Poems - Male
‘The Measure of a Man’ by Summer Sandercox
Not, how did he die, but how did he live?
Not, what did he gain, but what did he give?
These are the units to measure the worth
Of a man as a man, regardless of birth.
Not what was his church, nor what was his creed?
But had he befriended those really in need?
Was he ever- ready, with word of good cheer,
To bring back a smile or to banish a tear?
Not what did the sketch in the newspaper say,
But how many were sorry when he passed away?
These are the things that measure the worth
Of a man as a man, regardless of birth.
'The Measure of a Man' by Grady Poulard
The measure of a man is not determined
By his show of outward strength
Or the volume of his voice
Or the thunder of his actions
Or by his intellect.
It is seen in the love that he has for his family
and for everyone.
The strength of his commitments
The genuineness of his friendships
The sincerity of his purpose
The quiet courage of his convictions
The fun, laughter, joy and happiness he gives
to his family
and to others
His love of life
His patience and his honesty
And his contentment with what he has
To Dad – by Aqsa Khan
To be heard without saying a word,
To be hugged when I'm feeling blue,
To be understood, when I'm feeling confused,
So rare was a Dad like you.
Your loving smile, and gentle laugh,
Made all the difference in my day.
Your endless wisdom, and timeless advice
Always helped me find my way.
In you there was no equal,
You were in a class all your own.
And because of all, the love you gave me,
I'll never be alone.
It's an honour to have known you,
To have shared stories and dreams.
I'll always think of you smiling,
No matter how tough life seems.
You're still special beyond compare,
Your heart so kind and true,
I wish everyone on earth,
Could have such a Dad Like you!
‘How To Grow Old’ by Bertrand Russell
An individual human existence should be like a river:
Small at first, narrowly contained within its banks, and rushing passionately past rocks and over waterfalls. Gradually the river grows wider, the banks recede, the waters flow more quietly, and in the end, without any visible break, they become merged in the sea, and painlessly lose their individual being.
The man who, in old age, can see his life in this way, will not suffer from the fear of death, since the things he cares for will continue.
‘An Unremarkable Man’ by GW Griffiths
I know that’s how you see yourself –
Ordinary, undistinguished, run-of-the-mill,
But no man is ordinary – each one is unique,
With his own hopes, fears, desires and dreams;
And you – you with your quiet strength,
Your sensibility, your wonderful sense of humour,
The kindness, patience and generosity
You showed to all around you –
An unremarkable man? No, my friend,
Nothing could be further from the truth.
‘That Man is a Success’ by Robert Louis Stevenson
That man is a success
who has lived well,
laughed often and loved much;
who has gained the respect of intelligent men and women
and the love of children;
who has filled his niche and accomplished his task;
who leaves the world better than he found it,
who has never lacked appreciation of earth’s beauty
or failed to express it;
who looked for the best in others,
and gave the best he had.
‘Dad’ – author unknown
He was always there to guide us,
Held our hands when we were small,
A gentle, guiding beacon,
To us the best of all.
He helped us gain the courage,
To be who we want to be,
His belief was never shaken,
His love was guaranteed.
He never looked for praises,
He was never one to boast,
He just went on quietly working,
For the ones he loved the most.
His dreams were seldom spoken,
His wants were very few,
And most of the time his worries,
Went unspoken too.
He was there, a firm foundation,
Through all our storms of life,
A sturdy hand to hold on to,
In time of stress and strife.
You shared our every moment,
And although you are now gone,
We know that through your family,
Your legacy lives on.
A true friend we could turn to,
When times were good or bad,
One of our great blessings,
The man that we called Dad.
‘It couldn’t be done’ by Edgar Guest
Somebody said that it couldn’t be done
But he with a chuckle replied
That ‘maybe it couldn’t,’ but he would be one
Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it!
Somebody scoffed: ‘Oh, you’ll never do that;
At least no one ever has done it;’
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat
And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.
There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure,
There are thousands to point out to you, one by one
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing
That ‘cannot be done,’ and you’ll do it.
‘So Many Different Lengths of Life’ by Brian Patten
How long does a man live after all?
A thousand days or only one?
One week or a few centuries?
How long does a man spend living or dying
and what do we mean when we say gone forever?
Adrift in such preoccupations, we seek clarification.
We can go to the philosophers
but they will weary of our questions.
We can go to the priests and rabbis
but they might be busy with administrations.
So, how long does a man live after all?
And how much does he live while he lives?
We fret and ask so many questions –
then when it comes to us
the answer is so simple after all.
A man lives for as long as we carry him inside us,
for as long as we carry the harvest of his dreams,
for as long as we ourselves live,
holding memories in common, a man lives.
His lover will carry his man’s scent, his touch:
his children will carry the weight of his love.
One friend will carry his arguments,
another will hum his favourite tunes,
another will still share his terrors.
And the days will pass with baffled faces,
then the weeks, then the months,
then there will be a day when no question is asked,
and the knots of grief will loosen in the stomach
and the puffed faces will calm.
And on that day he will not have ceased
but will have ceased to be separated by death.
How long does a man live after all?
A man lives so many different lengths of time.