School Epitaph Poems | Examples
These School Epitaph poems are examples of Epitaph poems about School. These are the best examples of Epitaph School poems written by international poets.
I
I tried not to mention the crime
Siblings, it is high time
America stopped self-flagellation,
Self-hate, self-abnegation
II
I feel for him, brother George ("of the earth")
I came close, but saved by a different birth
To feel the accusing eyes: "Me, the evil one"
Only because I stayed in school, joined the run
III
Black America wants to drive, play ... like us
Tired of fighting for a seat, decades after Rosa Parks
George Floyd is a hero for having lived BLACK
A remnant yells, "Deport the upstarts. Send 'em back"
Elegy for a little girl, lost
by Michael R. Burch
. . . qui laetificat juventutem meam . . .
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone.
. . . requiescat in pace . . .
May she rest in peace.
. . . amen . . .
Amen.
NOTE: I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel that I read as a teenager. I decided to incorporate it into a poem, which I started in high school and revised as an adult. From what I now understand, “ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam” means “to the God who gives joy to my youth” but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. This was my first translation. Keywords/Tags: Latin, translation, elegy, eulogy, epitaph, lament, prayer, hymn, joy, sorrow, grief, requiescat, pace, rest, peace, amen, death, funeral, grave, girl, daughter, sympathy
Frank Lane
1877-1913
RS was my best friend,
A friend ever to the end.
Together we footed and mounted
The pliant limbs of the Hybrid Tree
On County Road,
And wetfully whistled,
As with birds in the warm zephyrs
Of summer solstice,
At the lassies down below,
With young and perfumed necks naked,
Ready and shivering,
For the ghost dance.
Together we skipped smooth stones,
Upon the staid surfaces
Of the state school pond,
Out back among the chicken coops
And the pig pens;
We howled and hollered,
As with hysterical night beasts,
Wild under the stars!
Together we passed scented posies to Lottie Gordon,
Our intended island of private discovery,
Our intended treasure,
Our intended Holy Grail!
And with silent tandem ascensions,
There in the enticing moon shadows,
RS and I found a home in the Gordon heights,
Inside the inviting spread-out mansion,
Of a hundred breathless whispers.
George Schultz
1898-1917
I was reposing voiceless on my deathbed,
As with the silent fog on a winter’s morning,
On the way out of here from kidney failure,
And as I closed my windows there,
On north Painter Street,
I tried to recall the greatest day of my life.
In pain, I remember grimacing there,
And then, ten minutes before my heart said “no,”
To this sad comedy called “Existence,”
I saw inside my fading mind
That still moment in time,
That priceless artifact of mere memory:
I saw Georgia Brown and me,
Embracing and shivering like two birds at sunrise,
Holding on to each other in the December drizzle,
Of a long-forgotten morning in 1913,
By the tall flagpole at the high school,
There on busy Philadelphia Street.
And even though I knew her heart,
A loving heart which belonged to another, and another,
She still accepted my romantic entreaties;
My hushed whispering words of sweet infatuation;
And that, my friends,
Is what I miss the most:
The fragrant audacious flirtations,
The deeply passionate naïveté,
Of the one and only Georgia Brown!
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.
Orville C. Cameron
1889-1914
Oh, such larks indeed.
Over at the State School pond,
Way back in the tuft of Eucalyptus shade,
We swam, we yelled, and we laughed.
We, the gang from lower Painter Street,
We, the tough boys with fists of brass!
We heckled, we jumped and we cursed,
The big boys from upper Newlin Street,
Those cowards with flowers for fists.
Ha! They thought we couldn’t stand.
They thought we would run and hide,
Here in this Dorland bone yard.
But we stood our ground that day,
That donnybrook day in 1905,
Way back, way back in the tuft of cypress shade,
Over by County Road and Hadley Street.
We boys, the tough boys, with kicks of iron!
Stabs of steel!
Our finest moment while alive,
My finest memory while dead.
So, how did I die you ask?
Sorry, but no response from me.
Just ask the Big Boys from upper Newlin Street,
Those cowards with flowers for fists.
Nellie B. Chandler
1897-1911
There I am.
Here I am now.
I am the six year old girl
Behind the glass window
That wide open wedge to the north
From inside my classroom there
At Evergreen school, ‘neath
The towering ascending elm trees there,
Shrouded in immense shade.
I am standing and staring there
Daydreaming and yearning and desiring
For my mama and papa
To come get me here,
Wishing and waiting, waiting and hoping
For them to come get me and take me home.
I hate it here!
I hate school!
My forward gaze to the north
Extends out forever as the moon
stretches its beams, outward outward, and beyond
The limitless fantastic scenes in black space.
I see out there to the north
I see four faces in the distance there,
Friendly faces, familiar faces
Of family and friends, all
Now asleep with me here,
Here in the cool calm tombs
Of Mt. Olive Cemetery.
There I am.
Here I am now.
Mama. Papa. Come get me!
I hate it here!
I am waiting…waiting…waiting…
Shrouded in immense shade.
On my epitaph don't write I was a saint,
When I actually know I ain't,
I was a vulture,
Disrespectful, refused to follow culture,
Write on my epitaph,
who I were not on my photograph,
Was up to no good,
Stereotype of an angel in disguise misunderstood.
On my epitaph don't make me clean,
My lease image on the TV screen,
is just superimpose above,
Underneath a true self could shove,
the goat-skin I wear,
I'm a villain I swear.
Was a subject of ridicule,
way back in school they thought I was a fool,
But when heaven opened its doors,
I became a darling the society adores,
Soon they will find out,
My demeanor will clout,
what the masses expected,
And in my graveside I will be rejected.
On my epitaph....
How many goodbyes are in a lifetime?
Saying goodbye
to go to school
to go to work
to travel separately away
to end a visit that lags until the next time.
Who knows or recognizes that last final goodbye?
Knowing
can be a gift or an obligation
allowing final preparations
to say what needs and may otherwise
not be said.
Would that be the blessing
in believing, trusting,
in having faith
that we would me again
without anymore goodbyes.
Looking forward then
to that last and final
Hello.
8/31/2015
The modern Knight
The Knight of the realm ,
Was a great man of courage,
Who protected the people,
Got dubbed by the King,
The bravest of brave,
Moralitys brightest,
Loved by the people,
Now the rich mans plaything???
But it became some snobs, crass title,
Given to Kerrs, and curs aint the thing,
Class distinction, from above, call me mister or sir?
The greatest of toads, to serve the toad master,
Brown nose, hum dingers, billy stinkers, I ching,
Gee golly they call me mr or sir?
Right next to the saints,
I’ve risen old thing,
To keep me head down,
I’ll need on me bridle,
A martingale strong,
So me head doesn’t sing…
Don Johnson
THE ONE WHO ALLOWED 12 ATOM BOMBS EXPLODED HERE IN AUSTRALIA GOT KNIGHTED FOR SERVICE TO THE QUEEN:}
ONLY 12 THOUSAND AUSSIES DEAD FROM STRONTIUM 90 IN THE MILK, AND ALL THE LITTLE KIDDIES GOT IT AT SCHOOL TOO IN THE FIFTYS... I REFUSED TO DRINK MILK AINT I LUCKY ???
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SHBLBkYiCK4
check it out if you don't believe :{
There is a limited amount of time we have
Enjoy the moments while we can
Life seems to be so busy and fast
Its amazing how time passes
It was told to me once that life really goes
After we have reached high school
Its amazing that the lifetime we have
We need to remember to live it and enjoy
The lifetime we have is so wonderful and great
The lifetime we have is a blessing for whatever we do
Remember the wonderful times we share with friends and family
Rememeber when we are sitting in that rocking chair years from now
The Lifetime we passed on to our closest family
Remember to tell that story again and again, for the lifetime of rememberances
Will go on and on
GONE TOO SOON : MISRAM
Most people would not know Misram at all
Only her own family and some friends
She had little influence or impact
On the world and a
Very short
Life.
Insight into her life is easy to give: poverty, pain, death
Born in poverty - eight kids, in corrugated
Metal shack near the Serengeti
Had malaria and rickets
Most of the
Time.
Was five when the warlord came with his drunken horde
Village ceased to exist, family ceased to be,
Misram’s life brutally ended for the
For the amusement
Of a machete-
Wielding
Thug.
She should have gone to school, should have
Trained as a nurse or teacher, should
Have grown to be mum and
Grandmum, should
Have seen Kenya
Prosper.
Misram passed away before she was supposed to.
Perhaps she will be remembered only
By the words in this poem;
But perhaps
Not.
“Don’t touch me.” Mother whispers in my ear.
“Be quiet! Hush! She adds.
“You have performed irresponsibly again.”
“You are grounded until your high school commencement.”
Mothers’ words sting my heart.
Her presence surrounds me.
Her chilly breath has never been warm.
Her eyes stab my cheeks.
Where are soft kisses?
She squeezes and drains every once of blood from me.
She haunts me with cold cynical memories.
My mother, still so miserable.
Even in death her misery lives within me.
Please, let go mother.
Love me.
Wait for me.
I promise, I will love you back.
Weeping aura of ever-changing time spheres
that photographs:
From birth until death
Monday night Football
Holy communions
High School graduations
Marriage
Wars
We are witnesses or an audience to the ever-changing scene in between
Acts that flow from the 1st to the finality
All of man and woman are players of the theater
reciting from memory,the script of a new dawn or of light
She(or He)without the natural foibles can easily shed a tear
If Time is all it is
Without creatures to feed
Infants to nourish
Poems yet to be written
As we sleep during an 8 hour intermission
what is seen but not so much as heard
is the weeping from an Angel
Time,
they will continue to record,
Moments in this sphere,
either happy or simply meloncholy
Crying..until the end of their watch
From the school of life, she passed with honor.