Voices from the Big Pink

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 call his group of Epitaph Poems, Voices from the Big Pink.

Epitaph Poems and Voices from the Big Pink

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.

Not long after we moved into our big pink house, the neighbors told us it was once a funeral parlor. We didn’t take them seriously until we saw evidence that it might have been. Things got creepy after one of our children found a large bone in the basement. That’s a story for another day. These epitaphs are short poems that might have been written on our ghost’s tombstones.

 Voices from the Big Pink

I’m Henry, and I try to be quiet as a mouse

I never wanted to haunt your damn old house

But your children wouldn’t let me sleep.

My name is Sadie

And I was always a lady

Until I found it more fun to creep

Hi, I am George from over the way

In Life, I never had much to say

I had to die to find my tongue

Silas McGree died in the army

In a far-off land, warm and swarmy

Once kept bees, but never got stung

Lester Wright is lying here

I liked to drink my beer

But my old Lady wouldn’t let me alone

My name is Harriet, and I throw the first stone

Because the fool Henry wouldn’t leave me alone

It was me that hit him in the head

My name is Jim, and I saw it all

It was one of the worst things I ever saw

I testified that it was Harriet that made Henry dead

Angle Wilson here, and I want to testify

The fool deserved it, and I ought to know why

It was me that saw him sleeping in the wrong bed.

You found the shoe I wore on my wedding day

I asked to be buried in it, and you callously threw it away

So that’s why I haunt you every night.

My name is Fred, and I am here to testify

Poor Emma had all her reasons you can’t deny

To make a fuss with all her might

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.

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