Posts Tagged ‘children’


Granddaughter baked a cake last night
And topped it today with candlelight
Then asked the children to come near
She had a story for them to hear

A story about a Holy birth
When God sent His Son to earth
This is our Savior’s special day
She said, as they bowed heads to pray

There’d be no Christmas on this earth
Without our precious Savior’s birth
Let’s not forget God’s gift to man
And honor Him, whenever we can

The children then blew out the flame,
As they sang praises in His name.
Happy Birthday, Jesus, they sang out
In their efforts to be devout

I’m sure God smiled when He heard them sing
Pleased that they were remembering

12/15/89 Phyllis DeWitt VanVleck

Written for the Cory family (Sharon and boys)

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Here I sit, under a mulberry tree,
tongue hanging in the dust, after that pull uphill.
That was my last farm pull,
and now I’ll sit here as a relic
for city folk to ogle , and say, “How quaint”.

I like sitting here, mulberries covering
my floor. Children clamoring aboard.
Boys pretending there are horses ahead,
calling commands they’d heard from Grandpa.
Soon spiders will build in my corners,
tickling my boards with their long legs.
The old cat will find a spot under the seat,
where she’ll have her last litter,
on a pile of old gunny sacks.

I have served three generations,
my bed carrying a little of everything . . .
grain, corn, pumpkins, rocks. A farmer’s
wagon, that’s all, but I even carried old Elmer
to his last resting place, out beyond the hill.

I had some exciting times. I loved
the Farmer’s Market every Friday, listening
to their friendly bets on who grew the largest
the best, the tastiest. I was always proud of
what I carried, and my bed was empty before
the day ended. Tired farmer. Tired horses.
Tired old wagon.

Now my backboard flaps loosely in the wind,
about to fall off. I don’t suppose it will be
missed for a while.
Not until fall, when the hay-rides start.
A few repairs here and there, so
those city folk, can ride down a dusty country lane,
my squeaks and creaks adding to the aura.
My old wheels can turn a few more times,
and my bed will like the warmth of the hay
spread on my floor.

I’m the old wagon that sits under the mulberry tree,
The relic that city folk love to ogle.

Then came the next generation using me as
intended, especially on Fridays
at the Farmer’s market. That was exciting’
farmers comparing crops
who has the biggest, who has the brightest.
I was proud of my load.

The 3’rd generation debated about keeping me
but used me for hay-rides. What fun.
Floor covered with straw, children and chaperones
laughing and singing, as the horses
trot along country roads
my squeaks and creaks adding to the aura.

Now I am part of the scenery
Perhaps “my” last resting place. I stand
under the mulberry tree as a relic from the past
yet I long to trail along behind the horses,
out in sunny fields of harvest.

8/ 27/06 Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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Spinning Tales

   THE STORY LADY         


At the Story Lady’s old shack,

the children gathered near,

for what they wished to hear.

She embellished tales with such knack,

they’d lose themselves within                                 

each tail that she would spin,

and it kept them all, coming back.


This poetry form is called “Neville”


9/5/91        Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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This is a year we included a Hanukkah celebration, so my great grandchildren could learn about other beliefs.


The house was decorated

Upstairs and down

The kids all shopped here

Instead of downtown

We had bought things on sale

And made a small store

The children enjoyed it

And bought gifts galore

They used paper money

Earned for chores done

And bought token gifts

To give everyone

Sherry helped wrap them

As cute as could be

For the children to place

By their holiday tree

We had brisket for dinner

With latkes and such

It was a great Jewish treat

And we all ate too much

Then we watched “Christmas Story”

‘Bout Ralphie and gang

And we listened to Jacob

As he “played” and sang

Skeeter was happy

About a wee stray cat

She barked hard to scare it

But the cat just sat

Guess I’m quite tired

Hence this silly rhyme

But I wanted to “share”

Our wonderful time

It was fun, but I’m guilty

‘Cause chores I DID shirk

And my daughter upstairs

Did the hard work


12/99      Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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            PAPA’S VIOLIN


When Papa played the violin

          Mom rolled the rug away

We children smiled because she knew

          We’d rather dance than play

As Papa raised the tempo

          Our feet kept cadenced time

Mama often sang along

          With words in perfect rhyme

We’d dance until the music stopped

          Then fall into a chair

While Papa changed the tempo

          With expertise quite rare

It seemed he knew a million tunes

          At least I thought he did

But that was admiration

          Through the heart of a kid

Yet, he could play forever

          And without one repeat

The music slow or lively

          With melody so sweet

From concert music and old tunes

          To music of the day

Two-step, waltz, and hoedown

          Oh, how sweet he’d play

He could set your heart soaring

          On his concert violin

The room so still you could hear

          The soft drop of a pin

But then with quick transition

          The tempo changed once more

From violin to fiddle

          And our feet caressed the floor

That little box of polished wood

          With strings and resined bow

Made music that pleased angels

          Or inspired heel and toe

But that was just acoustics

          And guaranteed to please

What really made that box sing

          Was Papa’s expertise



6/11/90        Phyllis DeWitt VanVleck


6’th … Indiana NPD 1999

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A glimpse of Heaven



I caught a glimpse of Heaven today

When a little child of three

Danced around my flower beds

With a look of blissful glee


I heard a bit of Heaven today

When she giggled while at play

Sounds I’ll carry in my heart

Forever and a day


I felt a bit of Heaven today

When she wooed me with her charms…

The sweetest kiss upon my cheek

And a hug from little arms.


Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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