Death poems
How can i say goodbye
- by Brinda Carter 61
Mom its been over a year now sinceGod and His Angels called you away.
Oh how the Angels rejoiced as you walked
Through those Pearly Gates that day !
Mom when they said you were going to die
I refused to believe it could be true.
How could I allow myself to even
Imagine saying goodbye to you.
Mom you were an Angel here on earth
I learned so very much from you.
You were so gentle and so kind your
Smile would always see me through.
You taught me how to love unconditionally
And how to be my very best in all I do.
You gave your all to God and your family
Never once stopping to think about you.
You were more than a mother you were my
Best friend and a great listener too.
Oh how I miss our special talks, and
All the fun things we used to do.
Mom I can never say goodbye to you,
Because I could never bear the pain.
Instead I say I love you Mom
Until we meet again.
A Tribute To My Mom Ina Marie Hanks Crowder
By: Brinda Carter
The little white hearse
- by Ella Wheeler Wilcox 60
Somebody’s baby was buried to-day—The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back,
And the morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay
As I paused on the walk while it crossed on its way,
And a shadow seemed drawn o’er the sun’s golden track.
Somebody’s baby was laid out to rest,
White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold,
And the soft little hands were crossed over the breast,
And those hands and the lips and the eyelids were pressed
With kisses as hot as the eyelids were cold.
Somebody saw it go out of her sight,
Under the coffin lid—out through the door;
Somebody finds only darkness and blight
All through the glory of summer-sun light;
Somebody’s baby will waken no more.
Somebody’s sorrow is making me weep:
I know not her name, but I echo her cry,
For the dearly bought baby she longed so to keep,
The baby that rode to its long-lasting sleep
In the little white hearse that went rumbling by.
I know not her name, but her sorrow I know;
While I paused on the crossing I lived it once more,
And back to my heart surged that river of woe
That but in the breast of a mother can flow;
For the little white hearse has been, too, at my door.