Short Memorial Poems For Dad – Father poems of famous poets and the most beautiful poems to make you feel good. Best dad poem ever. Read all the poems about fathers.

When the sun withdraws its light from the garden, and the moon casts its soft beams on the flowers, I sit under the tree and meditate on the phenomena of the atmosphere, looking through the branches at the scattered stars, which shimmer like specks of silver Glow on blue. carpet; I heard in the distance an excited trickle singing briskly down the valley.

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In ancient times, when I first spoke, I ascended the holy mountain and said to God:

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“Am I a lowly fanatical Spanish Catholic kid who punishes himself for liking toys, forbids himself sweets, keeps silent, degrades his pride, worships symbols, statues, burning candles, incense, nuns’ caresses, organ Music, for whom is communion a good occasion? The thought of eating Jesus’ flesh and drinking his blood excites me so much that I can’t swallow the host very well for fear of hurting it.

It was a long dark hall lined with pictures and poems of my father. The inscription is attached to the frame of the father. You can read them if you’re close. Poetry without title is enough. At the end of the corridor, you can hear: an American woman playing Beethoven, Saint-Saëns, Bach on an upright piano, a German mother playing a second-hand violin, a Chinese father whistling Madame Butterfly. Sometimes it’s the beat of a metronome, sometimes it’s the tapping of little feet. Across the corridor: silence. Meanwhile, words from different languages ​​hang in the air. One thought the room was close, the other hall, perhaps not so dark, perhaps had one lined with pictures of mothers and girls.

The first father was my birth. His forehead is high, hiding an unusually huge head, which contains a huge and strange wisdom. His hair is black, like the sea that brought him from China to America. His eyes were also black, edged with blue; their colors wavered between sea and sky. They are beautiful and legally blind. Her skin was hairless, olive-coloured, well oiled and elastic. how old is she? we do not know. His mouth was full of crooked teeth, and there were little yellow gravestones here and there. Almonds, apples, melon seeds, prunes, plums, ice cubes, beat up the names of these dead. Despite their random shape, the teeth are extremely efficient at chewing. We watched peanuts being ground into butter and bananas being crushed in seconds. He swallowed food like a hungry man. His mouth keeps opening to sing, smile, and scream—another testament to his appetite. The caption, written in his own words: Never trust anyone, not even your father.

The head was as big as my father’s, but the jaw was longer, plump but less round, and the languid, broad neck matched the soft, sluggish body. The skin is apricot-coloured, with large pores and occasional spots, as if referring to a handsome young man struggling. In her hair, the texture of the leaves was gone, the color of the smoky bark receding from the front like a troop of soldiers. The nose threatens to take over the face, friendly as a landmark. The mouth is always moving like an hourglass in regular use, filling and emptying in one direction and then the other. The clown’s eyes, alert, tired, gleaming, resting and measuring at the same time. The blue shirt covers most of his furry torso, though there are tree branches protruding from his chest through the opening of the shirt. It’s corporate blue. There are two dozen more in his closet at home. All Brooks Brothers. All blue. Softness varies with wear. His title sounds like a war cry: The Poet Wants Justice.

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My father was obsessed with justice. Before immigration, he was a senior judge. Later, when he became a professor of engineering in the United States, he continued his relentless pursuit of justice. As kids, we knew he was a boxer. He often sued individuals; he sued the California State Internal Revenue Service. The most important case for me as a child was Father v. Mrs. E.

We drove an hour to another city. He lives in a mobile home park on the edge of town. His mobile home is carpeted and has low ceilings, but there are pretty things on the tables and walls. Jeweled lights and lace curtains, original paintings and glassware filled with cellophane-wrapped sweets. We’re here to buy him a piano. It’s darker than my dad’s eyes, but just as dramatic. This was clearly Mrs. E’s most prized possession.

I wonder why he sold it without thinking about poverty. His hair is white, his eyes are aqua blue, and he seems honest to us. We never doubted that the piano would be ours once Dad returned with the rest of the money and the borrowed truck. But when he returned a few days later as promised, she turned him down. Maybe he’s found other sources of income, or he’s getting nostalgic, or he just doesn’t want to have it. Anyway, he refused to sell the piano to his father–he had promised her, as he had promised me–and so he turned against him as he would anyone else.

She took him to court. We, the children, had seen it all, but were too young to take a stand, and I sat in front of the courtroom with my mother. We hear Mrs. E hissing from behind as Dad speaks in broken English: A bunch of lies! This is our father’s foreign language address for Mrs. Bai. He lost the case and we found another used piano, a Bush & Lane upright with roses carved into the dark brown wood. I have now forgotten where it came from. I played it with pleasure (though it was undoubtedly an inferior instrument), but not so pleasantly that I occasionally thought of that first piano. I have a feeling no one, Mrs. E or anyone, is ever going to play a black piano again. Later, when I knew she must be dead (because she was very old when we got to her house), I wondered what the hell was going on. The American justice system, my father would say, is corrupt! A bunch of lies! she said sarcastically, impersonating Mrs. E. She imitated her, and later, when she was out of earshot, we imitated her.

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Same signature nose, same power back to the nape, another blue shirt, a uniform of his own invention, this one worn, faded. The big head is bowed, and the hands are clasped together, as if praying or begging. There are traces of sofa pipes on the face. The inscription reads: The poet wants mercy.

The father resigned as a judge after receiving a string of death threats. He showed no mercy to criminals and delivered several unpopular sentences. In our family, every case calls for a trial. Father judge, other criminals. Commitments, whether announced by him or by us, are written and signed on the calendar. He certainly has the right to pardon us. Although no one, including my mother, my sister, or even me, was able to forgive him.

He promised to pay me twenty dollars if I practiced the piano for seven hours without a break. He wrote the contract on the calendar in English. I was nine or ten years old. Twenty dollars is like a lot of chocolate and gum to me. For seven full hours, I filled the silent house with music. Music is a form of mercy, my freedom to speak, my freedom not to be spoken to. The others were imprisoned in the house with him, and I was at the mercy of change. When I’m not playing the piano, the house is quiet except for her voice. That, too, was his decision. Be quiet, I’m working. Be quiet, I am reading. Be quiet, I want to talk.

I started composing music at the age of eight. I started listening to the keys and nothing else. allegro. Andante. lago. strengths. I obeyed the orders of the dead Germans in Italy and the house disappeared.

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The army had almost retreated behind the slopes that covered the summit. His crisp blue shirt, like the others but newer and lighter, was a recent gift. Sleepless eyes suggest that he reads and writes poetry at night to lull himself to sleep. Give yourself a lullaby. Music comes in the form of words. Like my piano, but quieter when everyone else is sleeping. The title, a sentence he repeated when he was awake: poetic words can only be presented formally.

My dad also had a series of battle cries, judgments, and lullabies that he sang himself on our show.

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