I found this poem in my Grandmother’s scrapbook, I believe it is from the late 1920’s.
Tag: Love
The Veltin School For Girls
I’ve been going through my Grandmother Ethel’s scrapbook. My Grandmother attended The Veltin School in New York City. In the coming days I’m going to post some of her artwork and poetry. She lived her life in New York City, Rochester, NY, then Myrtle Beach, SC, for retirement. I was very close to my Grandmother (1907-2000). We were/are both poets and spiritual people. I’ve taught at a school serving girls for several years now, my Grandmother further connects me to that work and the historic mission of those institutions.
More about The Veltin School: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Veltin_School_for_Girls
Harriet Tubman
what is it
to listen to
God, a voice
within that knows
right from wrong
freedom from slavery?
what if we
could all live
fearless in our
love for humanity
for the decency
of all people?
what if the
north star still
shines bright, if
only we be
not blind to
our inner truth?
what if we
are all Moses
wading in water
helping everyone across
to that dry
land of faith?
Backyard Camping
Ciao San Francisco
24 years later i left
without a sound, wearing a
mask like I’d robbed the place
no longer the 23-year old
point reyes camping in the rain
studio-living kid applying to
grad school while dancing at
the elbo room, time has
passed, but that city of hills
dwells forever inside me
yes, it will always have my
heart, but just like everything
we had to part
Our New Nashville Home
Grandpa
Ingrid
Of Love and Things
black friday
pop up ads
vanity fair
folded perfume
possess, covet
objects of pride
I’m better than you
insistence that
moneyed hierarchy
is the answer
will solve
all woes
sorry, not sorry
to say, this
accumulating life
is wasting time
on things (and
you’ve heard this
before), stuff won’t
make you happy
but instead, yes
love, it is
so simple
also free
Country Music
Charley Pride on bathroom
laptop, while I shave, his voice
forlorn longing, whiskers
collect on razor’s edge, this
morning mirror apart from wife
and son. I feel for Merle Haggard,
travails, time on the road, love
found and lost, like Loretta Lynn
in Topeka, daydreaming of that
different life, away from crumpled
hamper laundry and the last
cereal bowl bits clinging to old
milk. Somewhere in Nashville
they are still singing with Jesus,
waiting for my return.
Daniel W. Polk 