Mother Epitaph Poems | Examples
These Mother Epitaph poems are examples of Epitaph poems about Mother. These are the best examples of Epitaph Mother poems written by international poets.
Mother Mary, on your birthday,
will you please intervene--
Bring my prayers to your Son:
God save the queen
[September 8, 2022]
Think not of me ascending
To some celestial space
Some Heaven never-ending
Spending eternity in God’s grace.
Think not of me transcending
This universe, material
To some vapid, unoffending
Paradise ethereal.
Rather think of me as blending
Into my mother Earth
Melding with and mending
The womb that gave me birth.
Planted as an acorn descending
To spring to life once more
As a mighty oak unbending
While the winds around me roar
Planted in the earth and sending
My filaments through the soil
Downward wending and befriending
The worms that round me coil.
Think of me thus lending
All my life-force in this way
To the glorious unrelenting
Splendour of each day.
Mum, I wasn't prepared for you to
pass so soon.
There was so much more I had planned for
you to do.
I never got the chance to say thank you for
the love you gave.
It was left too late before being stood
by your grave.
Just a memory now for me
When once each day would be
With you as my mother dear
So full of love and clear
For time can stretch so long
And you wonder how the days are gone
For the bond that I felt with you
Will last my life time through.
© Paul Warren Poetry
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[Author's note: if this poem needs decrypting, see my reply below]
Beneath this green sod, lies
my Cousin Bruce.
It's true, his mother called him
'Silly Goose.'
Oh, that Nordic DNA, those
gorgeous blue eyes, and sense
of humor.
A skier and a Porsche race car
driver, he grew up to be.
Always filled with humor and
a genuine love for humanity.
Leukemia took his life at forty.
He serves God now, in grateful
and glowing, angelic glory.
July 10, 2019
11: 20am PST
Obituary of DAVID FRED JONES-
Here we gather today to pay homage of a lost brother whom lived and died
We honor him with are presents as we mourn his lost of live in this plane and time.. Today we celebrate the life of he whom we know and loved..
Obituary
Name: David Fred Jones
Nicknames: Dave/Too Tall Tavid
Date of birth: Thursday 11th January 1979 (Age 40)
Star sign: Capricorn
Nationality: British
Ethnicity: Mixed
Social class: Middle class
Religion:Agnostic
Sexuality: Straight
Education: PhD Business and Political science College graduate
Political views: Left
Relationship status: in a relationship with Wade Emma Dean(engaged)
Probable age if death 62
Probably cause of death killed during an extreme ironing competition
Coinciding with chronic lower respiratory disease heart disease from falling off a cliff
Funeral noteworthy attendees...
Wade Emma Dean, aged 70 girlfriend
Weston Herb Norton 62 friend
Elsie Israel Jones (nee Craig) aged 92 mother
Maximus Sonny Jones 67 brother
Kelly Ashton Shannon ex girl friend
Rest
In
Peace
DAVID FRED JONES
~1/11/79-5/12/19~
5/12/19
Corruption is embed in America soul
Mo money mo money the goal
The rich extract benefit from the code
IRS deduction they em bode
The court system is ripe with hypocrisy
Five years for nickel bag Manifort given three
Steal a million with a collar of white
Get out of jail that very night
But steal a bag of potatoes to feed a family
No bail and you'll get no mercy
They voted for trump to clean the swamp
But he and his band of crooks do the dirty stomp
They cut healthcare robbed the treasury
Polluted the lake and streams cater to the hierarchy
You sit and watch as they conspire with a foreign country
Steal your vote and you cry Mother McCree
More people in jail than any other country
Children bankrupt trying to get a degree
To me you re lower than whale
Oh American I never thought you'd quit
Clinton Lynch
1862-1912
It took a long time for me to die.
Five long years; from the moment
Doctor Barmore told me my heart was bad,
Until the day I was on my deathbed,
Staring listlessly through my envious window,
At a world that was alive with people living,
A truly strange and wonderful world, that
Was presently passing before me,
Like a final grand parade in time,
With all my old friends, dead now,
Waving from carriages festooned in gladioli.
In the end, I had no living friends. Instead,
I had my elderly mother tend to me,
With stern patience, and kind forbearance.
At my funeral, here at Mt Olive,
Eleven people attended my final rites,
Performed ably by the coughing Pastor Hadley.
My final epitaph is nothing grand or profound;
It is simply a simple farewell,
From a simple man,
Who lived a simple life.
And it is okay if no one remembers me.
Beulah Groton
1886 -1890
I remember the adoring eyes of my mother
And I remember the sweet fragrances of the orange blossoms in spring.
I can recall the wagging of my dog’s tail
And the smell of frying bacon
Inside my mother’s kitchen on a Sunday morning.
And I do recall burning up with fever
Inside a washbasin filled with ice.
The day before they buried me here in Clark Cemetery,
My parents gathered friends and family together
At the farm on Washington Street.
And with my little white coffin open,
They posed around my still body and,
My pale sunken face for the keepsake photograph.
They dressed me in white satin
And laid me out under the noon sun.
I don’t miss life really
Because my days were few.
But I do miss my dog,
And waking up on Christmas morning.
Delores Mireles
1907-1923
I gushed forth eight months after his death,
My natural father, a rascal named Roscoe.
My mother, next to me here,
Shall remain unnamed and acquitted,
Even in anonymous death,
For she was not innocent, nor he,
That brazen wolf who found his sniffing way,
Through sneaky vines and groping flowers,
Their brazen squealing passage to mad love,
Of strange probing games in the dark,
With eyelids closed in shuddering tempests.
It was her delirious heart he seized,
And her slithery soul too.
And there, let it be known,
He found an open gaping curtain,
And Dianthus’ skin a quivering,
Concealed through a sheer façade of silk,
There, my mother’s priceless treasure room,
And in the midst thereof,
Her innermost well of warm moist yearnings,
Her inner sanctum of curious desires,
I emerged on a naked winter’s evening,
Shivering in my mother’s room of ice!
Clyde Duran
1894-1923
Kindly show me the exit sign!
My watch fob is missing.
It is most likely with the trench nails.
Those nails lay strewn by the cat,
Out back amongst the kiln bricks,
And the broken wheelbarrow.
Send for the constable!
Summon the parson with the forked tongue!
Peel the oranges carefully please.
Use the trench nails!
Here kitty kitty kitty.
Have you, my little furry friend,
Seen the exit sign?
Mother may have hidden it, out back,
With the cream cookies.
How dare I once again,
Steal the cream cookies!
Mother Mother.
I tried to please you best I could.
Sorry I displeased you with
My lazy irresponsible ways.
Sorry for being such a disappointment to you.
Where is my watch fob?
Where is my sweet little kitty?
Send for the constable!
Summon the lying parson!
And kindly show me the exit sign!
Elmo Strain
1917 (one day)
On the cusp
Of deliberate morning,
I saw the mysterious light.
I saw the grace of one day.
It was but a momentary specter.
And I was rich for an hour!
It held me in its warm essences,
It dangled me for one flashing hot day.
One single day of human heartbeats.
Please spare me your sad tales,
Of times wasted and loves lost,
Of missed opportunities and decisions postponed,
Thinking it would never end.
As with you all,
I took for granted
The ticking tryranny of Old Cronus.
It’s okay mother.
You can let go now.
No tears.
No tears.
Mother of the nation is sleeping here
even birds wept in her funeral
Emma Riesgo
1897-1919
Alas, I was just a simple soul.
Born second in the corner house,
Over on old Washington Street,
Just a short stroll,
From the college there,
My mother labored for 9 hours
In the sweating shadows,
Upstairs there,
In my dead grandmother’s bed,
And out I slunk wet and slippery,
Gasping but not suffocating.
When Mr White brought me here,
My, but the ride was bumpy!
Up Greenleaf Avenue I rode,
In Mr. White’s old horse-drawn hearse,
Past the Carnegie Library,
And all those stones there,
Past the Greenleaf Hotel,
And its broad veranda there,
Then left the hearse tentatively turned,
Onto flowery old Broadway Street,
Past the double-towered school there,
On pleasant Pickering Street,
Past the fences and the dusty walls,
Past the granite tombstones
Of this bleak locale.
My friends, life was just a blink of the eye for me.
Just a simple soul,
Who found love at last,
In the cold dusty embrace
Of these old walnut trees here.