Red City Barn

Incessant,
the serenata of engines
rolling down and up Broadway
lulls me from sleep;

except on Friday nights.

At the dawn of each weekend,
the commuting symphony
is accompanied by duets
(and trios)
all pissed off and calling for blood,
a cappella.

How I long for the song of island winds…

“Bitch!
You knew he was with me.
But tramps only care for themselves.”

“I didn’t know.
Do I talk like an ignorant tramp?
Do I dress like a tramp?
No, that’s you.”

“You two deserve each other.
I hope he treats you real bad
and screws you worse.”

How I long for the song of Caribbean crickets…

When the concerto
of cars and buses and drunk romance
gets too loud, I change direction.

I place the lively pub patrons at my back
and focus on the redemption
of my bit of city:

for even on the darkest of nights,
I can see the barn through trees and shadows,
conjure up the red of its walls,
and feel the gaze of horses
widening the grin on my face.

I will always long for the song
of island winds,
of Caribbean crickets,
of a palmwood cottage
settling for the night…

But while I’m grinning at my Red City Barn,
the longing is just bittersweet nostalgia,
for childhood songs now gone.
.

for Dee

linked to Sanaa’s Prompt Nights, A Cup of Nostalgia

in Poetry Jam,
Brian Miller wanted to know a secret
that made my city special

Red Barn

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Red Barn Gate

Soft Parts Exposed

Sharp wiry fingers
reached under my Muse’s skirt.
They ripped and tore
bloody chunks of words;
left her screaming,
“Rape!”

I was rage-shocked.

The rage metamorphosed into hurt
that forced me onto my back;
limbs flailing,
my soft parts exposed…
violated.

 

for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads’ weird platform

by SunshineShelle

“Tears of Blood”, by SunshineShelle