Memories of Dad’s Red Barn.

In the middle of the city.

Photo by Josie Weiss on Unsplash

EDITOR’S NOTE:

this is a very, fictitious poem, which may or may not have any fictitious truth to it. I will say this, Dad was in the war, straight out of Arkansas. When he returned home, he did eventually get another red barn. And the most truthful of fact of all, Dad, did love his grandkids.

from the desk of Wire-Editor Newman

My dad grew up in the Ozarks of Arkansas.

The one thing Dadwas proud of, on his farm.

Was a hand built, Rickety,

Old, Red Barn.

Dad moved to the city after the War,

But he found so many rules,

And too many Property Standards Galore.

He would never see. His old red barn again, nevermore.

Years had passed.

And I had become a young man,

I could see Dad was missing the country,

I began to understand.

The one thing he missed most,

From his Ozark farm,

Were his memories,