Descended from the patriot, Patrick Henry, Zora was a beautiful woman who raised her six children virtually alone most of her life.  In her heart, she was a poet, and she has left a legacy of wonderful words which up until now have not seen the light of day except in her own family.

Zora spent her youth in a log cabin, having traveled by covered wagon through Indian Territory from Missouri to Oklahoma  with the Sooners. Her memories were of gathering wild rose honey, of being sent to the bubbling spring to bring the home-made butter and milk box for her mother, of the log school house her father helped build, of her having too learn to sew, quilt, crochet, and cook when she really wanted to be out with her brother fishing, hunting, breaking horses, climbing fences, and wading streams. She thought the smartest thing her father ever did was to write verses and that the cleverest thing her brother did was the way he could whittle wood into any shape he wanted to. She decided that more than anything else she wanted to learn to do were these two things.  

"Aim high, my Daddy told me when I was very small,

Look up and tiptoe if you want to grow real tall,

And when you want to travel if you wish to go real far,

Build a good strong wagon, and hitch it to a star."

Zora recalled how her first name came about. Her father so adored his new "Little Daughter" as he always called her, that he felt she was everything from A to Z. In trying to decide whether to have her name start with Z or A, he hit upon her name, ZORA.

 It was always the wish of the family to publish her words, as they speak to the heart of the trials and tribulations of herself and mankind and to the possibilities of what could be a great future.


I wonder where people are going so fast
and why they hurry so
Just why they don't stop and rest a bit
And watch the passing show.

Pray tell me what they hope to find
When they get to the end of the trail,
A pot of gold or a friend that's kind,
or a church yard for sale.

Some folks I have known could tell you a lot,
I know what some have found,
By rushing through life and missing the show
The arrived at a hole in the ground

I'm a bit of the Universal Plan
Of the Universal God
On this mundane sphere where the race is man,
Of good earth! And very good sod!

So if dust I am like dust I go,
As dust I can do no sin,
I plant, I water, my seed shall grow
When my dust is 'gone with the wind'.


I read a poem: Twas years ago
It was called The scum of the earth
A poem of immigrants: Marooned
Far away from the land of their birth

They had come to the land of the Pilgrims
To the beautiful land of the free
To the land of Columbus: of William Penn
To be what they chose to be

Immigrants they: but aren't we all?
But they brought their blood along
To mix or not as they chose to mix
But they sang Old Glory's song

They lived, they labored, they multiplied
In this melting pot of ours,
And some are true to the Stars and Stripes
And some to their homeland powers

Much talk we hear of the youth of today
And of unamerican ways,
Just who are the youth of America
In these World War American days?

Tis well to pause and ponder awhile
At this sad Zero hour
While all the world seems athirst for blood
And rulers are screaming for power

And ask ourselves this question
And answer it if we may
Just who are the youth of America
What price will they have to pay?

They must take the banner from our hand,
Have we set them a good example?
Of freedoms right to worship God
Have we handed them a sample!


If I have help to mould you, in any sort of way
As a baker with his bread dough, or a potter with his clay
If I've left the slightest imprint, on the person that is you
If I've helped, or if I've hindered, in the work you have to do,
Made you happy or dejected, made you sad, or very gay.
Then I've helped a bit to mould you, in the man you are today,
Was my hand at times unsteady, as I turned the potters' wheel
Do you ever feel the logic, that I wanted you to feel?
The logic father taught me, in my early days of youth,
That the rule that really mattered, was the simple rule of truth.
Oh the things that daddy taught me, while he held me on his knee,
Like the way to solve a problem, by the simple rule of three,
Like the way to gain all knowledge, was by reading as you run,
In the world wide open college, and the learning, mostly fun.
In the open outdoor college, is the same as any school,
You get punished for infractions, and for breaking any rule,
But the difference, lies in the method, that the different masters make,
You are punished by, not for, your sins, in all the rules you break
I am not unduly punished, by the many rules I broke,
But at times I felt forsaken, like the time my daddy died,
In my arms I held him closely, and my tears ran all inside,
When I cried in desolation, Daddy, may I go with you?
It seemed I heard him whisper, "there are things that you must do",
I could feel my strength returning, as I closed my daddy's eyes,
Tho my heart with tears was burning, heavy clouds obscured my skies,
But I knew as daddy taught me, all the clouds would roll away,
And the hills would soon be shining, in the glorious light of day.
So, if I have helped to mould you, in any sort of way,
As a baker with his bread dough, or the potter with his clay,
If I've left the slightest imprint, on the person that is you,
If I've helped, or if I've hindered, in the work you have to do,
Made you happy, or dejected, made you sad or very gay,
Then, I've helped a bit to mould you, in the man you are today.
I have no need to share in full the laurels you have won
It is enough for me to know, you are your mother's son,
I need not take, in full the blame, for all the rules you break,
You too must suffer for your sins, for your, not my, mistake.
Like mother, like son, is a saying so true,
That the world will judge me, by the things that you do,
When all of the failures, and victories are won,
The judgment will be, low, this is her son.


My destiny has ruled that I, shall leave these hills of mine
To follow my erratic star, to see what I can find,
And to start anew the toil and strife,
That goes hand in hand with city life

To toil and struggle and work for gain
In this mad city on the plain,
I will not question this star of mine,
I'd like to go where it leads me and cease to whine.

I'll find what destiny holds for me,
And forget the hills where I long to be
For my cousin has brought me the loveliest verse,
I know for sure it will lift the curse.

Of this self-pity that hampers my soul,
I feel that at last I can reach my goal
I will copy it down my Darlings for you,
And put it in Tony's scrap book too.

That dear little book that Daisy sent
Oh surely that was money well spent,
How I love that book and wish I could write
Lines like I find on the pages white
Written by poet's long ago,
Dear little scrap book I love you so.


Oh, dub me not an atheist until we become acquainted,
The God I worship  is mightier far,
Than the God that the Jew hath painted,
Tis' the power that rules the Universe,
That sets each star in it's place
And controls the entire system,
In it's endless whorl through space,
Then dig not a grave for me my friends
But build me a funeral pyre,
And purge my bones of this earthly shell,
In a Viking funeral fire,
And these be the lines you will read for me,
By the light of that funeral fire,
She has won the race, she is safe at home,
She has followed her guiding star.


We often wonder, you and I, if life has been worthwhile,

When worries weigh so heavily, it's hard to even smile,

The ones we love most dearly, seem unhappy and depressed,

Their load seems far too heavy, and we long to see them rest.

We long to ease their burdens, and we want to see them smile,

if there's any way to help them, then life can be worthwhile,

If any little act of mine, has brought to you a smile,

Or eased a bit the load you bear, my life has been worthwhile,

For oh' you are so dear to me, that all your cares are mine,

I cannot really be happy be, unless your sun can shine.


I believe that I could anthologize
Were I to drown in that river of spoons,
But in case that I miss your directions,
Let me pain you some mental cartoons,

A trim little craft called the Mayflower,
Set sail on a stormtossed sea,
O'er loaded with souls that denied the power,
For God given right to be free.

The souls termed themselves The Pilgrims,
The docked on a rockbound coast,
The looked on the shore as a promised land,
Where with freedom at last they could boast.

The fondly imagined the fetters,
That had galled and hampered their hearts,
By that perilous voyage and landing,
Had been severed and riven apart.

So they set up a sign on the Mainland,
A sign for lost souls to see,
Come ye, Oh come ye to this sane land,
Where lost souls at last may be free.

But the blood of the ruler was in them,
The despotic blood to rule,
So the paradise of the Pilgrims,
Is a wilderness for fools.


When you feel that old creative urge, and really wish to be free,

To perpetuate, the guy that is you, go out and plant a tree,

A tree that will grow and blossom, and in time bear fruit that is sweet,

To decorate the foot stool, where on God rests his feet,

Or plant some beautiful flowers,to cover a barren place,

Like a lovely Persian carpet, that same foot stool to grace,

When we are creating beauty, by greening the bare cold sod,

Man may be indeed God's partner, but never can man be God.

Poetry Index

Zora's Poetry Collection - Life - Page 1
Zora's Poetry Collection - Holy Grail - Page 2
Zora's Poetry Collection - The Ocean - Page 3
Zora's Poetry Collection - The Earth, Mountains and Trees - Page 4



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