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Jo Barber Apr 2018
Words. Words. What an odd word, the word word is.
It has vowels and deep sounds.
It grumbles and roars.
The sounds percolate in my mouth,
Unfamiliar, yet free.
And it comes to a close,
my wits at an end.
But what end?
Where have they ended?
Where does it stop?
Stop. Stop. Stop.
And begin again.
Jo Barber Apr 2018
Sometimes you hurt like a needle,
sometimes like a knife.
Sometimes I can't bear to look at you.
Sometimes you're all I can look at.
Jo Barber Apr 2018
And those arms,
they were big enough for us all,
though you wouldn't have thought it by looking at them.
One ****** Thanksgiving night,
when all the other children slept
turkey-filled dreams,
we wept in those arms.
She wrapped us tight,
so that the events of the night
wouldn't hurt us any longer.
One ******, Thanksgiving night,
she did her best to make everything all right.
Jo Barber Apr 2018
Where do I start?
Where do I end?
I keep thinking
my life will never begin.
I need to stop blinking
because it all hurts like hell.
I'll never see you again.
I'll never see
you
again.
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm sorry

Can I say it again?
I'm sorry.
Jo Barber Mar 2018
That ragged blue couch
Is held together by nothing
more than habit.

You walk towards me,
a warm drink in hand.
The steam floats up, up, up,
twirling and dancing
like the ballerina in my old music box.

The window hangs open,
a summer breeze blows in.
The air is soft and blue,
cooling with each darkening hour.

Do you remember it so?
No?

It was the last summer before the funeral
and speeches, each word with less meaning
than the next.
It was the last summer of sun
and silence so sweet.
Of iced tea and long walks through the streets.
The last summer of fires and marshmallows,
and of Patsy Cline, oh so fine.

It was the last summer
on that old, blue couch,
a summer wind blowing,

with you there.
This is a revision of a former poem of mine about my father's death.
Jo Barber Mar 2018
Feel my body.
How it curves and lifts,
how it can be sweet or bitter.
Put your hands about me
and warm your body against mine.
How strong,
how rich,
how smooth I am!
I can reduce any man to despondency.
Once he gets a sip of me,
he'll never let go.
My scent sends you to tears,
I know.
How moody you grow without me!
You could choose tea,
but where would you be
without little ol' coffee?
It's a love poem to coffee. :)
Please let me know if any of the parallels don't make much sense. I welcome the constructive criticism! It's still a work in progress.
Jo Barber Mar 2018
Things fall apart.
People fall apart,
slowly at first.
And then all at once,
until they're just dust
and ashes.
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