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Sian St. John Poem
Two pools lie in Druid Hill Park.
One for the white skinned, the other for the dark.
A high bed of grass grows were ebony feet splashed and kicked and paddled.
Each blade of grass is a soul, sprouting up with a story,
upon a memory of soil where chlorinated water bathed brass beauties like the Blue Nile.
It is still open, Swimming Pool #2
Visible and audible,
a parallel universe,
existing still - right beside
NOW
Peer behind the high unkempt vines that make the cosmic wall,
but do not touch the dark beauty of that time.
Stay within the realms of today and look.
Look through the overgrown vines.
Look with a mind blessed with ether.
Hear the laughter, whistles, squeals of little brown bodies being told to stop running.
See the divers soar through the humid Baltimore air,
possessing skills unnoticed by the world.
Watch the girls flirt and giggle with the lifeguard.
Observe the elders sun themselves as they dream of their past,
while young men and women hunger for the white pool.
See the girl's false fingernails float away in water.
Bask in the warm Baltimore summer of Fifty -two, Thirty -two, Twenty-two.
Journey as far back as you desire.
This is the portal to the amphitheater of the parallel universe,
time honored testimony to inequality.
A history that lasts for eternity.
And moving their lips slowly to speak,
they begin by saying, "There was no polio here."
.Built in 1921, Pool No. 2 in Druid Hill Park served the recreational and
competitive swimming needs of over 100,000 African Americans in Baltimore. Pool No. 2 measured just 100 x 105 (half the size of whites-only Pool No. 1), but proved so popular that the swimmers had to be admitted in shifts. In the South, where the majority of Black Americans lived until after World War II, there were few outbreaks of polio among them. Some argued that segregation made this difference. When major outbreaks occurred, pools were generally closed.
This poem won second place in the 2025 Poetry Marathon Mile 13 contest, and was originally submitted by me using my Poetry Soup account’s prior name.
Copyright © Sian St. John | Year Posted 2025
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Sian St. John Poem
All of living is a cycle of time.
Henceforth my journey as a leaf in youth.
A youngster bloomed in warm wooded prime.
all ripe, green, ready as bud learns life's truth.
Gentle winds caressed my newborn virile veins,
allowing me to dance with grace and charm.
Those summer storms with fits of heavy rains,
never came quite near to cause me any harm.
Yet days commenced with winds of colder spell.
My heart experienced the changed condition.
Great beauties born in wooded trees soon fell.
And I released myself to life’s transition.
How thrilling it once was to be a bud!
What happens to a leaf, in wooded mud?
8/1/2026
Copyright © Sian St. John | Year Posted 2026
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Sian St. John Poem
People have called them “dreadlocks.”
I love my husband’s hair of locks, a gift of Nubian treasure.
No dread possesses these,
nor smell of sweating- foul
but aging locks like Samson’s strength,
caressing his narrow buttocks
as glorious raiment rests there.
I touch my fingers to his mane,
in essence rare to feel
with spirit of softness, strong.
No hair dress can compare
to his inherited adornment.
Nothing of dread possesses these locks.
Pressing my lips to sweetness as summer raindrops,
curled in natural spectrum delight,
growing, growing, growing grey, graced,
oiled with generational radiance.
How much I love his countenance,
the moor of blackness to see.
A richness of culture,
Favored daily by The Creator.
Peace! Protection! Provision! My Passions.
Resting on each precisely, numbered lock.
No dread possesses these.
Copyright © Sian St. John | Year Posted 2026
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