Dead Hoosiers

The month of May is flying by on gossamer wings of sunshine. I am not afraid to admit I have a bad case of Spring fever. I played with Echo Poems for a while, not it is time to move on. It might be fun to experiment with Epitaph Poems for the remainder of the month. Some might consider that I am walking into dangerous territory, fooling around with poems found on tombstones, but I like to live dangerously. The dead people I am writing these poems for are fictional characters. There will be no shedding of tears during their composition. I will this group of Epitaph Poems Dead Hoosiers.

Epitaph Poems and Dead Hoosiers

  1. They date back to ancient Greece.
  2. These poems are typically found on tombstones.
  3. Epitaph means “a funeral oration.”
  4. These poems are short, generally two to four stanzas.
  5. They can preserve the memory of the deceased.

Now that we know what an Epitaph Poem I will move on with my morbid task. None of the people these poems are about existed in real life. They are all products of this writer’s imagination. I plan to select a group of fictional people and write a dedication to their fictional life. That’s what we writers do; we make stuff up.

Dead Hoosiers
This group of Epitaph Poetry is written to capture inscriptions that could be placed on the tombstones of the typical resident of a small town in Indiana. Hoosiers are hardy, but we still die like everyone else.  

Billy Bright was an awful nice guy,
We were all sad he had to die.

Maggie Jones liked to hand out advice
The big trouble being it wasn’t nice.

Her hair was golden, and her eyes blue
She was taken too young in our view.

Here lies a good preacher with a sorrowful congregation
We packed the pews looking for redemption
But he missed the mark more times than I dare to mention

Regina Harding liked to carry a tale
Over the river and past the well
The rumor caught with her
What happened next was all a blur 

John Howard owned most of the land in the city
And we all think it’s a dog gone pity
That a jealous husband sent him to his death
And he cursed the man with his last breath,

Beverly Williams was in love with romance
She loved to carouse and dirty dance
Providing fodder for the rumor mill
Tales of her exploits are with us still.

Wanda Williams was a righteous lady
But there were times when she could be shady
Sharp of tongue and always right
It’s no wonder poor Sam couldn’t sleep at night

Sam Williams was never one to rest
Rumor had it he loved Beverly best
People figured Wanda must have found out
That’s why she haunted him, without a doubt.

Fred Simmons bought himself a big shotgun
And shot himself with it just for fun.

Who is Molly Shea?

Molly Shea is an accomplished fictional short story writer from Indiana who writes short stories and novels about a fictional town called Tecumseh.  To read more of her short stories and adventures, click here.

Be sure to follow Molly on Twitter!

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Published by henhouselady

I am the author of Saving the Hen House. I didn't know when I started it would turn into a series. I love to ride motorcycles, the blues, my family, and going on adventures. This old hen rocks.

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