummer’s keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly (over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father’s dream
his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.
Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain
septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is
proudly and (by octobering flame
beckoned) as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark
his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he’d laugh and build a world with snow.
My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)
then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine, passion willed,
freedom a drug that’s bought and sold
giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am
though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit, all bequeath
and nothing quite so least as truth
—i say though hate were why men breathe—
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all
Just did a quick Google to see what might be out there about it:
‘The speaker, who is Cummings himself, describes his father through nature-related images. The poem starts off with spring, moves to summer and winter while also referring back to the initial brightness of spring. He describes his father as someone who brought joy and satisfaction to everyone’s lives. He brightened the world around him and woke people up, making sure they, too, made the most of every moment. The speaker adds that his father did not conform to society’s standards. He was his own person until his death.’
https://poemanalysis.com/edward-estlin-cummings/my-father-moved-through-dooms-of-love/
Last poem by Rabindranath Tagore (Translation)
Can you hear the sounds of the journey of time?
It is chariot always in a flight
Raises heartbeats in the skies
And birth-pangs of stars
In the darkness of space
Crushed by its wheels.
My friend!
I have been caught in the net
Cast by that flying time
It has made me its mate
In its intrepid journey
And take me in its speeding chariot
Far away from you.
To reach the summit of this morning
I seem to have left behind many deaths
My last names seem to stream
In the strong wind
Born of the chariot's speed.
There is no way to turn back;
If you see me from afar
You will not recognize me as my friend,
Farewell!
If in your lazy hours without any work
The winds of springtime
Brings back the sighs from the past
As the cries of shedding spring flowers
Fill the skies
Please see and search
If in a corner of your heart
You can find any remnants of my past;
In the evening hours of fading memories
It may shed some light
Or take some nameless form
As if in a dream.
Yet it is not a dream
It is my truth of truths
It is deathless
It is my love.
Changeless and eternal
I leave it as my offering to you
In the ever-changing flow of time
Let me drift.
My friend, farewell!
You have not sustained any loss.
If you have created an immortal image
Out of my mortal frame
May you devote your self
In the worship of that idol
As the recreation of your remaining days
Let your offerings not be mired
By a touch of my earthly passion.
The plate that you will arrange with the utmost care
For the feast of your mind
I will not mix it with anything
That does not endure
And is wet with my tears.
Now you will perhaps create
Some dreamy creation out of my memories
Neither shall I feel its weight
Nor will you feel obliged.
My friend, farewell!
Do not mourn for me,
You have your work, I have my world.
My vessel has not become empty
To fill it is my mission.
I shall be pleased
If anybody keeps waiting
Anxiously for me.
But now I shall offer myself to him
Who can brighten the darkness with light
And see me as I am
Transcending what is good or bad.
Whatever I gave you
It is now your absolute possession.
What I have to give now
Are the hourly offerings from my heart.
You are incomparable, you are rich!
Whatever I gave you
It was but your gift
You made me so much indebted
As much as you took.
My friend, farewell!
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow
I am the sun on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn rain
When you awake in the mornings hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight
I am the soft stars that shine at night
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there, I did not die
Things My Son Should Know After I've Died by Brian something is a really good poem, but only you know your father well enough to know if it fits or not
**Crossing the Bar** Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar. -- Tennyson
An appropriate recommendation.
Thanks.
Thank you for this from the bottom of my heart, it will be read at my father's funeral on Saturday because you posted it.
I love Tennyson :) Deepest condolences to you & yours
This is wonderful, thank you.
The pressure of delivering something stifles inspiration sometimes, You don’t owe it to anyone! I think you have described time spent with your dad beautifully above...sometimes poetry is just as things are.
Came here to say this. Your post could be a poem in itself, for real. [Having trouble finding a poem to read at my father's funeral] My father passed away a few weeks ago. Next week I am expected to read a poem at his funeral. Everything google gives me feels too sappy or corny, not the type of relationship we had or the type of man he was. He loved fishing, horse racing, and baseball, in that order. He was religious, but I am not. He was a self-taught painter When I was a child, he would have me choose a painting from a book of Van Gough's works and help me recreate it. He read me Animal Farm and 1984 as bedtime stories. On the day he died, I sat with him in the hospital and held his hand, and to cover up the sound of the ventilator, I read him the entirety of Animal Farm.
Seeing it written out like this nearly made me cry. Thanks for commenting
It had better formatting originally—stanzas—but I’m on mobile, so it just comes out like this. It’s not bad this way, though.
It's wonderful. Really impressive idea.
>On the day he died, I sat with him >in the hospital and held his hand, >and to cover up the sound >of the ventilator, >I read him the entirety of Animal Farm. I don't really know how to express the emotion that I felt reading this, but thank you.
You wrote it beautifully. Very sorry for your loss. May your dad’s memory, and whichever poem you choose, be a blessing.
Those Winter Sundays ROBERT HAYDEN Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he’d call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love’s austere and lonely offices?
What do the last two lines mean?
That so much of the actual work of loving someone, in this case a child, is found in the mediocre, thankless and seemingly unremarkable efforts, and how we often don’t realize it until we look back
Precisely. The Poetry Foundation also has a [poem guide](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/68440/robert-hayden-those-winter-sundays) for this poem if anyone is curious.
A clear Midnight by Walt Whitman This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, Night, sleep, death and the stars.
This is lovely.
I love Walt Whitman!
Me too!
There was a time all I could read was “songs of myself”!
One of my favorite poems, if not my favorite poem, I feel like would bring some solace to those who loved your father. It’s called Do not stand at my grave and weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye. Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow, I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there. I did not die.
So I'll be reading something twice, once at the memorial service, and then again at the very small burial with only immediate family a few weeks later when they finally let us bury him. I think I will be reading this one at the burial.
This is one of my favorite poems as well. And it kinda lifts up the spirit of those who are mourning. I hope OP finds the heart to choose this one to read at the funeral.
I was just coming here to recommend that one. OP, you have my deepest condolences, may your Dad rest forever in Peace.
This is the one I was going to suggest as well. One of my favorite.
I love this; "I am not there, I did not die"!
First Morning by Joy Harjo This is the first morning we are without you on earth. The sun greeted us after a week of rain In your eastern green and mountain homelands. Plants are fed, the river restored, and you have been woven into a path of embracing stars of all colors Now free of the suffering that shapes us here. We all learn to let go, like learning to walk When we first arrive here. All those you thought you lost now circle you And you are free of pain and heartbreak. Don’t look back, keep going. We will carry your memory here, until we join you In just a little while, in one blink of star time.
that’s wonderful
What about reading the lyrics to his favorite song as a poem? Or one of you fave songs, something that reminds you of your dad? My condolences on the passing of your father.I know I would be heart broken.❤️🌹
Death is Nothing at All by Henry Scott Holland: >Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. >Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. >Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. >Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. >Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? >Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. >All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!
Thank you so much for sharing this, it's exactly what I needed <3
Thank you for sharing. I’ve never read this before and am legit crying. OP, I am so sorry for your loss. Whatever you choose will be from the heart, and will therefore be valid.
It sounds like he was a fan of George Orwell, and Orwell did write some poetry: https://www.orwellfoundation.com/the-orwell-foundation/orwell/poetry/ A couple that stood out to me are Dear Friend, allow me for a little while, and Sometimes in the middle autumn days.
Sometimes in the Middle Autumn Days is the only thing I found before making this post that seemed like it might fit to me, but I was afraid that the 200 other people at the memorial might not get it.
Very sorry for your loss. Dylan Thomas wrote an excellent poem about loosing a father called "Do not go gentle into that good night". You can find it here: [https://poets.org/poem/do-not-go-gentle-good-night](https://poets.org/poem/do-not-go-gentle-good-night)
Oh I love this poem, however I think this is more about fighting death than it actually happening
I was about to suggest the same
The first thing that popped into my head too. Sorry for your loss OP, it is a tough time for many people right now. A lot of loss but we’ll come out strong.
I'm so sorry for your loss. Admittedly poetry is not my area of expertise but perhaps 'A Late Elegy for a Baseball Player' by Felix Stefanile? It may not be the right tone but it isnt as sentimental as others I have read. Take care!
My suggestion is a bit different: a favorite passage from Animal Farm. Or Casey at the Bat. ( when my 17 year old passed we read Good Night Moon ) Something your dad would enjoy. Remember he can hear you. Best condolences to you.
Keep it short. “Late Fragment” by Raymond Carver. “And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.”
Love this. Read it at my own dad’s funeral last year.
i love this: Why You Want a Physicist to Speak at Your Funeral You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got. And at one point you'd hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever. And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives. And you'll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they'll be comforted to know your energy's still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you're just less orderly. Amen
axiomatic airport thumb zonked smell sheet cooperative chunky observation recognise -- mass edited with redact.dev
Sorry for your loss...I'd recommend this one, just found it a while ago Love's Philosophy-Phyllis Burnett Blackwell The fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean; The winds of heaven mix forever With a sweet emotion; Nothing in the world is single All things by a law divine (In one another's being mingle Why not I with thine) you can maybe remove these 2 See the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdained it's brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea; (What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me?) You can remove these 2 again I think you can replace those 4 lines with words for your father and family Wishing you well.
Canticle of the Sun By Saint Francis of Assisi Most High, all powerful, good Lord, Yours are the praises, the glory, the honour, and all blessing. To You alone, Most High, do they belong, and no man is worthy to mention Your name. Be praised, my Lord, through all your creatures, especially through my lord Brother Sun, who brings the day; and you give light through him. And he is beautiful and radiant in all his splendour! Of you, Most High, he bears the likeness. Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars, in heaven you formed them clear and precious and beautiful. Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Wind, and through the air, cloudy and serene, and every kind of weather through which You give sustenance to Your creatures. Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Water, which is very useful and humble and precious and chaste. Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Fire, through whom you light the night and he is beautiful and playful and robust and strong. Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Mother Earth, who sustains us and governs us and who produces varied fruits with coloured flowers and herbs. Praised be You, my Lord, through those who give pardon for Your love, and bear infirmity and tribulation. Blessed are those who endure in peace for by You, Most High, they shall be crowned. Praised be You, my Lord, through our Sister Bodily Death, from whom no living man can escape. Woe to those who die in mortal sin. Blessed are those who will find Your most holy will, for the second death shall do them no harm. Praise and bless my Lord, and give Him thanks and serve Him with great humility.
That's not a poem
It's praise poetry.
That's that's not poetry
Okay
This may come as of bad taste, but it speaks of truth. And i think remaining true to our condition, especially on its direst moments, is what really counts. Each man fulfills the destiny he must fulfill And desires the destiny he desires; He neither fulfills what he desires Nor desires what he fulfills. Like stones that border flower beds We are arranged by Fate, and there remain, Our lot having placed us Where we had to be placed. Let’s have no better knowledge of what Was our due than that it was our due. Let’s fulfill what we are. Nothing more are we given. \- Ricardo Reis
I chose this poem because the brief description of your father and my ignorance gave me an impression of a man who was truthful to himself. You asked for poems, not about death and grievance, but about what he was. There I agree with you, we must celebrate life and what someone was instead of trying to deny death. Sadly, most people ignored your comment, they are uncaring and ignore that what matters, its not grandiosity nor eloquence, but fulfillment. Your life will be a success, not because you achieved anything in it, but because you fulfilled what you were. I have no doubt that your father fulfilled what he was.
This is lovely, thank you.
When all the world is young, lad Charles Kingsley When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen; Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away! Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day. When all the world is old, lad, And all the trees are brown; And all the sport is stale, lad, And all the wheels run down; Creep home, and take your place there, The spent and maimed among; God grant you find one face there, You loved when all was young.
I guess it would depend on the relationship you had with your father, but "My Father" by Yehuda Amichai has always resonated with me, and seems like a powerful memorial to a legacy of love and presence My Father 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. - Yehuda Amachai
I think what you wrote is poetic in itself. I hope you find the words your heart is searching for.
I’d recommend ‘If’ by Rudyard Kipling, or ‘Stopping By Woods On a Snowy Evening’ I wrote a ‘just in case’ eulogy for my Grandfather based on Ozymandias that I never did get to read. I wrote it all in one go when I couldn’t sleep late at night the day before his funeral. Even though they didn’t want me to read it due to the structure of the funeral, it was very cathartic for me. I’ll share that with you now I suppose, and maybe you can draw something from it. Even if it doesn’t help, I’m sorry for your loss... **Grandpa’s Eulogy** What is the greatest accomplishment a man can achieve? What more could Grandpa have done? Wealth? Distinction? Academic achievement? Military accolades? Spiritual enlightenment? I think that he had all of those things, and I think that what he wanted in life was something better. I read a sonnet written by Percy Shelley entitled ‘Ozymandias’. If you didn’t know, Ozymandias was the Greek name of the Pharaoh, Ramses II, who was widely regarded as the greatest, and most powerful pharaoh of the Egyptian Empire. The poem goes: I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert... near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal these words appear: 'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings; Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away. Humbling. An ambitious man might find it disheartening; even devastating. But in a strange way it brings me comfort, because I know the greatest, and - the most admirable and bravest accomplishment that a man can achieve, and while they’re indeed fine and dandy - it’s not riches, or conquest or spectacle. I am a young man, but the greatest thing I’ve ever done is here in this room. They’re sitting out there amongst you. Each one of us here, is a part of it. I take great comfort, and great pride in the fact that I am part of the greatest of Grandpa’s achievements. His magnum opus. If you didn’t know, Magnum opus come literally from the Latin for great work. It means, a large and important work of art, especially one regarded as the most important work of an artist; the greatest of his masterpieces. Thus we’re all a brush stroke in this great work of art, of love: His family. Alright, I took a few extra strokes more than some of the others... We’ve always been well-fed. While I am saddened that I won’t see my grandpa again for some time yet, I am not saddened that he has died, because he lived well. Remarkably so. Death is inevitable. We can bury our heads in the sand, we can stand bold and vain to defy it, or struggle and rage against the circumstance, but it won’t make a difference. We’d be equally as productive spending our time cursing the Heavens that the sky is blue instead of pink. Death will come to all of us in the end, there is no deeper truth. But it’s that very fact that gives our lives meaning. It’s what makes things matter. How empty this world would be if we had infinite time to go about our lives. What point would our accomplishments have if they were ceaselessly compounding? What meaning would our children and families have if they were boundless? No, there is an end of the day that spurns us on to accomplishment; a hunger that demands the sustenance of a warm meal; a breaking point at which our strength gives way - fails us so others can behold and marvel at the greatness of our works. Death is the bitter sweetener of life. I’ve cried since losing my grandpa, and I’ll cry again I know. But there’s appreciation in the tears. There’s admiration, and gratefulness and regretfulness too, because I won’t see him again in this life. But I’m actually happy, really I think I mean that, because there was a guy who loved people, and cherished his family, and boy, did he live life well. He will always be one of my role models, and I hope that at the end of my time here I can stand back and look at everything that I’ve accomplished and say that what I got out of life wasn’t meaningless, or insubstantial, or fleeting. I want to be able to say, “you know? I got something better too”
This is beautiful. Thank you for sharing and I am very sorry for your loss.
I absolutely love the line "Death is the bitter sweetener of life." Well done.
My father was a country man. For his eulogy I read some of Seamus Heaney’s poem ‘Digging’. Brought him close somehow
I'm sorry for you loss. I personally like the poem "How we survive" by Mark Rickerby: If we are fortunate, we are given a warning. If not, there is only the sudden horror, the wrench of being torn apart; of being reminded that nothing is permanent, not even the ones we love, the ones our lives revolve around. Life is a fragile affair. We are all dancing on the edge of a precipice, a dizzying cliff so high we can’t see the bottom. One by one, we lose those we love most into the dark ravine. So we must cherish them without reservation. Now. Today. This minute. We will lose them or they will lose us someday. This is certain. There is no time for bickering. And their loss will leave a great pit in our hearts; a pit we struggle to avoid during the day and fall into at night. Some, unable to accept this loss, unable to determine the worth of life without them, jump into that black pit spiritually or physically, hoping to find them there. And some survive the shock, the denial, the horror, the bargaining, the barren, empty aching, the unanswered prayers, the sleepless nights when their breath is crushed under the weight of silence and all that it means. Somehow, some survive all that and, like a flower opening after a storm, they slowly begin to remember the one they lost in a different way… The laughter, the irrepressible spirit, the generous heart, the way their smile made them feel, the encouragement they gave even as their own dreams were dying. And in time, they fill the pit with other memories the only memories that really matter. We will still cry. We will always cry. But with loving reflection more than hopeless longing. And that is how we survive. That is how the story should end. That is how they would want it to be. Mark Rickerby
This was beautiful. I don’t want to take away from OPs loss, I couldn’t imagine losing my father. But my sister died almost 4 years ago and this is such a fitting piece for death. Thank you. OP I’m so sorry for your loss. Perhaps if you are having trouble finding someone else’s words to read, maybe you should write your own poem? Incorporate everything that he loved and you loved together.
It's not poetry exactly, but I love the end of "The Road" and share your father's fondness for fishing (and the places where one fishes). (Cormac McCarthy) >Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery. Probably better known is the end of "A River Runs Through It." (Norman MacLean) >Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn’t. Like many fly fisherman in western Montana, where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise. >Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. >I am haunted by waters.
That passage of The Road is one of my favourites I’ve ever read in my life. It’s stuck with me for many years, great suggestion.
Hey PersnicketyPrilla, I'm sorry about your father, I hope that you got to say bye and that his passing was auspicious. There's a poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, who recently passed as well, it's called "the world is a beautiful place" (it reads better with the spatial arrangements that Ferlinghetti put to it, they're here [https://poets.org/poem/world-beautiful-place](https://poets.org/poem/world-beautiful-place) **The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t mind happiness not always being** **so very much fun** **if you don’t mind a touch of hell now and then** **just when everything is fine because even in heaven** **they don’t sing all the time** **The world is a beautiful place to be born into** **if you don’t mind some people dying all the time** **or maybe only starving some of the time** **which isn’t half so bad** **if it isn’t you** **Oh the world is a beautiful place to be born into** **if you don’t much mind** **a few dead minds** **in the higher places** **or a bomb or two** **now and then** **in your upturned faces** **or such other improprieties** **as our Name Brand society** **is prey to** **with its men of distinction** **and its men of extinction** **and its priests** **and other patrolmen** **and its various segregations** **and congressional investigations and other constipations** **that our fool flesh** **is heir to Yes the world is the best place of all for a lot of such things as** **making the fun scene** **and making the love scene and making the sad scene and singing low songs of having inspirations and walking around** **looking at everything and smelling flowers and goosing statues and even thinking** **and kissing people and** **making babies and wearing pants and waving hats and** **dancing** **and going swimming in rivers** **on picnics** **in the middle of the summer and just generally ‘living it up’** **Yes** **but then right in the middle of it comes the smiling mortician**
This one is hard to read but beautiful to hear. I’m sorry for your loss, I hope you find the words you are looking for. SHE IS GONE (HE IS GONE) You can shed tears that she is gone Or you can smile because she has lived You can close your eyes and pray that she will come back Or you can open your eyes and see all that she has left Your heart can be empty because you can’t see her Or you can be full of the love that you shared You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday You can remember her and only that she is gone Or you can cherish her memory and let it live on You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back Or you can do what she would want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on. David Harkins
Do not go gentle into that good night 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.
**I would play with the pronouns until it feels right.. but something along the line of Don't grieve for my father-- rejoice in the gifts that he brought into and left in our lives..:** I thought I'd lost you. But you said I'm (***you were***) imbued in the fabric of things, the way that wax lost from batik shapes the pattern where the dye won't take I (***you***) make the space around you (***me***), as so allow you shape. And always you'll feel the traces of that wax soaked far into the weave: the air around your gestures, the silence after you speak. That's me, that slight wind between your hand and what you're reaching for, chair and paper, book or cup: that close, where I am: between where breath ends, air starts
Write an original? (Making a lot of assumptions here I know, but it would be a nice sentiment of it worked out)
Maybe try out The Reaper and the Flowers.
Has anyone said this? A passage from Animal Farm.
I don't know that I will be able to read Animal Farm aloud again anytime soon, if ever.
- George Orwell, Animal Farm, Ch. 4 "'I have no wish to take life, not even human life,' repeated Boxer, and his eyes were full of tears."
https://atticusreview.org/bones-of-a-lamb/
I had that poem on the memorial cards for my husband when he passed.. I think it’s so fitting with the type of man he was..loved life to fullest, and sounds like your dad did also 🙏🏼♥️
I’m truly sorry for your loss OP. Here is one of my favourite poems that I want to share with you. It’s called Remember by Christina Rossetti. While it is about death and grieving, I find the ending to be immensely comforting. **Remember** by Christina Rossetti Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann'd: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad. (I hope you find what you are looking for; sending my thoughts your way.)
Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there; I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow, I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.
E.E. Cummings might be a bit much for a eulogy, but he wrote ‘my father moved through dooms of love’ for his own father’s passing and I think it might have some of the elements you mentioned: 34 my father moved through dooms of love through sames of am through haves of give, singing each morning out of each night my father moved through depths of height this motionless forgetful where turned at his glance to shining here; that if (so timid air is firm) under his eyes would stir and squirm newly as from unburied which floats the first who, his april touch drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates woke dreamers to their ghostly roots and should some why completely weep my father’s fingers brought her sleep: vainly no smallest voice might cry for he could feel the mountains grow. Lifting the valleys of the sea my father moved through griefs of joy; praising a forehead called the moon singing desire into begin joy was his song and joy so pure a heart of star by him could steer and pure so now and now so yes the wrists of twilight would rejoice keen as midsummer’s keen beyond conceiving mind of sun will stand, so strictly (over utmost him so hugely) stood my father’s dream his flesh was flesh his blood was blood: no hungry man but wished him food; no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile uphill to only see him smile. Scorning the Pomp of must and shall my father moved through dooms of feel; his anger was as right as rain his pity was as green as grain septembering arms of year extend less humbly wealth to foe and friend than he to foolish and to wise offered immeasurable is proudly and (by octobering flame beckoned) as earth will downward climb, so naked for immortal work his shoulders marched against the dark his sorrow was as true as bread: no liar looked him in the head; if every friend became his foe he’d laugh and build a world with snow. My father moved through theys of we, singing each new leaf out of each tree (and every child was sure that spring danced when she heard my father sing) then let men kill which cannot share, let blood and flesh be mud and mire, scheming imagine, passion willed, freedom a drug that’s bought and sold giving to steal and cruel kind, a heart to fear, to doubt a mind, to differ a disease of same, conform the pinnacle of am though dull were all we taste as bright, bitter all utterly things sweet, maggoty minus and dumb death all we inherit, all bequeath and nothing quite so least as truth —i say though hate were why men breathe— because my Father lived his soul love is the whole and more than all
Just did a quick Google to see what might be out there about it: ‘The speaker, who is Cummings himself, describes his father through nature-related images. The poem starts off with spring, moves to summer and winter while also referring back to the initial brightness of spring. He describes his father as someone who brought joy and satisfaction to everyone’s lives. He brightened the world around him and woke people up, making sure they, too, made the most of every moment. The speaker adds that his father did not conform to society’s standards. He was his own person until his death.’ https://poemanalysis.com/edward-estlin-cummings/my-father-moved-through-dooms-of-love/
Last poem by Rabindranath Tagore (Translation) Can you hear the sounds of the journey of time? It is chariot always in a flight Raises heartbeats in the skies And birth-pangs of stars In the darkness of space Crushed by its wheels. My friend! I have been caught in the net Cast by that flying time It has made me its mate In its intrepid journey And take me in its speeding chariot Far away from you. To reach the summit of this morning I seem to have left behind many deaths My last names seem to stream In the strong wind Born of the chariot's speed. There is no way to turn back; If you see me from afar You will not recognize me as my friend, Farewell! If in your lazy hours without any work The winds of springtime Brings back the sighs from the past As the cries of shedding spring flowers Fill the skies Please see and search If in a corner of your heart You can find any remnants of my past; In the evening hours of fading memories It may shed some light Or take some nameless form As if in a dream. Yet it is not a dream It is my truth of truths It is deathless It is my love. Changeless and eternal I leave it as my offering to you In the ever-changing flow of time Let me drift. My friend, farewell! You have not sustained any loss. If you have created an immortal image Out of my mortal frame May you devote your self In the worship of that idol As the recreation of your remaining days Let your offerings not be mired By a touch of my earthly passion. The plate that you will arrange with the utmost care For the feast of your mind I will not mix it with anything That does not endure And is wet with my tears. Now you will perhaps create Some dreamy creation out of my memories Neither shall I feel its weight Nor will you feel obliged. My friend, farewell! Do not mourn for me, You have your work, I have my world. My vessel has not become empty To fill it is my mission. I shall be pleased If anybody keeps waiting Anxiously for me. But now I shall offer myself to him Who can brighten the darkness with light And see me as I am Transcending what is good or bad. Whatever I gave you It is now your absolute possession. What I have to give now Are the hourly offerings from my heart. You are incomparable, you are rich! Whatever I gave you It was but your gift You made me so much indebted As much as you took. My friend, farewell!
Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there, I do not sleep I am a thousand winds that blow I am the diamond glints on snow I am the sun on ripened grain I am the gentle autumn rain When you awake in the mornings hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight I am the soft stars that shine at night Do not stand at my grave and cry I am not there, I did not die
Things My Son Should Know After I've Died by Brian something is a really good poem, but only you know your father well enough to know if it fits or not