Aspen Daisies at the Beaver Creek Resort, Colorado, in late summer.



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Allie Flint was born Allie Orton on November 1st, 1877 in the town of Baconville (now Bangor, New York), near the Canadian border. She wrote her first poem at the age of fourteen, when her mother passed away. She moved to Colorado in 1904, and married Hobert J. Flint in 1906. They spent two years in the town of Leyden, near the present-day Rocky Flats Wildlife Refuge.

In 1908, Allie and Hobert Flint moved to Lafayette. Lafayette at the time was the center of the Northern Coal Field, an area of Boulder County that follows Coal Creek from the Marshall Mesa in the foothills of the Front Range, out to the Carbon Valley on the plains.

Flint’s professional trade was nursing: she was a graduate of the Colorado Training School for Nurses and remained involved in their alumni organization for much of her life. During the influenza pandemic of 1918, she served as head nurse at Lafayette’s makeshift hospital, set up in the Congregational Church on Simpson Street. She would later work at the town funeral home for many years. During World War II, she volunteered with the Surgical Dressings Unit for the Boulder chapter of the Red Cross.

Perhaps the most remarkable part of Flint’s life was the broad scope of her civic work. She was a longtime member of the Lafayette Garden Club, where she taught classes on gingerbread baking and gave lectures on “Pests and Diseases of the Iris.” For the Women’s Benefit Association, she served as a press correspondent, a chaplain, and later presient. Other groups she was involved in included the Annuity League, Neighbors of Woodcraft, the Jolly Eight Bride Club, the High Five Club, the Lafayette 500 Club, the Welfare Study Club, secretary for the Victory Day Carnival Committee, and various canasta clubs.

Flint’s involvement with the Lafayette Leader began in March of 1918, when she won first prize in an ad-writing contest sponsored by the paper; she won three dollars. One of her first published poems in the Leader was titled Lafayette, printed in 1926 after a reading at the Welfare Study Club. In the 1930’s, she worked as a reporter for the Leader, and covered the Methodist Church beat for the paper into the late 1940’s. By then, over a dozen of her poems had appeared in the Leader’s pages, and Leader editor C.W. Dinsmore declared her Poet Laureate of Lafayette in November of 1947.

Flint’s work stands as a chronicle of life in small-town America in the early 20th century. She commemorated holidays, the rhythm of the seasons, friendships, and the milestones of life. She took particular interest in June weddings and gardening. She wrote poems for particular people: friends from church, new mothers, and bereaved families. She wrote of winter nuisances: frozen pipes, snow-covered sidewalks, and Box Elder Bug infestations, and these rants will still resonate with Lafayette residents seventy years later.

In her 1955 poem Town Needs, Flint laid out her three most valued civic institutions: the church, the school, and the newspaper. Flint’s Methodist beliefs were a cornerstone of her life, and many of her poems speak of church and faith as a physical and emotional refuge, respectively. While she wrote many poems explicitly about religion, her beliefs permeated her work, Flint found divinity in Colorado’s mountain landscapes, in its gardens, and in its people. Her support for the Lafayette Leader was equally consistent, even making appeals to her readers when the newspaper was in less-than-ideal financial health.

Appropriate for a poet laureate, there is hardly a trace of politics in Flint’s work. In 1927, Lafayette was the hotbed of Colorado’s largest-ever coal miner’s strike, culminating when state militia opened fire on a crowd of unarmed picketers at the Columbine Mine outside of town. During the Great Depression, the town’s Latino population protested a “whites only” swimming pool built with public funds, resulting in a legal case that went all the way to the Colorado Supreme Court. Mrs. Flint was certainly aware of this turmoil: her late husband worked at the Simpson and Vulcan mines in town, and she was a frequent dinner guest at the home of James Lord, a union leader who had met with President Wilson to appeal for peace after the Ludlow Massacre of 1914. In 1946, she served as an alternate delegate in the 1946 Republican caucus, an experience that may have inspired the poem Politics, her lone venture onto the subject.

Flint was fond of the poems of Robert Louis Stevenson, and was known to recite his poetry at meetings of the Lafayette Garden Club. Stevenson’s poem The Wind suggests some influence on Flint, indeed, wind is a subject Flint visited many times throughout her life:

I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies’ skirts across the grass—
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

Another influence on Flint’s style may have been minstrelsy. A 1927 article counts Allie Flint among the players at a minstrel show hosted by the Lafayette Lions Club, she was popular enough to get an encore. The influence of these shows is most clearly seen in her 1927 poem When Pappy’s Sick, which I have chosen to not publish in this collection. While modern readers might bristle at the thought of her perfoming at these shows, minstrelsy was one of the dominant American art forms, and it is no surprise that Flint was counted among its millions of fans. Though I do not discount the inherent demeaning nature of minstrel shows and blackface, if Allie Flint held any personal prejudice against other races, one is hard-pressed to find it in her verse.

Colorado’s mountains loom large in Flint’s poetry. Her 1955 poem Mountain Home is likely inspired by trips to a friend’s cottage in Boulder Canyon, while a visit to Steamboat Springs in 1939 prompted Rabbit Ears Pass. The Lafayette Leader records trips by Flint to Grand Lake, Nederland, Glacier Lake, and Estes Park.

Flint never made any money from her poetry, though in an interview she said she received fan mail from around the country. William Long, manager of the Colorado Press Association, proclaimed her the equal of Detroit’s “People’s Poet” Edgar Guest. Through the 1950’s, her poetry could be found in the Lafayette Leader and the Broomfield Star.

In 1960, Allie Flint moved from her home at 613 Dounce Street to a nursing home in Boulder. That same year, the Lafayette Leader began re-publishing her poems for readers to clip out. In her final years, she wrote in to the Leader to thank readers for sending in cards and flowers. She died on January 15, 1964, at the age of eighty-six.

For Flint, the essence of life could be found in a Valentine’s card from a grandchild, in the Robin Redbreats that lighted in her garden, in the communal laughter and tears of a movie theater, in a father-and-son fishing trip. Life is found in the frustrations of lawn care, in Thanksgiving dinners shared with friends, and in the hushed stillness of a church on Sunday. Within these “small things”, Flint saw the hand of a guiding force, one that she more than once referred to as the “Master.” There is a conscious optimism in her poetry, a belief that things will work out in the end. In the poem that gives this book its title, Flint concluded with these words:

Life is made up of small things,
As many small leaves make a tree,
And countless small drops of water,
Make up the great restless sea.

Nicholas Bernhard

February 2nd, 2023


Birth of a New Year

December 30th, 1949

While sleigh bells ring across the snow
And lights of evening shine and glow,
While happy voices sing and shout
Ushering the old year out.

Upon this worn and weary earth
A lusty new year comes to birth,
Bringing twelve long months of time
For use in every place and clime.

Somehow we must fill them all,
In winter, summer, spring or fall,
With thoughts and actions, good or bad,
Making us desolate, happy or sad.

May we meet this bright new year,
Resolved to fill each day with cheer.
By living not for ourselves alone,
Deaf to a fainting brother’s moan.

When this new year, too, grows old,
And all its story has been told,
Again we hope to greet the new,
With courage high, and troubles few.

My Valentine

Valentine’s Day, 1957

I received a precious valentine,
With flowers and hearts,
And cupid darts,
Asking, “Will you be mine?”

It told of love undying,
In words very sweet,
With meaning complete
And I was quick in replying.

I said that from that day,
His I would be
To all eternity,
Then the valentine I put away.

I treasure it more than gold,
Because I had won
The heart of grandson,
And he was but five years old.

February Days/A Tribute/Veneration

President’s Day, 1927

This poem was reprinted in local newspapers at least six times, more than any other poem by Allie Flint.

Long ago was born, one February day,
A child, almost divine.
And in his mother’s arms he lay,
Just as your child, or mine,

In strength and wisdom fast he grew,
To manhoods’ full degree,
Great deeds he did, till all the people knew
“Father of his country” then was he.

Years later, again in February time.
Another man child came.
To rise to wondrous heights sublime.
Beloved by black and white the same.

And now vile men would prove amain,
These idols, too, had feet of clay
“Washington was a drunkard”, and again—
“Lincoln was not great then, as now,” they say,

What do they hope to gain, who thus defile,
And sacred memories deride?
Such men, no doubt, stood by the while
Our Lord was crucified.

But ah! our noble dead sleep on,
Unharmed by such as they.
Their memories unsullied ’till the dawn
Of that most Perfect Day.

Sentinels At The Gate

Arbor Day, 1941

This sturdy tree we plant today
Is mate to one across the way,
And down the years they will stay together
Through summer and winter weather,
Sentinels at the gate.

Outside, the throng goes swiftly by
With careless laugh and voices high.
Inside, they softly tread the grass
And voices lower as they pass
The sentinels at the gate.

For this is hallowed ground, and here
We leave our loved ones we held dear.
As they in dreamless slumber lie
O’er them steals a lullaby,
From sentinels at the gate.


Easter Sunday, 1958

And as we gather round this tree,
We lift our hearts in thanks to thee
Who watches over all the land,
That in a country free, they stand,
These sentinels at the gate.
Easter time is a joyous time,
A glad and happy day,
When lovely Easter lilies
And all things new hold sway.

My lady dons her finery
And joins the gay parade,
Escorted by the men folks
In jaunty clothes arrayed

Hear the church bells calling
All worshipers to prayer.
Time to be rejoicing
And cast away all care.

“He is risen. He is risen,“
The happy voices sing.
With radiant faces lifted
The joyful message bring.

How wonderful the knowing
That He forever lives,
And lovingly and freely
To all His pardon gives

Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day, 1958

What shall we do for mother
On this, her special day?
It must be something very nice,
To keep her young and gay.

Serve her breakfast to her
While she is yet in bed.
Many times has she climbed out
To see that you were fed.

Give her something lovely,
A gift that she will prize,
Something she has longed for
If you are very wise.

Take her out to dinner,
Treat her to a show,
Let her see you love her
In every way you know.

If your beloved mother
Is not with you today,
Because our Saviour took her
Up there with him to stay,

Honor her precious memory
By doing some kindly deed
For mothers who are lonely
And your sympathy may need.

Over There

Memorial Day, 1955

No more will the roll of drums,
And the haunting bugle call
Disturb these lonely soldiers,
Where the summer showers fall.

Down through the valley of shadows,
Their pathway led up to the sun,
Where God was waiting to welcome
And reward them for deeds well done.

Their lives were an inspiration
We miss the kind words and the smile,
Of the brave young lads in service,
Whom we loved, and have lost for awhile.

They are gone, but are not forgotten,
Where they wait on the other shore,
For we hold their memory sacred,
In our hearts forever more.

Spring Fever

June 3rd, 1955

Ho, hum! dreamy, lazy weather,
Gentle breezes light as a caress,
Not a leaf is stirring in the tree tops,
Makes me drowsy, too, I must confess.

Ho, hum! time to write a poem,
Don’t know what it’s going to be about,
Will it be of gardens, or of romance?
Oh, I’ll think of something soon, no doubt.

Flowers everywhere are nodding,
Can’t hold up their dainty little heads.
I am very sure they need attention,
Think I should get up and weed their beds.

Soon I will, but now I’m not disturbing
Kitty, softly purring on my knee,
Stretching out in langurous contentment
Blinking sleepy yellow eyes at me.

Now, I really must compose that poem,
Not much time is left to me, I fear
To write and send it to the office,
Before the paper “dead line” which is near.

Just a moment more, I’ll bask in sunshine,
Listen to the humming of the bees,
Old Fido. snoring in the shadows,
Too lazy to even hunt for fleas.

If I could stop this yawning,
My thoughts on poems I could keep,
Afraid they’ll have to do without one,
Because I’m—going—to sleep!
z z z z z z z z z!

Boys and Girls Are All Excited

High School Graduation

June 4th, 1959

Boys and girls are all excited
Buying suits and gowns galore,
For this is a grand occasion
Opening wide life’s mystery door.

For the day so long awaited
Has come to them at last,
And carefree happy school days
Are buried in the past.

The world is all before them
Where they must find a place
Some paths lead up to glory,
Others down to dark disgrace.

May they choose the upward pathway,
With steady aims and courage high,
Where true love and fame await them,
They can do it, if they try.

Your Father

Father’s Day, 1955

From door to door
Who walked the floor
The night that you were born,
Who was so glad
To be a dad
When you arrived that morn?
Your father.

Who walked the floor
Heart bruised and sore
The night you were so ill,
Gave up his rest
And tried his best
To see you got each pill?
Your father.

Who walked the floor
One time (or more)
With step so firm and proud
When you won fame,
And made a name,
That won cheers long and loud?
Your father.

Who walked the floor,
A thankless chore,
When “wild oats” you were sowing,
Who stuck by you,
The whole way through,
Though tears were often flowing,
Your father.

If, as of yore
He walks the floor,
Honor and love him today.
If he waits
At the pearly gates,
Try sending a prayer that way
For father.

Glorious Fourth

Independence Day, 1955

I love the noisy July Fourth.
It means a lot to me,
For it is a reminder that
Our country still is free.

I like to be awakened
At dawn, upon that day.
By sounds of celebration
Made by people young and gay.

And I enjoy the fireworks
That brighten up the sky
And even the hot weather
We get in each July.

In fact, there isn’t anything
About it that I deplore,
Except to listen to the noise
At least a month or more.

Signs of Fall

October 14th, 1955

Dead leaves gently tapping
Upon my window pane
Are a grim reminder
That fall is here again.

In bare trees silhouetted
Against a leaden sky.
No happy birds are gathered,
Singing as they fly.

Flowers all are sleeping,
Within their lowly beds.
Jack Frost has snipped away
Their pretty little heads.

That is old time weather,
Kind we used to know.
This fall summer fooled us,
She simply refused to go.

Days and nights are balmy,
Sun is warm and bright,
Birds undecided what to do
Are postponing their flight.

When this poem is published
Of weather, I’m in doubt,
So read this over carefully
And try to figure it out.

Trick or Treat

Halloween, 1957

Halloween is here once more,
When little children, by the score,
Wearing masks, run all about.
’Trick or treat,’ they gaily shout.
When they knock just let them in,
Greet them with a cheerful grin.

Jack-o-lanterns light their way,
Making quite a brave display
Scaring witches, owls, and bats,
Slinky spooks, and big black cats,
That are always lurking near,
Filling youthful hearts with fear.

Better have your treats all ready,
Keep your porch light burning steady.
Let the children have their fun.
After all is said and done,
Remember when, as girl or boy,
Halloween brought you much joy.

Veterans Day

Written for VFW Post 1771, Lafayette

Veterans Day, 1958

What a wealth of memories be
In those two words,
Memories of days gone by,
Of laughter and tears.

Tears, when our men were fighting
In a foreign land,
Fighting for home and country,
Obeying each command.

Laughter, when peace declared,
And they came home,
Wounded and weary, but thankful,
No more to roam.

So this day we celebrate,
Flags flying free,
To honor the dead and the living
Who fought for you and me.

Happy Thanksgiving Day

Thanksgiving, 1958

Some lovely old ladies
On Thanksgiving Day
Had no place to go
So decided that they

Would pool their food
And eat together
Have a good time
Whatever the weather.

So at the home
Of the oldest one
They met, played games
And it was fun.

All were good cooks,
The food was delicious.
Sure, each bite
Was most nutritious.

They supped at eve,
As shadows fell,
Then sat and talked
For quite a spell.

Thanking the Lord
For love and care,
That in His blessings
They could share.

Then homeward turned
Very sure that they
Long will remember
That happy day.


December 17th, 1959

Have you done your Christmas shopping?
Have you bought your Christmas cards?
Soon you really will be hopping,
Buying ribbon, yards and yards.

Boxes of all shapes in sizes,
Reams of paper, bright and gay,
Lovely thing for glad surprises,
On that happy Christmas Day.

Making lists of your relations,
Wrapping grown up gifts and toys,
Many things of your creation
For the waiting girls and boys.

So by working long and steady
Till at last the task is done,
All the packages are ready
And it really has been fun.

Now proceed to safely hide them
From the prying eyes of all.
Where to put them is a problem,
Try the closet in the hall.

The Threshold

New Year’s Eve, 1954

We are standing today on the threshold
Of a door which will soon open wide,
To allow us to enter a new year,
And I wonder, as we step inside,
Have we made the most of the old year,
With the record, are we satisfied?

Is there one noble deed to our credit,
Have we shown someone that we care,
When they were burdened with sorrow,
Did we offer their burdens to share,
When someone was sick and discouraged,
Did we comfort them with a prayer?

Have we patiently borne our afflictions,
Did we smile in the face of defeat,
Rejoice when another succeeded,
Remember to always keep sweet,
When tempted to criticize others,
Maintain a silence complete?

God knows, and in His great mercy,
Has given to us one more year,
To correct our mistakes and transgressions,
And radiate comfort and cheer.
So may the new year be happy,
Is my wish for all, far and near.



Read before the Lafayette Welfare Study Club

February 12th, 1926

Nestled down at the foot of the friendly old mountains,
In a fair sunny state where the sky’s always blue,
There’s a quaint little village, where are peacefully blended
With no claim to beauty, the old and the new.

Its streets are not paved, but are grass and tree-bordered;
It cares not for style as the large cities do;
Its buildings are small but true friends dwell in them,
And it’s brimful of memories for me and for you.

In those dear little homes with the vines climbing over,
The children we love saw the first light of day;
In those churches so humble but loved by the Master,
We had them baptized, placed their feet on the way.

In that schoolhouse they grew to young woman and manhood,
Then went out in the world their life work to find.
Some met with success, others failure and sadness;
But all took good wishes from those left behind.

Those sidewalks once echoed to quick, ringing footsteps,
When our splendid young men marched off to the war;
Down those streets passed the hearse on its way to the graveside,
And our hearts sorely grieved for the burdens it bore.

And the years as the passed, bringing sorrow or gladness,
Have entwined all our lives like the roots of a tree;
So we stand not alone and whatwever befalls us,
Is of equal importance to you and to me.

Just a dear little town with not much to boast of,
But we always come back, wherever we roam;
For it holds all our hearts in a grasp firm and tender—
Lafayette, the place we call home.

Good News

November 19th, 1959

Old Town Lafayette has several Box Elder Trees, and in the winter the Box Elder Bugs in these trees infest houses to stay warm.

To quote a certain paper
“There’s Good News Today.”
The Box Elder Bugs
Have all flown away.

For two years or more
They have pestered me,
Though son cut down
The Box Elder Tree.

I never found out
On what they fed
Why they even crawled
Right into my bed!

They haunted my dreams,
Those little red things
That zoomed all around
With dark brown wings.

I tried every poison
That I could buy.
They walked through it,
Never batting an eye.

My Neighbors

July 12th, 1957

Now they are gone,
What a blessed relief.
If they ever come back,
I’ll die of grief!
My neighbors are the nicest folks
They laugh at all my corny jokes
Rejoyce with me when I am glad
And comfort me when I am sad.

They loan me books and bring my mail.
If I am ill they never fail
To see that I have every care
And help me every pain to bear.

They give me rides to church and town
And trips to mountains’ highest crown.
Of their garden “sass” I get a share,
Indeed, more than is really fair.

And so I love them all, you see,
They are so very kind to me.
I hope that I can something give
To those good neighbors where I live.

Who are my neighbors? You should ask.
To name them all would be a task.
Some of them, surely, you have met,
They are my friends in Lafayette.

Have Fun!

August 23rd, 1957

Lafayette Days was an annual festival that ran from 1956 to 1985. Lafayette Days included a parade, vendors, a Miss Lafayette Competition, and, as Flint writes, a beard-growing contest.

Lafayette Days are here once more,
Bigger and better than ever before.
And every one now has a date
So get up early, stay up late.

Join the happy, laughing throng
And take your pocketbook along.
Many things are there for free,
But it is up to you and me

To put this over with a bang,
By sharing expenses with the “gang”
That gave of time, and money, too,
To do the things we couldn’t do.

While having fun, rejoice, be glad,
Soon you’ll see the face of “Dad”
Long hidden from your loving sight
By foilage that was a fright

Treat him kindly if you can,
He is really quite a man
Well you know, at least you fear
Whiskers will grow again next year.

Dedicated to VFW Post 1771

*March 27th, 1958

Back from the wars they came,
From scenes of greed, hate and shame.
With hearts warm and steady
Hands willing and ready,
They take up their lives here again.

They give of their labor and time,
They squeeze every nickel and dime.
To help those in need
Of true friend indeed,
And keep little children from crime.

They give many playgrounds away,
Where children in safety can play;
Give each child a share,
Of real love and care,
So important to children today.

Town Needs

February 25th, 1955

A town needs a church,
A town needs a school,
A town needs a newspaper, too,
So I hope always
To live in a town
That has all three, don’t you?

The church is a light
Shining steady and clear
To light stumbling feet to the fold
And we never grow weary
When there we repeat
The wonderful truths we are told.

The school is a harbor,
For budding young minds,
Where they can have room to expand,
And learn how to cope
With life later on,
And that we can all understand.

A newspaper combines
A lot of good things
In a pleasing and instructive way,
Keeps us well informed
Of events we should know,
Friend of youth and those old and gray.


Thanks for the Memories

April 9th, 1959

As I sit in my chair tonight
Eating crisp pop corn once more,
My mind wanders back again
To those good old days of yore.

When to entertaining movies
Each and every week I would go,
To feast upon the pop corn
As well as enjoy the show.

There surrounded by friends
As happy moments sped by,
We always laughed together
And sometimes we would cry.

When the show was over
And the journey home we tackled,
We had eaten so much pop corn
Like a flock of hens we cackled.

Many years have passed by,
Many friends have gone away,
And I am sitting here alone
Sometimes lonely, old and gray.

But one thing still can cheer me,
Make me glad that I was born,
Is when a kind friend remembers me
With a bag of delicious pop corn.

Small Things

July 22nd, 1957

Each day has its griefs and troubles,
Each day has its moments of bliss,
If we let the griefs o’erwhelm us
Much happiness we all shall miss.

We wonder if one great burden
Would be easier for us to bear,
Than thousands of petty small ones
That annoy us beyond compare.

Life is made up of small things,
As many small leaves make a tree,
And countless small drops of water,
Make up the great restless sea.

May we carry each little burden
With patience and cheer, to the end,
Completing a wonderful structure
As down life’s highway we wend.


October 18th, 1957

I love the pitter-patter
Of cool life giving rain,
As it drenches thirsty gardens
And fields of sprouting grain.

I love to hear it tapping
At night upon my tent,
I feel so safe and sleepy,
For it is heaven sent.

I love to hear it dancing
Upon a roof of tin,
I fancy it is laughing,
And watch it twirl and spin.

I love the shine and sparkle
Of raindrops in the sun,
They tumble down so gaily
It looks like lots of fun.

And when a dainty rainbow
Appears in velvet sky,
It seems a precious promise
Of a better life on high.

Growing Old Is Not So Bad

February 19th, 1959

Growing old is not so bad
When friends gained through the years,
Friends who have shared your pleasures
And mingled with yours, their tears,
Are growing old along with you,
And you travel the road together,
Helping each other, as true friends will
When you come to stormy weather.

When steps begin to falter,
The eyes once bright grow dim,
The dark hair slowly graying,
And the form once straight and trim
With the weight of years is bowing,
What a comfort the recollection
That the ones you love so dearly
Still regard you with fond affection.

But though you are often weary,
The days and nights seem long.
You can still enjoy a sunset,
The birds’ sweet lilting song.
Can thrill at the sight of mountains
Outlined against the sky.
Be thankful for many blessings,
Be patient and kind, if you try.

[You] can help make others happy
Find peace in doing God’s will.
Knowing, if you do his bidding,
His promises He will fulfill.
And when, at the end of the journey,
Your friends can say, with a smile,
They are very glad they knew you,
Then your life has been worth while.

Gone Fishing

July 16th, 1959

Down the lane a-whistling
Came a barefoot little lad.
His faded jeans were ragged
And the hat belonged to Dad.

Over his shoulder a fish rod
In his pocket a can of bait.
Seeing that I was watching him
He paused awhile at my gate.

A dog was frisking ’round him
So glad and proud to be
With his master on this occasion,
It was very plain to see.

“Well, son, what a lovely day
For you to go a-fishing.
The very best of luck to you,
You know that I am wishing.”

The grin upon his freckled face
Sure warmed the heart of me.
“The very biggest fish I catch
Will be for you,” said he.

Then calling his dog with a whistle.
They went on their way,
A perfect picture of happiness
That cheered me all that day.



February 4th, 1944

An ermine mantle
Cool and white,
Spread all over
The land one night.

When I awoke
At break of day,
I thought the fairies
Had passed that way.

And paused awhile
At their leisure
To work this miracle
For my pleasure.

And I was glad
They were so kind,
But shoveling walks
I changed my mind.

Absent Minded

March 26th, 1954

Ever look for something
You are holding in your hand,
Ever start to get a dinner
And forget what you had planned?

Ever hurry to the pantry
For some article you need,
And forget what you went after,
In spite of all your speed?

Ever think when getting supper
You will cook a special treat,
And discover some time later
You forgot to turn on heat?

Ever sit and write a letter
(Mind on other things, no doubt)
Then stamp and seal the envelope
And leave the letter out?

In desperation you may write
Your name upon the wall.
So you will not forget it,
But it will not help at all.

Because some day you’ll read it
With a blank and worried stare,
And pause a while to wonder
Whose name is written there.

But this failing is not fatal
Many have it you will find,
And it is no indication
You have really lost your mind.


October 8th, 1954

Ever go to a convention
Where the delegates’ intention
Is to nominate the men they think the best
To tote the party banner
In a right and fitting manner,
And serve the people well with vim and zest?

Everybody gets excited,
Even though they are united,
In the hope that only worthy men will win,
But each candidate selected,
Sure deserves to be elected,
For they all are nearly perfect, free from sin.

Every party in creation,
All across this mighty nation,
Knows they they and they alone, can save the world,
Men and women all a-fire
Seem to have but one desire,
Get the votes, ignoring curses at them hurled.

But in spite of rush and hurry,
All the furious dash and flurry,
Life goes on, with just the usual joy and pain.
The sun will rise and set in glory,
As proclaimed in song and story,
And same old moon shines down on lover’s lane.


April 6th, 1956

Advertisements are enticing,
Especially in the Spring.
I read them very carefully,
And want most everything.

The pictures are so pretty,
See that lovely gown,
I will surely purchase it,
When I go to town.

Hats, some plain, some fancy,
Coats are right in style,
Things I have been needing,
For a long, long while.

Dainty hose and lingerie,
Filmy as a dream.
Made of silk and satin,
Smooth as country cream.

Now I must get going,
Before the sale is over,
If I reach the store in time,
I’ll really be in clover.

Just happened to remember,
Something very funny!
I can’t buy a single thing,
Because I have no money!

My Name is Not Addie

September 3rd, 1959

In the prior issue of the Lafayette Leader, Allie Flint’s name was misprinted as ‘Addie’.

My name is not Addie,
And it never was.
My name is not Addie,
And only because.

My parents who loved me,
I’ll never know why,
Gave me the name “Allie”
To keep ’till I die.

So please, you kind people,
Whatever you do,
Don’t call me Addie!
I’ll not answer you.

And if at some time,
In the Leader you see,
My name changed to Addie,
A mistake it will be.

The Snow Storm

February 5th, 1959.

The beautiful snow is falling, falling,
There’s a drift upon my lawn.
Dead leaves on trees are shivering, shivering
From dawn to dark, from dark to dawn.

And all day long I am shoveling, shoveling
The stuff away from my door.
I get walks clear, then turn around
And down comes more and more.

I think of the woman who scrubbed and cleaned
’Till her system was one big hurt.
So in despair her apron she folded,
Lay down and died, and was buried in dirt.

And I wonder if all this shoveling, shoveling,
Will bring me the same sad fate.
If so, at least the snow will be downy,
And clean, Oh! so clean where I lie in state.

My Lawn

July 10th, 1958

I get up very early
To have my housework done
Before the day surrenders
To big old Mister Sun
Flooding my lawn with light.

I start my morning duties
And hurry all I can.
But time brings a reminder
Interfering with my plan
I must irrigate my lawn.

Now, that task is completed,
I dust, and sweep the floor.
Then again an interruption
I must stop once more.
Time to mow my lawn.

House all nice and tidy,
Think I’ll take a rest,
But outside work is calling.
Things must look their best.
Pull weeds around my lawn.

Thus, round and round it goes
All through the summer day.
Grass and weeds are waiting,
Forget to rest or play.
Lawn must have attention.

But there is something lacking,
Though very hard I try
To keep it looking pretty,
And not to let it die
My lawn is turning to moss!


My Daughter

April 3rd, 1958

My daughter is fair as the morning,
With hair like pure spun gold,
And a jeweled crown is adorning
Her shining curls, I am told.

Her red lips are smiling and tender,
Her blue eyes sparkle with fun,
Her form is rounded, but slender,
And tiny feet flash as they run.

Downy and white are her wings,
There’s a light on her angel face,
That rivals the sun, as she sings
With the throng, in her dwelling place.

Years have lapsed since she went away,
To that heavenly home up above.
Sweet memories here with me stay,
She still is the daughter I love.

In dreams I caress her once more,
And hold her again to my heart,
And pray that God will restore her
To me where we never shall part.


May 8th, 1958

When the stilly night is creeping
When the weary world is sleeping,
It is then I fall a-weeping
As I think of you, my dear.

Cry that God is all unheeding
That my heart is torn and bleeding,
Will not listen to my pleading
That He set my spirit free.

In the silence I’ve a feeling
That your loved form comes a-stealing
And your lips, so warm and healing,
Press against my fevered brow.

I can see your blue eyes beaming
Where the love light lies a-dreaming
And your bright hair softly gleaming
Where the silvery moonlight falls.

I can hear your sweet voice trilling,
All the long, dark shadows filling,
All my grief and anguish stilling
With its music clear and low.

Then I hush my dreary sighing,
All my wicked thoughts go flying,
And the morning finds me lying
With a soul at peace with God.



June 26th, 1958

Guess I’ll make a garden,
Think it will be fun
Digging up the moist earth,
In the nice warm sun.

Don a wide sun bonnet,
Wear my oldest dress,
Measure off a big plot
An acre, more or less.

I have lots of seeds,
Most every kind I know.
Now a rake I’m needing,
Shovel and [a] hoe

Make the rows all even,
So everyone will see
Just how much a garden
Really means to me.

Sure takes lots of spading
To prepare a place,
Think I’ve worked for hours
In this one small space.

Only half an hour?
Oh! My aching back!
I am almost certain
That I heard it crack!

Why should I make a garden?
Seems now I just recall
I don’t eat many vegetables,
Don’t like them, after all.


June 16th, 1960

Saucy little tulips
Dancing in the sun,
Nodding in the shadow
When the day is done.

Sleepy little tulips,
Petals folded tight,
Waiting for the morning
And the dawn of light.

Happy little tulips,
When the day is new,
Stand in all their beauty
Bathed in sparkling dew.


May 5th, 1950

When I work in my garden,
The robins gather ’round,
Watching for each little worm
I spade up from the ground.

And when I take the hose
To water lawn or flowers,
They flutter underneath the spray
And take some cooling showers.

They ruffle up their feathers
And preen and primp with glee
But not forgetting I am there
They keep their eyes on me.

And if I make a sudden move,
They quickly fly away,
Only to return again,
Once more resume their play.

It’s fun to watch them feeding,
Hop, hopping on the lawn.
They listen, dive, pull up a worm,
A gulp, and it is gone.

So I am never lonely
When robins hover near,
They are such cheerful company,
So funny and so dear.


To A Boy

July 28th, 1950

Thirteen years, a wonderful age,
Eagerly turning life’s every page,
Meeting each day with youthful zest,
Scarcely pausing for quiet or rest.

Tall and lanky, still a boy,
Finding in play his greatest joy,
But all the time, early and late,
Unconsciously reaching for man’s estate.

A combination, in some queer way,
Sometimes serious, sometimes gay,
Wise beyond his years he seems,
Reveling in grown-up dreams.

Again, so innocent is he
Proves a great surprise to me,
But man or boy, the combination,
May, in time, save our nation.

My Baby Daughter

August 22nd, 1950

Letter to the Editor

Here is a poem written by Allie Flint, your Poet Laureate, for my daughter, Janet Lee Hurd, when she was born.

I wish some time you would print it in the paper so everyone could read it and love it as we do.

Mrs. Henry Hurd

Arvada, Colo.

Here at last I have you
So dainty and so fair.
A precious little stranger
Who seeks my loving care.

And you are very welcome
So cuddle close my dear,
When I hold you in my arms
I feel the angels near.

Do they whisper to you?
Is that the reason why
You have that little secret smile
And almost never cry?

But stay with us my darling
For we can plainly see
You are a gift from heaven
Sent to your dad and me.


October 11th, 1957

Way down deep within my heart,
Is a big warm spot for boys,
For they are well worth loving,
In spite of dirt and noise.

They never want to go to bed,
And don’t like to get up.
They bestow a deep affection
On some flea bitten mongrel Pup.

Their hero is a cowboy bold,
Who rides and ropes with ease.
A thrilling wild west movie
Is always sure to please.

They love to go a-fishing,
Not afraid a hook to bait
With wiggly worm or hopper,
And whistle while they wait.

Some learn to play the organ
(If tied down to the stool),
And they are not too happy
When forced to go to school.

But they can sing like angels,
And say their prayers each night.
I’m thinking of a certain boy
Who does those things just right.

Life is Just Beginning

June 5th, 1958

Life is just beginning
For a winsome lass I know.
Like a perfect rosebud
It will blossom and grow
Into perfect womanhood
Lovely from head to toe.

What a thrill to watch the unfolding
First, a baby, warm and small.
Next, a dainty little maiden,
Soon growing slender and tall
Into the teenage season,
The happiest time of all.

Then a beautiful, fragrant flower
A woman, at last, complete.
Ready to meet whatever comes
Strong and willing and sweet,
Living her life with courage
That will never accept defeat.

To my friend. Jill Fender.


Mountain Home

July 15th, 1955

As swiftly the years go by,
Way to the end of the trail
God will safely lead her on
His love will always prevail.
Kindly he watches over her
And will never let her fail.
Just a little old log cabin
Hid among the ferns and trees.
And around the sturdy corners
Creeps a cool, refreshing breeze.

Roofs and walls are covered over
With caressing, clinging vines.
At their feet in purple splendor
Cluster sweet with Columbines.

On the lawn a spreading carpet
Rich, soft moss of tender green.
At the back, contented chickens
In a barnyard neat and clean.

Sound of rippling icy water,
From a little brook close by,
Rushing down to meet a river.
Pausing not to wonder why.

Warbling birds in swaying branches.
And the picture is complete
When from open cabin windows
Voices singing, clear and sweet—

“’Mid pleasures and palaces.
Though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble
There’s no place like Home.”

Forest Fire

August 31st, 1956

This poem may have been inspired by the 1956 North Fork fire, which burned over 900 acres of Rocky Mountain National Park.

Many acres of beautiful trees
Sway and swing in a heady breeze,
Flowers, shrubs and clinging vines,
Cluster ’round the feet of pines

As they stately and majestic stand,
Towering over the fertile land,
Shy wild animals romp and play
Happy and fearless there today.

Campers gone from picnic ground,
Silent the last disturbing sound
Quiet and peaceful there once more,
Just as it always was of yore.

But see, a tiny glowing spark
A crackling in the brush, just hark!
A slender, curling puff of smoke,
A sleeping fire that now awoke,

And creeps among the fallen leaves,
As on its treacherous way it weaves.
Caught by wind it soars on high,
It swirls and rises to the sky.

An angry demon comes to birth,
Crashing mighty trees to earth
As raging, killing, on it goes
What will stop it no one knows.

Under control, harnessed at length
By men and weather’s united strength
It leaves behind in desolation
A vast expanse of God’s creation,

As weeping skies and darkest night,
Shut out the ugly, twisted sight.
A careless camper, a lighted match,
A cigarette in leafy patch,

A moment’s careless act can bring
Death to many a helpless thing,
The lovely, fruitful earth deface,
Things man never can replace.

Rabbit Ears Pass

December 10th, 1959

High up in the mountains,
Where the snow is deep,
There’s a winter fairyland
That seems to be asleep.

Countless trees are wearing
Robes of pure white,
That sparkle in the sunlight
Or twinkling stars at night.

Sometimes storm clouds gather
Softly sifting down
Bits of frozen crystal
On each lofty crown.

Tips of little spruce trees,
Just above the snow,
Look like silvery crosses
Standing in a row.

Over all a stillness
Boundless and complete,
Where many trails go winding
Made by tiny feet.

Scene of matchless beauty,
This winter fairyland,
Created by the master,
Untouched by human hand.



July 30th, 1959

A big moon is riding high
Across a blue star spangled sky.
The sleepy flowers perfume the air
That spreads enchantment everywhere.

Like fairy music, a gentle breeze
Whispers softly through the trees
Singing a drowsy lullaby
To nesting birds, so very shy.

The little folks through forests glide
And underneath the foliage hide,
To dream away the mystic hours,
Safe and secure from passing showers.

Quiet reigns o’er all the land,
A peaceful rest from days’ demand.
A time for nature to renew,
And bathe in cooling, sparkling dew.


August 28th, 1958

Walking in my garden
As twilight shadows fall,
Has always seemed to me
The nicest time of all.

When nature bathes the flowers
In precious heavenly dew.
So they may greet the morning
With faces bright and new.

The sun has set in glory
In the flaming golden west,
And drowsy birds are calling
From every downy nest.

A gentle breeze comes stealing
Where evening shadows creep,
I hear it softly whisper
“Good night, dear, go to sleep.”


A Good Place To Be

March 6th, 1958

If you want to be calm and serene,
At peace with your fellow men,
Get rid of thoughts that are mean,
That is just the very time when
In church is a good place to be,
At least it seems so to me.

If you want to forget worldly cares,
If you want release from your sorrow
A quiet place to say prayers
Get strength to meet tomorrow,
In church is a good place to be,
At least it seems so to me.

When you are discouraged you long
For words of comfort and cheer.
You can find them in sermon and song
That will help to cast out all fear,
In church is a good place to be,
At least it seems so to me.

If you want to feel good all the week,
Not even to have a “blue Monday,”
You know you have not far to seek,
You know you have one every Sunday,
In church is a good place to be,
At least it seems so to me.

My Pilot

November 12th, 1954

“Jesus, Saviour, pilot me,
Over life’s tempestuous sea,”
How those words ring in my soul,
As I near each treacherous shoal,
When I need his special care,
And I go to him in prayer.

“Jesus, Saviour, pilot me”
May I ever trusting be,
Listen to his tender voice,
Make his sure way my choice,
When he calls above the roar,
Of the waves on yonder shore.

Always, ever is my plea,
May I anchor then at last,
When the storm of life is past,
And I gain the other side,
Safe into the harbor glide.

My Rug

April 28th, 1960

I am weaving a rug as the days go by,
A rug with a changing design.
The colors and fabrics I carefully choose,
That it may be dainty and fine.

It was started for me by the Master’s Hand,
With a silken strand of white.
He gave me the task to finish, and said,
“Now see that you do this right.

“All through this rug you must patiently weave
This shining silver cord.
It must mark out the pattern faithfully
When you give it again to your Lord.”

So day after day I sit at the loom,
And weave in the colors gay.
Add a touch of black, or blue or brown,
And often a strand of gray.

I try to make it a beautiful thing,
But sometimes I weary grow.
When things go wrong the tears I shed
Make stains on my rug, I know.

Yet with steady hands I strive to keep
In in its place, the silver stand.
And if I have done my very best,
The Master will understand.

From A Hospital Bed

June 30th, 1960

Softly evening shades have fallen,
And silhouetted against a cloudless sky,
Tall trees wave their arms and whisper,
As quiet hours go by.

Seems I can hear them saying
“Rest awhile, and be at ease.
God is here, his voice is calling
From every gently passing breeze.”
Comforted, I close by eyelids,
Listen to His loving call,
Fold my hands in trusting slumber,
As night comes down and covers all.

Then comes the dawn, a blaze of glory
Banners bright are all unfurled,
Telling once more the blessed story
God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.


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Nicholas Bernhard is an author, composer, and web deveveloper. From 2017 to 2019, he wrote the history column Tales of the Northern Coal Field for Yellow Scene Magazine. He wrote the novel November in America, based on the Colorado coal miner’s strike of 1927, to commemorate the strike’s 90th anniversary. From 2018 to 2022, he served on the Historic Preservation Board of Lafayette, Colorado. His opinion pieces have appeared in the Boulder Daily Camera, Yellow Scene Magazine, and the Colorado Sun.

His film work includes the true-crime documentary Blackstone’s Equation: The Tim Masters Story, an official selection of the American Documentary Film Festival.

Nicholas is also the developer of Nantucket E-Books™, the web platform used to publish the physical and e-book editions of this poetry collection.

To contact Nicholas, email


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Allie Flint’s poems are in the public domain.

Introduction and cover art © 2023 Nicholas Bernhard, and licensed under CC-BY-SA 4.0.

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