Rhyme Epitaph Poems | Examples
These Rhyme Epitaph poems are examples of Epitaph poems about Rhyme. These are the best examples of Epitaph Rhyme poems written by international poets.
I’m dead, but did I ever live?
Nobody gives a damn
I had to take, I had to give
Not knowing who I am
So that was it, and what to say
Let me convey to you
You see life in a broader way
And in a longer view
So speak for me, what its about
What difference it makes
From living of a garden sprout
Since moment it awakes
To get a share of sun and moon
And rains and deadly snow
What its about, ends too soon
I didn’t have time to know.
JFK, he was shot dead
sixty years ago today
Camelot, it fell apart
America lost her way
______________________
In Memoriam - Nov. 2, 1963
when all the world has had its fill
of bluster, lies and war
I trust the silence I can't hear
will be louder than before.
Mine was a life well-lived
You all did agree
How did you know
You were not me
Below the vault of this cerulean sky
In this solitary grave, let me lie
In joy I lived and in joy I die
And wish to see no one cry
This you carve on my grave for all to see
“Here is some one, though a small fry
Had a heart as big as a mountain high
Who with songs of love, every heart did tie”
Placed First
A Strand(1069) Poetry Contest
A theatre legend - Mr Stephen Sondheim
an icon of Broadway, ahead of his time
smart lyrics, lush music, bold rhythms and rhyme
the curtain has fallen on a writer sublime.
// Stephen Sondheim wrote lyrics and/or music to West Side Story, Gypsy, Sweeney Todd, Into the Woods, Company, Follies, and many more musicals //
Written 1/13/2022
I do not wish to speak out as a knave,
But the future I view is meant for a slave.
For most it will be bleak though some be brave
As government controls from cradle to grave.
The essential few will form the elite
While the rest will grovel around their feet,
Seeking a social score to stay secure.
Family freedom fiercely to treasure.
A world filled with cold cameras galore
Facial recognition, cookies and more
A grim reality none may ignore
Where daily living is to be a chore.
As rotting wheat buried by its own chaff
Freedom will molder without epitaph.
FRAGILE FREEDOMS
Lost in France,
Resting
'neath a simple cross,
Just name,nationality and rank;
Giving of life,was his loss.
At home,
A breaking,aching heart;
A sweetheart's pain;
Her emptiness
was another's gain.
In memory
fading go
As echoing years slip by,
And still her tears flow;
Vivid yet
her anguish sigh.
Forgotten,forfeit
and for what?
freedom frailties,fragile,
Such ideas still beguile;
T'was ever thus,
the peasant soldier's lot.
REPOST FROM 2007
Throughout eons she contrives
to casting seeds and see what thrives
as she has done for countless lives.
Experimental.
Traveling through time and space
on cresting waves of light and grace
to be here in this time and place
of great potential.
By the trauma of rebirth,
and crashing on this spinning earth
to walk a path of woe and mirth.
Experiential.
To the beat of her own drum;
to laugh, and love, and overcome;
to act in ways both wise and dumb,
and unprovincial.
Tending to transplanted souls,
traversing over burning coals,
to wet her feet on earthly shoals.
Developmental.
Until her own angelic claque
blasts their trumpets ‘til they crack,
to guide her home; to call her back,
as transcendental.
It matters not, now, this frantic din
Or what could be false, or true
For when I go, Heaven will let me in
Because I was loved by you
Death comes
End sums
Last psalm
Feel grief
Pain sifts
Be brief
Pain ends
Old trends
Bye friend
Purge dirt
Clay mirth
New birth
Time stops
Space mops
Tear drops
Last gate
Same fate
Too late
Glimpse light
Soul sight
Good night
No tense
No sense
Suspend
Leon Enriquez
24 August 2016
Singapore
He lived a good many years before it was his time to go,
but early in life he suffered a series of tragic blows.
He now rests in peace, but if the truth be told,
his zest for life truly died a long time ago.
He never played by published rules --
he lived his life as he saw fit;
instead, he left to other fools
their rash pursuits, the glory bit.
He studied gulls -- the birds, their flight --
and wondered why they shriek all night.
Dark shadows deepened in his eyes;
the light from shaded windows faded.
He heard the shrill, the poignant cries
of gulls in flight from perches traded
for graying, vague, and empty skies.
At last he knew what birds foretold.
In dry whispers, with rasping breath,
he greeted the arrival of cold-natured,
bony-fingered, grasping Death.
I lived my life and now I'm gone.
If you were expecting an inheritance, LOL Dream On!
"Xanadu of Oranges", the reporter wrote,
just one of many paper slips and notes,
left behind when the poet died, unquote.
To his very last moment, he had hopes
that he could write that one poem so supreme
in its cadence and rhyme, in its meaning
so sublime, that no one could miss his dream.
No one could misinterpret, none seeing
his words could mistake intent or lament
that he had regrettably missed his mark
or remark, "derivative!",or really meant
much of his work as only so much dark
comment on a personal life of strife and grief.
No, he meant a poem to sweep you off your feet.