The Drawings


Crayons


Sometimes when the kids are good,
And they deserve a treat,
I clean them up and take them out
For something good to eat.

I often let them choose
Their favorite place to go,
And if it's very popular,
The service can be slow.

At least it seems that way,
If one is seven or eight,
Waiting can be unbearable,
In front of an empty plate.

So, in order to pass the time,
Many restaurants do supply
Pretty crayons and blank paper
To help pacify small fry.

This night, the boys picked such a place,
A restaurant with 'fine cuisine',
Yep, the finest hamburgers in town,
Their calorie count, obscene.

When we were seated at our table,
They got their drawing tools,
Both boys happy then as clams,
They thought the place was cool.

"What should I draw?" asked my eight-year-old,
"See I've got these colors, Mother,"
"Me, too, Mom - Tell me too!"
Chimed in his younger brother.

"Well, boys, draw whatever you want,
Whatever is in your mind;"
So without further ado, they both pursued,
Their little boy designs.

Soon the hamburgers were served,
And their drawings were laid aside,
I picked them up, opened my purse,
And tucked them down inside.

Good food ... good time ... we all enjoyed,
It brought a happy end to our day,
When I put the kids to bed that night,
We all thanked God as we prayed.

Soft music on my radio,
As I prepared for bed,
Then I heard a late news bulletin
Re: the war ... how many hurt and dead.

After our earlier, pleasant time,
For a few moments I'd forgot,
The Nine/Eleven tragedy,
And the trouble it had wrought.

Then I recalled my boys' drawings,
Which I hadn't seen before,
I looked at them now and realized
My little guys were aware of the war.

The first artwork, my eight-year-old's,
Showed two tall buildings and a plane,
Which was diving into one of them,
Amidst rising smoke and flames.


Drawing


The next drawing, my seven-year-old's,
(And I wonder'd where it came from,)
Four prison windows, complete with bars,
And a man with a turban in one.


Drawing


I don't mean to sell my children short,
But at their young, tender age,
Who would have thought they'd be aware
Of that most awful outrage.

The boys did not consult each other,
Nor did I tell them what to draw,
My babies ... what's embedded in their heads?
I think their babyhood's been robbed.

~ Virginia Ellis ~
Copyright 2001



This poem is based on a true story.
These are unprompted, authentic drawings by Mikey 8 and Zach 7.


DrawingDrawing



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