Example of a Pet Memorial Poem:

I wrote this poem to memorialize a beloved cat, Diego:

May 1991-June 20, 2008

Awaiting Ann at Rainbow Bridge

Awaiting Ann at Rainbow Bridge

Ann named me Juan Diego and I was lucky from the start.
She fed me when I showed up and she took me to her heart.

One day she saw me injured and she brought me to the vet.
Although I was an Alpha Cat, I became her loving pet.

I joined her other kitties, but I was still the king.
I called the shots and ruled the roost because that was my thing.

Blancha died before me and although she’s out of sight
She recently came to me in a dream I had at night.

She told me that an angel came and took her far away,
to a place where she was young again had food and time to play.

Blancha told me that she’d meet me, so I had no fear to die.
She said death was like a “So long”,not a permanent goodbye.

So now I’m here with Blancha and I’m feeling pretty great.
And we’ll enjoy this lovely place ‘till Ann meets us at the gate.

We’ll have a grand reunion, and all of us will hug.
And then we’ll live forever, surrounded in God’s love.

I received this message from Ann Selva when she received the above poem tribute to her cat, Diego
“Your beautiful poem arrived today and I’m shaking and crying as I read your exquisite words. You captured so many aspects of Diego. I will treasure that poem always. I will display it and when Diego’s ashes arrive, it will be placed alongside him for all to read. What a loving, touching tribute to Diego.”

Example of a Birthday Poem
I wrote this poem to celebrate the 60th birthday of an accomplished artist and sculptor

Birthday Song

One more orbit ’round the sun
Another year’s course has been run.
Tuck fond memories away.
for future time’s replay.
This message will convey
my wish for your birthday.

Blow all your candles out,
Wishes come true without a doubt.
Friends will come from far and near
A photo snaps the souvenir.
Things are not as they appear.
This is your extraordinary year.

Birthday gifts have been unwrapped.
Inspiration finds you as you nap.
With ideas that fill your mind
Thoughts you thought you left behind.
Through the window blind
Unfettered, unconfined.

Your masterpiece will flow
Like Michaelangelo
Each nuance will come through
Each angle, every view:
A work unequaled to.
My birthday wish for you.

I received this message from artist, Len Rachlin, after he read it:
WOW, Absolutely fantastic Rebecca! Thanks so much for the wonderful birthday poem! You really have a talent for writing.



Grandma’s House

I remember Grandma’s house, from fifty years ago.
A steep stoop and a double door, mailboxes in a row.
Down the cracked tile hallway, and up two flights of stairs.
The smell of Grandmas kuggel a-wafting in the air.

A plain mezuzah nailed tight to the outside of her door.
In the entry were the puskas, her donations for the poor.
Once inside, a hug from Grandma, in a dress of palest pink
Her smile still soaking in the glass next to the kitchen sink.

The painted kitchen cabinets displayed her special touch.
Adorned with floral decals that my Grandma loved so much.
The sunshine streamed in through the blinds, dust dancing on its
Peeling paint designed the walls, plastic flowers filled a vase.

And in the farthest corner, a treasured knick-knack shelf.
Where a small ceramic bluebird sat upon a dish of delft.
In the livingroom, in wooden frame, my Grandma’s portrait hung.
While crackled Yiddish voices from a radio were sung.

An old and scratched end table held Grandma’s old prayer books.
With an old tube of red lipstick, that had once enhanced her
Upon her bed piled several quilts, she’d made from scraps of cloth,
Discarded from the sweatshop where she toiled two blocks North.

Upon the floor’s linoleum, worn down and very old,
stood her prized chrome kitchen table, Grandma polished up like
The sound of the shrill whistle, from the kettle for our tea,
poured into heavy glasses, with some milk she’d bought for me.

Blintzes, knadel soup and borsht, with bare hands Grandma cooked.
She never owned a measuring cup, or used a recipe book.
EleDovid down one floor and Elsie down the street,
enjoyed my Grandma’s cooking. She made more so they could eat.

A heavy pot of noodle soup she chanced to take along,
but slipped upon the icy street, and shattered her right arm.
When healed the arm could not be raised without a searing pain.
So she he combed her hair left-handed. Now she could predict the rain.

On Friday nights the Sabbath candles burned as Grandma prayed,
A special time from dusk to dusk, when work ceased for a day.
As we lay beneath the covers in the dark we heard the laughs,
of the drunkards making merry for a workweek that had passed.

Resting light on feathered pillows in the room above the store.
I listened to her stories of her family and the war:
At sixteen years of age she’d left her Russian family,
Embarking to America by steerage on the sea.

She’d entered Ellis Island with the clothes upon her back.
How she laughed at all the dresses that now hung upon the rack.
Earning money as a seamstress, she planned to return one day,
‘Till the news of her dear mother’s death made her put those
dreams away.

Her husband had abandoned her while in the “family way”.
Without the welfare state her girls went to the B.H.O.A.
She had a nervous breakdown when her girls went to the “Home”,
Yet she never spoke unkindly of the man who did her wrong.

Working to support the son that was left in her care,
And visiting her daughters when she had enough carfare,
Over ten years would elapse; nights of tears and days of grief,
‘Till Grandma welcomed back her girls the “Home” allowed to leave.

Quite often we would laugh at jokes and stories that she drew,
Even now she got proposals from the old men that she knew.
I was named for Grandma’s mother, and my birth came in the Fall,
on the day of Rosh Hashanah. Grandma loved me best of all.

The love I felt in Grandma’s house will last me all my life.
It helped me through my sorrows, and it brought me through my strife.
I see her face and hear her voice, though death has made us part.
My Grandma’s house and Grandma live forever in my heart

I received this message from Sabina Tamburin
I am so happy to have it on our site.

Father’s Day
by Rebecca Strecker

Wasn’t it just yesterday
when you were Daddy’s girl,
a chubby brown eyed cherub
with hair that used to curl?

Your Dad was young and handsome.
They said you looked alike.
You were proud to be your Daddy’s girl
as you rode on your new bike.

Wasn’t it just yesterday
you shared an ice cream cone
at the corner ice cream parlor?
My how the years have flown.

Some gray crept into Daddy’s hair
yet there was no denying
you were still your Daddy’s girl
though the years were flying.

You moved away, but kept in touch,
yet it was not the same.
You didn’t see the older man
that your Dad became.

Wasn’t it just yesterday
that you spoke on the phone?
You said “I love you, Daddy”
and now you are alone.

And though you’re now a grandma
you can still recall the time
when you were your Daddy’s girl
reciting nursery rhymes.

I wrote this poem for myself to commemorate my first Father’s Day since my Daddy died at the age of 96. I will always be “Daddy’s girl”.

by Rebecca Strecker

You once used to sing and say funny things
that added joy to our marriage.
And then one day your voice went away,
a situation we both disparaged.

We figured it wasn’t a permanent thing.
Maybe a touch of laryngitis.
And that it would just run it’s course,
after your voice took a hiatus.

But that’s not what happened and I found myself
saying twice the words that were required.
Maybe I found silence hard to hear.
Talking for us both made me so tired.

The visits to doctors and to a speech coach
did not bring your old voice back to me.
In fact all the worry and running around
pretty much did quite undo me.

Now nothing you say gets short shrift or ignored.
I listen to gain comprehension.
Because I realize each word is a chore
and requires my utmost attention.

Silence is golden but Speech is a gift
nevermore to be taken so lightly.
And each time you tell me you love me so
I hold on to those few words so tightly.

This poem was featured in “Spikes & Spasms” the Newsletter for the Tremor Action Network.