Much like at the end of the night,
when the drunken feeling has faded
along with the lights,
we were no longer blazing
with the mad joy of youth.

We did not become geniuses,
but we could've,
and that was almost enough.
Maybe we were all fools,
but it didn't matter then.
We drank and we laughed
and days were simple,
as youth always should be.

We were horribly unhappy,
eternally dissatisfied,
and yet it was a joyous time
of discovery and rehabilitation.
How I long to return,
and yet never would.
Feedback? Thoughts?
Gust of wind
sweeps up leaves,
carries them to
the end of the street.

The biting air,
each breath turns to smoke.
On simple days,
beauty unfolds.

Lights sparkle
around every corner.
Looking for love,
finding it always near.

Life once again
becomes so clear.
  Nov 28 Jo Barber
Traveler
This is indeed a poem
But...
It's actually all about me
A selfish sort of plea
I want to be loved
And no offence my friend
Not just by your invisible
Being from above

Rather the fleshly kind
Two sets of bedroom eyes
Two hearts intertwined
Two souls living
A beautiful rhyme
In and out of time

Then again, I'll accept
Any kind of love
My empty hands
Can actually touch
Even a traveler
In his long journeys
Could use a crutch
.......
Traveler Tim


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e2LkLshrXh8
Jo Barber Nov 28
Home is not a place.
Home is not a person,
nor a season, nor a taste.
Home is elusive.
I can’t tell if I’m running
towards it or away.
I grow older each day,
aware only of
the confusion
that resides within me.

Home may not be a place,
But it is not where I am.
Feedback?
Jo Barber Nov 26
I remember how the floor felt on my feet.
Cold and bare,
I walked the halls at night
for a warm glass of milk
before bed.
You were always up,
and surprised I was, too.
I liked your crooked nose
and your too-big teeth.
You taught me beauty -
how little and how much it matters.

I liked the way the floor felt those days,
cold against my bare feet.
Jo Barber Nov 23
When the sun rises, when the sun sets;
When the moon is full, when the sky is empty,
I think of you.
When I cross the Eagle River or climb Mt. Baldy,
the sun splintering into pieces above the world,
I think of you.
I think of you in Germany or Alaska,
with friends or alone,
when happy or sad;
I miss you all the same.
One year, two years, three years...
Nothing and everything's changed.

Life is long.
Forgetting feels like a betrayal.
Jo Barber Nov 19
Wherever I go,
I go without you.
You told me I could visit
whenever I wished.
A kind lie, to be sure.
But a lie,
nonetheless.

If grief is a wave,
then when will the water ever still?
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