Goodbye – Words of Sympathy

I always took for granted,
what I thought I’d never lose.
Because I never thought it would happen,
until I heard the dreaded news.

They say you were chosen for his garden,
His preciously hand picked bouquet.
“God really needed him,
That’s why he couldn’t stay.”

Saying goodbye is never easy,
It’s the hardest thing to do.
But what hurts me even more
Is not the chance to say it to you.

So today, Jesus, as you are listening
in your home above;
Would you go and find my dad,
And give him all my love!
(by Tammy Marie Denue)

My Father – Words of Sympathy

He was diagnosed with cancer
and given six months to two years,
though we never saw him cry
we all saw the tears.

He was the one who was there
for me the most,
to listen to my fears
and help rid the ghosts.

He did his treatments, went into
remission, doing well,
the problems he would have
who knew, who could tell?

He was the one who would
catch me cry,
and talk to me till my
tears were dry.

Five years later while lying in the
hospital bed in the month of May,
my father stopped responding,
my father passed away.

Now being here feeling lonely
as a mouse,
he is gone, my father,
Ronald Krause.

He didn’t die alone,
a part of me died with him.
(by Kristi E. Millikan)

I Still Miss You – Words of Sympathy

It’s been some time, since you’ve been gone
I thought by now, I would be strong
I think of you, and shed my tears
I wonder who, will still my fears.

Your memories remain, inside my heart
My soul it seems, to be torn apart
You told me secrets, I hold so dear
I only wish, you would be near.

I still miss and love you, can’t you see
I wish to hold, and talk with thee
So many things, I could not say
And now you’ve gone, so far away.

You taught me to, in God believe
You said he would always, take care of me
So take my hand, and guide me there
And save a place, one day to share.

I love you Mom & Dad
(by Damaris Calderon)

A Father but Not a Dad – Words of Sympathy

I’m sorry you missed out when I went to school for the 1st time,
And you didn’t have me tell you that you were all mine,
I’m sorry you weren’t there to take me to the mall,
And you weren’t there to tell me I have to stand tall,
Sorry you weren’t the one I saw when I came out of my play,
Or the one I’d run to when I had a bad day,
I’m sorry you didn’t hear me sing, you’d have been so proud,
And you weren’t there to lift me up on a cloud,
Sorry you weren’t there to tell me there’s nothing to fear,
But then again you should have been here,
I’m sorry you weren’t the one to teach me to ride a bike,
Or the one who took me on my first hike,
I’m sorry you weren’t the one who carried me on his back,
Or the one who held me tight when strength is what I lacked,
I’m sorry you weren’t the one to hold me when I cried,
Or tell me I did great when I really tried,
I’m sorry you were never there to teach me how to cook,
Or there at night to read me my favorite book,
I’m sorry me as a daughter is what you never had,
You will always be my father, but you will never be my dad.

(by Bethany M. Thomas)

Gone Fishin – Words of Sympathy

Her Head Stone reads Minnie Robinson Kyle, December 12, 1923 – March 29, 2004.

It’s that dash in the middle that has always fascinated me, even as a young adult I would look at it and wonder how a person’s life could be summed up in that tiny symbol. That symbol representing an entire life.

I wish you could have known my mother, she was much, much more than a dash between birth and death, she is UNFORGETTABLE.

People now ask what I miss most about her? I reply her hands. I loved my mother’s hands. They were so delicate, but determined, so weak, yet strong.

Most of her life she used those hands to clean homes of the more fortunate and later as a janitor at the local school. My brother and I would sometimes ask why she worked so hard, and she would answer; so my children won’t have to.

She had two joys in life other than her children and grandchildren; one was taking her fishing rod and sticking it in the sand beside a flowing river, the other quilting. Both brought her peace and contentment.

I would marvel watching her sit by the side of the river, so relaxed, listening as if the river was telling her a story. The sound of the water rushing over the rocks took her to a better place, if only for a while.

Her hands, pulling a needle through cloth, weaving pattern after pattern of wonderful art that eventually turned up on someone’s bed as a gift from Ms. Minnie. That’s what most people called her. That’s who she was.

I try to envision what her Heaven must be like. You know it’s different for all of us. Her’s I believe is surrounded by a flowing river, where the water always plays a melody as it rushes by. It flows past a lovely little cottage in which there is a quilting corner with table and comfortable chair. Around the room, a display of quilts, wonderful, colorful quilts. Also neatly tucked beside the table is the next pattern to be cut, the next stitches to be sewn, endless time to spend pulling needle through cloth.

There she walks freely from cottage to riverbank, free of pain, void of worry, doing the two things she enjoyed most in life.

One other thing is written on the Head Stone that she shares with my brother GONE FISHIN.

Yes, indeed she has gone. This time there is no slow setting of a golden sun behind foggy gray mountains, indicating it’s getting dark, time to go home.

She is home.
(by Pamela I. Campbell)

I Miss You Daddy! – Words of Sympathy

Dear God, I need to know why did you take him above?

His name is James Royce Henry, He is someone that I loved.

He was my Daddy, I was his little girl.

I miss him so much since he left our family.

It’s a horrible nightmare to be sticken with cancer,

There are so many questions no one can answer.

If I had one more chance, I’d hug him real tight.

I’d tell him I love him and kiss him good-bye.

This poem is not perfect it’s just how I feel.

I miss you Daddy, my pain is real.
(by Mary A. Henry)

Parkinsons Avenue – Words of Sympathy

It begins with
The smaller things

To forget a word here
Lose something there

But soon the world
Becomes somewhat of a blur

She smiles and nods
The portrait of a Lady
Like she knows what’s going on

But when it’s time to speak her piece she stumbles over the words
The phrases are lost

She can only say No
Or simply start over with Let’s see

We smile reassuringly
Laugh it off
We forget things too

But we know when to eat dinner
We can still drive our cars

We all reach a point
When all we have
Is our mind and the memories

Who can remind you of them
If they’ve already gone?

My biggest fear is that
She will forget
She has forgotten

And we all become
A blur
Of walking memories
(by Kathryn E. Milligan)

Most Precious Dear Loving Mother – Words of Sympathy

I need to publish this poem
For all the world to read
I know there are many out there
Who feel this kind of grief.

Perhaps they ask those questions of guilt
The ones with which we now must deal
Hoping we get all the right answers
The ones that will help our hearts to heal.

I held her hand and spoke softly
As she slowly faded away
The things I prayed she needed
To once again hear me say.

Most precious, dear loving, Mother
We’ll be together, again some-day.

I told her I will ‘always’ remember
The many times she pulled me through
That I couldn’t have made it without her
I prayed she would know I was speaking the truth.

I didn’t want to give her up
I needed her here, with me still
But I wouldn’t try to hold her back
For the Father, had spoken His Will.

Her eyes were closed for sometime now
Her breathing, so shallow
I could feel the weight, in my chest
As I spoke the last words to her
I could only watch, as she took her last breath.

My tears are still flowing
The heartache refuses to go away
But I know we’ll be united in Heaven
And never more to stray.

I held her hand and spoke softly
As she slowly faded away
Most precious, dear loving, Mother
We’ll be together, again someday.
(by Wanda S. Collier)

The Ninth Pallbearer – Words of Sympathy

It was so sad,
With a tear in every eye,
To see this little lad,
We had all came to say goodbye,
The day they buried his Dad.

By his young bride,
She had chosen eight,
To assist in her husband’s final ride,
Heaven had called him, aged almost
twenty eight.

This little lad,
His only son, aged seven,
So very sad,
There to send his Dad’s body to heaven.

This we know is true,
For this soul so very new,
Taken before his time,
For no apparent reason or rhyme.

This promise kept,
As the family wept,
Life is eternal,
As written in God’s Journal.

The courage of this lad,
Even him so very sad,
Yes, his courage makes one glad.
The day they buried his Dad.

His mother had chosen,
Brave men, eight,
With others in sadness frozen,
Stepped the bravest so his Dad would
not be late.

With four on each side,
Came this little boy,
For him there was no joy,
For his Dad was on his final ride.

At the lead,
Came this lad with courage,
To carry his Dad,
During this sad entourage.

I will not lie,
For put a tear in my eye,
To see this little guy,
Who was trying not to cry.

His Mom picked eight,
For with the Lord his Dad had a date,
But with his sure gate,
His Dad surely would not be late.

With the Lord his Dad had to dine,
This Pallbearer number nine,
This Grandson of mine,
With courage divine.
(by Dale E. Harmon)

My Mothers Hair – Words of Sympathy

One of your hairs fell out last night:
A piece of your life was gone without a sound.
I know a difficult day is coming,
My heart, pierced, utters a quiet cry.

Let my childhood smile againin the sun
And turn me into an innocent little headlouse
So I can crawl through the jungle of your hair
And sing a song of darkness in its fragrance.

Under your fingernail-roof Ill sleep in my house;
In my black dream Ill water your black trees.
Ill pick black fruits, and hair-jungle bees
Will bring me black poems to be opened.

How will I live, without your hair?
How will I breathe, without its fragrance?
How will I survive, when I am discovered
By ghosts of wooden combs combing your hair?

Let me wear shows made of dawn-flowers
And crawl without a sound into your sleep.
Ill take the place of the hair thats gone
And sing of hair-clouds flying from night to day.
(by Nguyen Quang Thieu)