Our Grandson, Tommy

Tommy, our grandson,
Holds his eyes open
Perhaps he has seen
A raindrop, on a leaflet green. . .

He studies in wonderment
This leaflet green,
As he contemplates the movement
Of the tree, from whence it came.

"See grandma A tree-grown so broad-
His children-horde Are thin and green,
Countless more than I've ever seen!"

Soon a yellow bird alighted-
With beak ever so sharp,
"Look grandma, on the doorstep-
Her pecking-like the sounds of a harp.

"Wings spread out-
It soars up from whence it came,
Sings out, like a flute. . .
Oh, how strong is her frame.

"Grandma look" he calls....
How great the wonder deep. . .
"When night falls,
Where will her children sleep?

"They are but newly born,
And cannot yet fly,
Does the mother leave them alone?
So pray for them will I.

" I will watch and see
If the mother bird will shield her brood. . .
How long will she tarry?
Will she cover them with straws, as a mother should?

"Grandma, observe the wonders we are seeing!
How to the heavens they soar,
Now, I've the feeling
To fly like a bird everywhere.

"The air is so fresh-
The trees all a-greening,
Grandma, listen to the thunder
Of the waterfall's careening,
Piling wonder upon wonder.

"Hush grandma!
Be stiller than still!
The little mother bird at last
Brings straws to her little nest,
She flies-grinding like a mill,
The nestlings peep in earnestness,
As they sense their mother's nearness. . .

"The mother nestles them with her wings-
Shields them, as she sings.....
The birdlings grow. . .
Soon away they'll fly-
Loneliness shows in her mother's eyes,
As she stares at the threshold of straw!"

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Jill

Grandchild mine, my little beauty.....
I ponder how to best describe you
So as not to magnify, nor braggart be....
Merely to peer into your eyes,-
How they smile... how they verbalize....
How they sparkle with love constantly!
And your dark, curl-tressed head,
Deserving the finest portrait that can eter be made....
So sweet is your bearing, in simplicity.
Great is the impact of your quality
Upon your grandmother, who
Is so profoundly in love with you....

While writing my song,
As I sit....
I sense the door-knob turn a bit....
Another try-the door quickly opening,
Reveals a glimpse of sunny, springtime skies,
Whose radiance finds its way into my eyes.

Jill, my beauty-my magnificent....
'Tis for you this song I sing....
You are rooted deep within my heart-
And in every limb and fiber of my being. .

I kiss your eyes, with fervor,-
Your charming little nose....
I study your lithesome, girlish figure--
A tear of joy begins to well-
That deep within me, I conceal....

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My Grandson, Roger Lee

My grandson, Roger Lee-
Quite a prankster, he. . .
And a lad, sufficiently bold;
Barely sixteen years old....
Worshiping baseball, avidly. . .

His studies. . . hardly known to me,
He would, like his dad, a businessman be....
Blessed with wit beyond his years--
Infinitely popular with his peers. . .

His head crowned with a thatch of black hair,
He's easily recognized everywhere....
With his white teeth, gleaming....
May they never know decaying!

With his comrades-hearty, yet full of gentleness. . .
And at his side, his pretty miss. . .
And he is in love-divine. . .
In friendship, intimately entwined....
Quietly I observe my young grandson, brave....
When did he suddenly turn so grave?

Once, in fun, I asked him this:
"Roger, do you love the pretty miss?"
Gently he answered, earnestly and wise:
"Dear Grandma, she's possessed of much good sense; Extremely happy am I in her presence. "

And as a grandmother. . . while rejoicing,
I think: "Who knows what time will bring?"

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With all seven graces are you endowed. . .
Every fiber in dance engaged. . .
How soft and sweet is the song you sing
Here you gambol. . . here you spring. . .

Here you relate a tale--
And with a wise word, never fail. . .
Yes, graced are you, mischievous one,-
But not with wisdom alone.

You want to be present at every event....
You hum melodies, and with garlands, exquisite,
Weave friendships.... animated, vital...
Come quickly. Come Rachel,
And beside me sit.

Press your little head to me,
And listen to my modest plea:-
Not of little birds aloft-
Nor of pretty blooms, or sweet scents they waft,
While I sing my song to you now....
Listen, my child, so its meaning you'll follow:-

Yonder, on tiny streets, wet. . . quagmired-
On threshold of each house there stands
With staring, hungry eyes-a child,
With small skeleton hands....

Unashamed.... ragged...
Begging. . . with arms outstretched. . .
For stale crusts of bread....

Children who have not been fated
With the fruits of the earth to be sated. . .
So they suffer--
Hungry and affronted. . .

And we, my child, are plagued by conscience. . . Wonder if the world will note their presence?
Will their hunger pangs be eased?
Will there be an end to children's graves, or children's
caves?
Will a sunny radiance ever be reached?

Oh, how I long to live to see-
In my ripe old age-
No more hunger. . . and everyone sated be
In every home and cottage....

So lay your head on Grandma's shoulder, do--
And listen to my humble plea:
Not of birds, high in the blue. . .
Nor of blooms richly scented....
As I start my song anew. . .
Listen my child. .
And its meaning will come to you!

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