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
- They date back to ancient Greece.
- These poems are typically found on tombstones.
- Epitaph means “a funeral oration.”
- These poems are short, generally two to four stanzas.
- 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.
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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