My Mother's Poetry

Here are two poems written by my mother, found in Dorothy Hall's materials and just sent to me by her son Allen.

          A Transformation on Mother’s Day

One night I had a feeling
    That’s odd as it could be;
It seemed the years had dropped away
    And made a child of me,
And as the sun was setting
    I stood at Mother’s side–
“Child, why are you so quiet?
    Does something hurt inside?”
And I asked her many questions:
    How God could make a tree,
About the stars, and moon, and wind
    That none of us could see;
Why do the tigers have big stripes
    And not the leopards spots,
Why apples fall upon the ground;
    Would pumpkins grow in pots–
Like Grandma keeps her flowers in,
    And does a hornet die
If it should leave its stinger in–
    And why don’t kittens fly?
She surely had great patience–
    She taught me carefully,
And answered every little thought
    That seemed to come to me;
And many times since then I’ve felt
    Her presence by my side;
Though she is many miles away
    She’s still my loving guide.
The things I learned in chldhood
    Are stamped upon my heart,
And I can still remember
    When she told the wiser part
That Mary chose in Bethany
    Of listening to our Lord,
When Martha, faithful worker,
    Spoke one complaining word.

True, we all must be workers,
    And help the best we can
To do our own little bit on earth;
    But yet the Son of Man
Spoke further, of a finer realm
    Of happiness and love–
An ideal home, like Mother said,
    We’d all live in above;
And Mother always tried to help
    Us understand the way.
That’s why I’m just a child again
    On every Mother’s Day.

Hazel Lewis, 1938




         Treasures of a Modern Tree Farm, Near Our Home

Old logging roads, now beckoning trails
To beauty and calmness of mind;
Dogwood shining among the dark firs,
Pale green maple and alder and pine
    Tiny wood-violets, lilac and golden,
    Pungent fragrance of Indian soap-blooms;
    Star-like blossoms of the wild strawberry
    The tips of the firs are soft plumes;
Huge stumps of old forest giants
A rare little white pine tree–
Birds singing among the green willows,
Bees droning and a wind blowing free;
    Deer tracks lead to a steep dugway
    Down the cliff to the roaring white river,
    Deep-green ferns and mossy-damp stones
    And the sudden cool beings a swift shiver;
Surrounded by towering, wooded hills
And topped by a shining blue sky.
Where the distant jet pilot adds plumey clouds
To the treasures of nature near–by!

June 1963 –  BZ Corners – Hazel Lewis