Lori Levi
Lori Levy and her grandchildren
By Lori Levy
I get a lot of pleasure from my grandchildren, especially observing how they experience life, what excites them or moves them, what they love doing. Sometimes that means dressing up as batman and a ballerina. Sometimes it's being in love with the tattoo on a father's arm or with rabbits in a yard on the way to the park. Sometimes it's serving me coffee made from soap bubbles in the bathtub. The first photo shows me with my gang of granddaughters. My grandson isn't in this picture (sorry, Isaiah!). It also doesn't include my youngest granddaughter, Olive. She's in the second photo and was born December 29, 2025. The last poem is about her.
WHEN THE DOORBELL RINGS
I open the door as if clearing a dam,
and in they surge: batman and ballerina,
flying and leaping down the hallway—he, with a mask
and a black shirt taped to his back;
she, in a pink skirt, arms outstretched,
twirling the way Mommy showed her.
He tells me about the movie he watched, he and Daddy;
about batman and his bat mobile, bat cave, bat wings.
She, too, chimes in. They have so much to say,
both at once, about Robin and the Joker, Flash, the Penguin.
I swallow their words as fast as I can,
shifting my gaze from him to her, her to him,
trying to keep it straight: who rescued, who destroyed;
who’s a good guy, who’s a bad guy.
Later, when we play with the Lego men,
I want to change the game: just good guys today.
But he scrunches his face, bares his teeth,
slides his figure towards mine and knocks down my house.
The bad guys are coming, says his little sister.
Before they leave, they want Grandpa to be a monster,
chasing them, laughing and screeching, to the car.
We kiss them goodbye, belted in their car seats.
In that moment, that kiss,
the bad guys are gone.
Previously published in Iris Literary Journal
BELOVED TATTOO
I watch entranced as my granddaughter, not yet two,
circles her hands around her daddy's arm. Huggie, she says,
and embraces it—smiling, adoring, in love
with her daddy’s tattoo.
Not a heart or a rose or even her name—
just the logo of his former band,
her daddy the guitarist in Poopan Hooligan.
She presses her cheek to her beloved tattoo,
says, Hi, Tattoo, kisses it, cleans it,
tries to feed it. What is this love?
Is she soaking in music through the sunburst image?
Hearing a beat, her ear on the P of the logo?
She copies her mommy in a hip hop dance,
clapping, bouncing, swaying her hips.
She laughs when we laugh,
laughs some more.
I think of the future.
Maybe she’ll grow up to be
a math professor. Anything's possible.
But look how this little girl enters a room,
how she tilts her head, brightening her face
into one big smile till all her features
are teasing, flirting, joking with us.
This is Emilia Rose.
I think she emerged from the womb
as a singer/dancer/entertainer.
Previously published in Poetry Breakfast.
IN LOVE WITH
Mindfulness is all the rage now. They say it's good for our health.
Wake up, breathe, pay attention to the moment. When I do,
I fall in love with the red, orange, gold leaves
I pass on my walk through the neighborhood:
L.A.'s loud winter leaves, intense as extroverts.
I fall in love with quiet, too: the chill of morning
when I slip out in my pajamas
to get the newspaper tossed in my driveway.
I could say I'm in love with boring things, too,
like oatmeal, still and bland in its bowl.
In love with this porridge—and how seductive it becomes
when I add chia seeds, cinnamon, and blueberries.
My granddaughters can't wait to see the bunnies
on the way to the park, two of them behind a fence
in a neighbor's yard. We stop to watch them eat carrots,
lettuce, cucumbers, twitching as they stare back at us.
Scampering from here to there, one corner to another.
It's enough for the girls, more than enough.
I'm in love with their smiles, their hi bunnies,
bye bunnies, their giggling love
for these creatures who don't do much more—
one could say—than eat, sleep, twitch, scamper,
which—one could argue—is just what we do.
Previously published in Your Daily Poem.
GRATITUDE
Where is it today?
I can’t find it, can’t feel it.
I think I chased it away
with my complaints, my disappointment.
Must be hiding outside—
in the neighbor’s rosebushes, perhaps,
or in the purple Russian sage down the street.
Wait. Why down the street?
It doesn't hide: it waits to be found.
It's probably here in my house, curled up
with my complaints—napping in the gloom
until I welcome it again.
I think it's peeking at me now
from the bubbles in the bathtub
where a five-year-old—
my Rio Belle, my granddaughter—
pours soapy water in a cup,
serves me coffee, cappuccino,
then shoos me away and tells me
to come back as a new customer.
I remind her that her hair needs washing.
You're being so dramatic, she responds.
I crack up, she guffaws,
we call each other hilarious—
life shining again, like the olive oil
and lemon on the salad I made earlier,
fresh as the taste of gratitude.
Previously published in Your Daily Poem.
WELCOME
I am reading a novel called Oh, William!
but I want to say Oh Olive, hello,
welcome to the world, to your family.
Oh Olive, I wish I could tell you
it’s a peaceful world
where people are all kind to each other,
but, oh Olive, I’m sorry, that’s not the case,
we’re still fighting wars,
still haven’t learned to get along together.
But, oh Olive, I promise you
that we, your family, will do our best
to make your own little world
feel warm and loving.
Oh Olive, you bring me hope:
I say your name and think
of an olive branch extended in peace.
I think of olive trees,
how tough they are,
surviving in the driest soil,
blooming, offering their gifts.
Oh Olive, you are a gift.
Hello and welcome, welcome.
Our arms are open.
We’ve been waiting for you.
