Monday, February 7, 2011

I often picture my grandpa's barn.
Although I have never seen him...
I imagine a field of magenta grain
On an eerie moonlit night.
Shards of glass reflecting the sky.
Sharp and piercing,
As if he were grimacing and mocking, looking upon.
Envisioning a red lit room
A madam's parlor hidden in the glow
And all the women he captured in the meadow.
Lurk about somewhere in the midst
Hidden  below.
If I listen carefully I hear their shrill cries
Beyond the bridge  
What happened in this barn I may never ponder.
But I'll cling on to the neon signs that linger.
 Posted for One Stop Poetry: Sunday

photo by:Sean McCormick you can see more of his work at 
One Stop Poetry


  1. wow that is a bit scary...the women he captured and you still hear them..yikes.

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  3. Pure imagination Brian...with all due respect to my grandpa...the man I truly never knew...

  4. Wow! what an imagination! I want to hear the rest of the story lol! ~.^ Helena