Best Tombstone Poems
Each day in Tombstone as tourists watch
The OK Corral gunfight plays out
Reenactments staged by the locals
The Earps always prevail in this bout
Saunter down to the Bird Cage Theater
Now a museum in this Old West town
Actors aren’t needed to play roles
The original cast is still around
Sixteen gunfights caused 26 deaths
Poker players who were dealt bad hands
Tourists still hear the shuffling of cards
And music from the piano man
Gunshots, images captured on tape
Dancehall girls still perform on the stage
Scents of old ale cling to dusty walls
And card game losers express their rage
Doc Holliday and Clanton Brothers
Look on as Wyatt holds all the cards
Virgil, Morgan glare at the McLaurys
Lawmen and outlaws send their regards
Spirits may rise from nearby Boot Hill
To visit the Bird Cage for a while
Delighting modern-day visitors
With a taste of history, Tombstone-style
To learn more about the Bird Cage Theater hauntings and see photos, visit http://www.ghost-
trackers.org/birdcage.htm
Here lies a women dead before her time
Struck down by guided arrows dipped in rhyme
A wound that first was sweet but turned to vile
It slowly sapped her strength and stole her smile
The words all worked their way down to her heart
Like chamber maids, each word then played a part
At first adoring, then they turned to be
The pseudo kind of love: hypocrisy
They mocked, and they abused her steadfast love
Made her to feel naïve, a helpless dove
Betrayals words they whispered in her ear
And made her fear the dreaded end was near
“Let tombstone read the truth not blatant lie:
'All those who trust in love in pain will die'."
Eileen Manassian
I took a casual stroll through the local cemetery the other day,
Looking for interesting epitaphs and to pay my respects along the way.
Many stones were simply etched with names and dates of death and birth.
Others contained tales of sad demise, yet others of perky mirth.
"Here lies Clyde now expired,
Another man's wife Clyde desired.
The man pierced Clyde's ticker with a knife,
Thereby making a widow of Clyde's wife!"
"I now own this little plot of land,
And as such I make this firm demand:
As nigh my hallowed grave you pass,
Please keep off the cotton pickin' grass!"
"Scuba diver Marty came to grief,
As he was tooling 'round a Bermuda reef.
He was having himself a carefree lark,
'Til he encountered a ravenous shark!"
"Here sleeps Sergeant Major Cooper,
A brave Fifth Cavalry trooper.
It was just his bad luck,
That when arrows flew he failed to duck!"
"Herein lies trucker Don who failed to swerve,
Speeding 'round a mountain curve.
His semi sailed o'er the precipitous edge,
Landing at the foot of a thousand foot ledge!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(For Ryland Matthews' My Darkest Hour Contest)
Blank Tombstone
by Audonus Taylor
A blank tombstone
rests above deceased me,
As I dream of a future
far as any being can see,
No flower arrangements,
Not a rose seals my tomb,
No inscription of immortality
No "loving father" or "beloved groom",
Does such lack of bereavement
reflect me as mean and vicious?
No, tis the respect of the
deceased's eccentric wishes,
As family and friends shed
tears enough to swallow,
Bidding farewell to a heart
impenetrable and hallow,
For tomorrow never comes
to hearts heaven cannot reach,
For life has stripped away my faith
Never again will my soul be breached,
No paradise awaits my name,
For I am a non believer as I roar,
Away from me, did god decree,
my angel should forever soar,
Thus I chose to fade to nothingness
Or, be it so, the depths of hell,
Now, her wedded bliss to another
proves god's love as a fairy-tale,
She loves me not, he loves me less,
is the truth I shall forever concur,
Blankness reflects more than my name,
And a god would know what I am without
Her...
Through graveyard
meandering, just
me and Dad
stories sad
abbreviated down to
mostly names and dates
So we tell
their stories by turns
like poor Duane
Dinwiddie
died at age thirty-three of
bee sting allergy
So tragic
how she caught a chill
Angeline
age nineteen
who died before her wedding
day, her groom grieves still
Or the war
heroes, Frank and Finn
taken in
the prime of
life, no child or wife, they were
just children themselves
Gunther Gold
did what he was told
gullible
on a dare
lost his life to win respect
bullies didn't care
Bartleby
hypochondriac
cough, sneeze, hack
was ignored
by the whole village, but he
got them back- with plague
Len Kramer
the lion tamer
tried to save
his wife when
she unwisely came in, but-
got eaten instead
Philetus
on flying trapeeze
an ace- the
very best
until he had to sneeze- then
sadly laid to rest
Then Daddy
looks at me and I
look at him
giving in
to sudden gales of laughter
glad to be alive
(NOTE: Although I listed this as a Free Verse, it is actually in Shadorma form...)
One of the best inscriptions, ”I Told You I Was Sick”
Another was “I Was Hoping For A Pyramid” I pooped a brick
Even in death humor lasts
When the die has been cast
“Once I wasn't, then I was, now I ain't again”, that one clicked
humid trail of life
over dry words and numbers -
snail on a tombstone
11/20/2019
A Nature Themed Haiku Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
Syllables Per Line: 5 7 5
I came here with flowers
held gently to my sobbing chest,
to bring them to my dearest;
I have departed from the living,
to come face to face with my ending...
I lay my flowers at this cold tombstone...
engraved with a name too sweet,
and yet so painful to call it out;
the heat in my throbbing veins
could warm it up with a loving wish before dawn;
but who can resurrect someone from death?
This morning is dazzled by an intense sun,
carnations, flags and tombstones
perfectly blend as the swaying pines
offer their breeze and soothing shade towards noon;
why are the noisy larks hiding,
and melancholically sing?
I rushed here to release these tears
and let them roll from these eyes,
like raindrops falling on this very quiet place:
where tranquility is as eternal as Paradise...
I lay my flowers at this cold tombstone,
feeling a presence so known;
others before me have knelt and cried,
not to forget whom they lost and dearly loved...
they walked along
weathered, carrying their guns;
like the four horsemen…
down to the O.K.
guns blazing, bullets flying;
smoke clears, the strong stand…
Lived amongst the dead
Then decided to join them
It was simply an old rusty tractor
An eyesore for passers by
A graveyard, at the back, of a pasture
All covered with weeds and vines
Curiously, on slow approach,
I wanted a closer look
Carefully climbed the barbed wire fence
Hopping over a weed wild brook
What once had been paint was flaked and gray
Oxidized and turning brown
Left to die, to bake in the sun
And weather back into the ground
Some of it's parts were stripped away
Others hanging by wires
The steering wheel and seat had strayed
Yet four worn out flattened tires
Days of use had long since passed
The weather had taken it's toll
A necessity which was built to last
Still standing and left alone
But to me it stood for something more
It stood for time and growth
Shiny and new a dream of yore
Some family's lives and hopes
How times have changed lives been sustained
The wind and dust have swirled
With growth of crops, growth of a country
The growth of a starving world
Though time had been unkind to it
Now a tombstone out in the clear
As I rubbed the rust from the relic's side
Engraved was the name John Deere
An original poem by "poemdog" Daniel Turner
So no more shall his traitors hate;
For death's veils have made it late
To slight any soul time has called
To dine and wine in the city of gold.
And his tombstone does eerily stand
Above the grass on the watered land;
Where passers-by might donate a tear
To lament the passing of a jewel dear.
And wayfaring aliens of kindlier blood
May cast a tearful eye above the mud,
To read that fading nineteen-thirty-nine;
His twain names inked in italicized line.
And perhaps see therebelow two-zero-zero-nine,
Saddest hour the grape was thieved from the vine;
And maybe briefly stand still and belatedly mourn,
And sadly concede all must die that erst was born.
His only friends - merry butterflies during the day,
And the crickets who with mournful chirping pray;
Shall some keen vigil keep over his placid bones,
Throughout his rest beneath those tireless stones.
Copyright © Hannington Mumo | Year Posted 2021.
Take my heart to Tombstone,
Away from hill and tree,
Sell my horse to injuns
But give the saddle free
Outside haunts a spectre,
He has his eye on me, so
Take my heart to Tombstone,
And hang it from a tree
Blood and friendship’s now
Long gone, only rivers run
True free, so take my heart
To Tombstone, OK Coral
For me
Put my gun behind the bar
The bullets and the belt,
If a bad man passes by
Hot lead he should be dealt
And if one evening’s scented
Breeze a whippoorwill calls new,
remember me, proud Wyatt Earp,
with six-gun justice true
Learning to distinguish between and having a compassion for-silence that protects pain and silence that protects injustice has been a difficult important lesson-Julie Buckner Armstrong
Rest in peace Mary Turner
May 19, 1918 in Valdosta, Georgia…
The day before, her 19-year-old husband,
hands cuffed behind his back, was strung up from a tree with hundreds in attendance
applauding his death.
She threatened to have her husband’s killers arrested. Outraged,
the Mob decided to teach her a lesson.
With her swollen belly and feet, she tried to flee but was captured at noon
and taken to a bridge. One of the Mob men picked a tree.
She was tied by her ankles and hung upside down and doused
in gasoline and motor oil from their automobiles. One of the Mob men lit a match.
Engulfed in flames hot enough to make Satan sweat, she writhed in pain as her skin bubbled
and boiled. Pieces of flesh and clothing hung from her body. The Mob men howled in glee.
Still alive, one of the Mob men took a knife and cut across abdomen as if she was cattle. The
Mob men cackled like ravenous hyenas. Her premature baby dropped from her womb and hit the
ground. It whimpered twice.
The Mob, with boots of pure hatred and evilness, crushed its tiny
skull and body. Their final act was to riddle her burned and bloody body with bullets until she
finally died. The Mob, satisfied, went home.
The next day, they returned to cut her down from the tree. Her and her baby was buried near the tree, a whiskey bottle marking their grave.
bury me~
with my pen~
its been fun~
write on
03/13/14 written by, Larry Berdoo
WRITE ON!