It seems that I gave birth to a poet. A sentimental one at that. This shouldn’t be terribly surprising. His father is a poet. His mother is a poet. His grandmother is a poet. His Great Great Grandmother was a poet.
But still, can you try to imagine my amazement when I discovered in my son’s journal (which he shares with me whenever he writes in it) that my 7 1/2 year old wrote a poem, entitled Feelings? Really. I thought it was going to be like a Jack Handy quote from the title of it. But then it seemed so deep that I thought maybe it was something he had plagiarized, though he is aware of what plagiarisms is and, like a good writer, heartily disapproves of it. However, the last line of the poem convinced me that it was all his own work and that, even after summarizing world poverty, grief and astounding me by his use of the word scope, he still has a sweetly simplistic and child-like understanding of how to fix the problem. How blessed am I to have sons? I love them so much for all of their uniqueness and creativity.
by (my son whose name I won’t share; 7 1/2 years old)
When you are sad and filled with grief
why not some relief?
When you’re poor and have no scope,
there is need for hope.
And when you’re sad,
please be glad.