Poems about Men
Welcome to our Poems about Men whether they be young or old, fathers, sons and brothers all, whatever trade our menfolk are the lifegivers.
**
Poems about Men
**
Allsorts.
Are they God's gift
Or are they humble;
Conversationalists?
Or do they mumble.
Do they bring a smile to your face
And warm the cockles of your heart;
Or do they leave you totally bereft
When they've gone and taken your heart.
Are they captain's of a ship
Or are they merchant seamen;
Crane drivers or haulage types
Civil servants or police and firemen.
Tall and lean but full of brawn
Or pale skinned and whiney;
Office workers and academic
Or free souls out on the briny.
They are always someones son
Maybe someones brother;
Most times they become fathers too
And then return to mother.
**
Men are like ATMs
Once they withdraw they lose interest.
**
Beautiful when young and strong
Along with age comes wisdom from above;
Kindness and dependability proves along the way
They will earn respect and love.
**
Father comes into the living room,
It's really safer to leave.
But I stay anyway 'cause once
He spoke to me.
The lingering musk of cigarettes
Heightens the tang of bourbon breath.
We built houses together around this area,
At least till the bankers came 'round.
He used the corner there for figuring.
Better not to talk when Father hits the booze.
He'll start the conversation
And finish it.
But he's easy to listen to
And his bitterness easy to understand.
The bastards stole his independence
Though he proved they were wrong.
Fixing peanut butter toast in the kitchen,
It's winter and the house is cold.
The creamy style is warming and shines,
And the coffee mug warms my hand.
This is Father's breakfast I eat,
He's eating his elsewhere now,
Up north, looking out the window
At the frozen lake.
He's not so bitter anymore,
Though he's still a cynic,
And begins and finishes conversations.
His creativity returns and he's funny.
"The damn ducks are wrinkling my lake,"
He says one summer morning.
At dusk he calls loudly to the loons,
And I laugh when they loudly call back,
A lonely sound over a northern lake.
You're great, Dad; the loons agree.
It's the only payment he'll ever see.
Chris Aune
**
Poems about Men
**
Men are proud and need to feel
That they are the great protectors;
It's not the same as in the beginning
When we were all cave dwellers.
These instincts are still there
Sometimes hard to see where we fit in;
Testosterone running wild
Anger energies wanting to be kingpins.
Looking at the same page
But from a different angle;
They feel they must fix everything
Though life will make them amble.
Maggiemay
**
Tribute Poem for Rhys Jones
Now God wanted a football match
And to play it up in heaven
But first he needed players
And select his first eleven.
Georgie Best, big Brian Labone
The legend Dixie Dean
Alan Ball and Bobby Moore
All made it in the team.
He needed one more player
Someone who would be quick
From up above he looked down
And saw Rhys there in his kit.
So Rhys was taken up above
God took him by the hand
To play the game he loved so much
Where sponsorship is banned
There is no cheating either as
God is the referee
There are no mega wages
And the transfers they are free.
The games are live on telly
You don’t have to subscribe
The players all stay on their feet
‘Cos no one takes a dive.
So Rhys plays now so happily
To the angels in the crowd
And every time he hits the net
They roar his name so loud.
Have fun my little blue boy
You’re safe and in God’s care
‘Till it’s time for me to get my boots
And join you up there.
Written by Stephen Jones for his son Rhys
**
There's nowt like a dad
Being proud of his son;
He'll stand by him
And fight anyone.
He's there with words of wisdom
Help with homework too;
Encouragment at baseball
He wants him to be like you.
**
I keep six honest serving-men
(They taught me all I knew);
Their names are What and Why and When
And How and Where and Who.
I send them over land and sea,
I send them east and west;
But after they have worked for me,
I give them all a rest.
I let them rest from nine till five,
For I am busy then,
As well as breakfast, lunch, and tea,
For they are hungry men.
But different folk have different views;
I know a person small—
She keeps ten million serving-men,
Who get no rest at all!
She sends'em abroad on her own affairs,
From the second she opens her eyes—
One million Hows, two million Wheres,
And seven million Whys!
Rudyard Kipling
**
Poems about Men
**
If you think you are beaten, you are.
If you think you dare not, you don't.
If you'd like to win but think you can't,
It's almost certain you won't.
Life's battles don't always go
To the stronger or faster man,
But sooner or later, the man who wins
Is the man who thinks he can.
Walter D.Wintle
**
Men, Men, they're all the same
They treat relationships like a game;
Games are meant to be won and lost
But the loser always counts the costs.
**
We make a living by
what we get,
but we make a life
by what we give.
Winston Churchill
**
If you want to succeed in the world you must make your own opportunities as you go on. The man who waits for some seventh wave to toss him on dry land will find that the seventh wave is a long time a-coming. You can commit no greater folly than to sit by the road side until someone comes along and invites you to ride with him to wealth or influence.
John B. Gough
**
Go to Life Poems from
Poems about Men
**
Poems about Men
**
Allsorts.
Are they God's gift
Or are they humble;
Conversationalists?
Or do they mumble.
Do they bring a smile to your face
And warm the cockles of your heart;
Or do they leave you totally bereft
When they've gone and taken your heart.
Are they captain's of a ship
Or are they merchant seamen;
Crane drivers or haulage types
Civil servants or police and firemen.
Tall and lean but full of brawn
Or pale skinned and whiney;
Office workers and academic
Or free souls out on the briny.
They are always someones son
Maybe someones brother;
Most times they become fathers too
And then return to mother.
**
Men are like ATMs
Once they withdraw they lose interest.
**
Beautiful when young and strong
Along with age comes wisdom from above;
Kindness and dependability proves along the way
They will earn respect and love.
**
Father comes into the living room,
It's really safer to leave.
But I stay anyway 'cause once
He spoke to me.
The lingering musk of cigarettes
Heightens the tang of bourbon breath.
We built houses together around this area,
At least till the bankers came 'round.
He used the corner there for figuring.
Better not to talk when Father hits the booze.
He'll start the conversation
And finish it.
But he's easy to listen to
And his bitterness easy to understand.
The bastards stole his independence
Though he proved they were wrong.
Fixing peanut butter toast in the kitchen,
It's winter and the house is cold.
The creamy style is warming and shines,
And the coffee mug warms my hand.
This is Father's breakfast I eat,
He's eating his elsewhere now,
Up north, looking out the window
At the frozen lake.
He's not so bitter anymore,
Though he's still a cynic,
And begins and finishes conversations.
His creativity returns and he's funny.
"The damn ducks are wrinkling my lake,"
He says one summer morning.
At dusk he calls loudly to the loons,
And I laugh when they loudly call back,
A lonely sound over a northern lake.
You're great, Dad; the loons agree.
It's the only payment he'll ever see.
Chris Aune
**
Poems about Men
**
Men are proud and need to feel
That they are the great protectors;
It's not the same as in the beginning
When we were all cave dwellers.
These instincts are still there
Sometimes hard to see where we fit in;
Testosterone running wild
Anger energies wanting to be kingpins.
Looking at the same page
But from a different angle;
They feel they must fix everything
Though life will make them amble.
Maggiemay
**
Tribute Poem for Rhys Jones
Now God wanted a football match
And to play it up in heaven
But first he needed players
And select his first eleven.
Georgie Best, big Brian Labone
The legend Dixie Dean
Alan Ball and Bobby Moore
All made it in the team.
He needed one more player
Someone who would be quick
From up above he looked down
And saw Rhys there in his kit.
So Rhys was taken up above
God took him by the hand
To play the game he loved so much
Where sponsorship is banned
There is no cheating either as
God is the referee
There are no mega wages
And the transfers they are free.
The games are live on telly
You don’t have to subscribe
The players all stay on their feet
‘Cos no one takes a dive.
So Rhys plays now so happily
To the angels in the crowd
And every time he hits the net
They roar his name so loud.
Have fun my little blue boy
You’re safe and in God’s care
‘Till it’s time for me to get my boots
And join you up there.
Written by Stephen Jones for his son Rhys
**
There's nowt like a dad
Being proud of his son;
He'll stand by him
And fight anyone.
He's there with words of wisdom
Help with homework too;
Encouragment at baseball
He wants him to be like you.
**
I keep six honest serving-men
(They taught me all I knew);
Their names are What and Why and When
And How and Where and Who.
I send them over land and sea,
I send them east and west;
But after they have worked for me,
I give them all a rest.
I let them rest from nine till five,
For I am busy then,
As well as breakfast, lunch, and tea,
For they are hungry men.
But different folk have different views;
I know a person small—
She keeps ten million serving-men,
Who get no rest at all!
She sends'em abroad on her own affairs,
From the second she opens her eyes—
One million Hows, two million Wheres,
And seven million Whys!
Rudyard Kipling
**
Poems about Men
**
If you think you are beaten, you are.
If you think you dare not, you don't.
If you'd like to win but think you can't,
It's almost certain you won't.
Life's battles don't always go
To the stronger or faster man,
But sooner or later, the man who wins
Is the man who thinks he can.
Walter D.Wintle
**
Men, Men, they're all the same
They treat relationships like a game;
Games are meant to be won and lost
But the loser always counts the costs.
**
We make a living by
what we get,
but we make a life
by what we give.
Winston Churchill
**
If you want to succeed in the world you must make your own opportunities as you go on. The man who waits for some seventh wave to toss him on dry land will find that the seventh wave is a long time a-coming. You can commit no greater folly than to sit by the road side until someone comes along and invites you to ride with him to wealth or influence.
John B. Gough
**
Go to Life Poems from
Poems about Men