My son — my son,
What can I say?
How can words express
What I feel this day?
The sixteen long years
I've spent with you,
Have unfolded your being
What I see is true.

Impatient — but kind — Perceptive — yet blind;
On certain occasions,
You're adversely inclined.
Yet you always rebound,
And call - 'Time out!1
-- and "'I'm sorry, Mom.’"
And you dismiss your 'pout.'

My son — my son,
Will you ever advance
To the next phase --
Or stay in this trance?
"'What trance?’" — you retort,
With a glowering stare --
"BOY!!! Humble your mind!"
Is my response of care.

Advance to the next stage
Maturity awaits,
Turn life's page --
Shun boyish baits.
Or you'll get hooked
In a fool's cocoon,
You'll never proceed,
Or hum freedom's tune.

My son — my son,
Just 'listen up' -- (as they say...)
To words of CONCERN,
Conceived only this day.
"It's nothing new,--“
You may venture to say,--just-- Another melody of love--
Expressed in a different way.