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6d · 83
Homecoming
The dewy-eyed moon smiles upon me.
It knows I've returned home.
The mountains lined with termination dust
hark the ending of summer.
Soon the clusters of evergreens
will be coated in snow,
just as they were last winter.
The snow falls flake by flake.
It's in no rush to hit the ground.
It will melt once it does.

The same type of peace
befalls my quiet life.
Slowly I return to old ways.
Like footprints in the snow,
the tread of future days
looks much like those of the past.
6d · 65
Meaning
We will ask the world,
Am I good?
Am I a good person?

And the world will shrug its shoulders
and shake its head.
Who's to say what good is?
Is not the pursuit enough? it will reply.

We will ask the universe,
Am I loved?
Do the ones who I love, love me, too?

And the universe will shrug its shoulders
and shake its head.
Why does it matter?
Is not the act of loving enough? it will sigh.

We will ask the infinite,
Why am I here?
What is the point of it all?

And the infinite shall remain quiet,
waiting for us to find our own
lackluster answer to a half-hearted question.
Nov 6 · 187
Quiet Moments
Jo Barber Nov 6
There are these quiet moments
in the cracks of my life -
driving to work, waiting in line,
daydreaming about nothing in particular.
To live in these moments forever,
with my body and mind
so at ease that nothing
much bothers them.
So quiet I’d remain forever,
listlessly dawdling my time away.
Oct 23 · 182
Beauty
Jo Barber Oct 23
There is a greatness in the world
so fantastic, I can feel it
in the tiniest of moments -
in a strong cup of black coffee;
in the snow-covered mountains
so large and ominous,
it's as though they float;
in one of your gentle smiles or caresses;
in the small breeze of the clean air
that graces me each morning
as the harsh cold outside my door meets me.

There is a beauty in the world
so overwhelming,
I am sure I will never be able
to describe all its wondrous facets,
but at least the world is beautiful enough
to allow me to try.
Oct 6 · 617
Time
Jo Barber Oct 6
Exceedingly underwhelmed,
I found myself in awe
of my own vacant stupidity.
Oh, how we often
fail to grow wiser,
and instead lose
our clear vision
with time,
the way the rain blurs
the window
yet cleans the air.
Sep 12 · 231
Lonely People
Jo Barber Sep 12
Watch the lonely people
as they shuffle about
these solitary, rain-coated streets.

Watch them as they go,
as though you are not one of them.
Sep 6 · 795
You
Jo Barber Sep 6
You
I awoke to the soft sun
of a crisp autumn day.
Feeling your arm around me,
I breathed in your scent,
the most ****** aroma I know.

Leaves are exploring space
as they fall to the ground,
now yellowing with time.
They look so free
as they dance and twirl.

I feel your breath grow heavy
against my neck and you awaken.
Your lips are on mine now,
as I wonder if you think
about the dancing leaves like I do.
Aug 7 · 69
Kiss
Jo Barber Aug 7
There's something about a kiss -
the way that you carry the taste
of them the whole day.
Even hours after,
it seems as though their scent
still lingers,
intermingling again and again with yours.
Jul 23 · 463
Good Days
Jo Barber Jul 23
I feel light and fluffy,
like a pearl-colored cloud,
or like scrambled eggs
whipped to perfection
with butter and cream.

I feel joy everywhere,
even in the tiny crevices
**** feelings try
so hard to hide in.

There's a sun inside of me,
always,
but some days it's overcast
and rains for too long.
Today is different, though.

Light and life are one, and
the sky and the earth
divine and bewitching once more.
Feedback is always appreciated. :)
Jul 16 · 213
Bodies
Jo Barber Jul 16
Bodies seeking bodies.
Flesh longing always,
always,
for more flesh.
Kisses and touches,
once so sweet,
feel empty now.
Keep looking.
Maybe you'll find
something you didn't expect.

Maybe you'll even find yourself.
Jul 3 · 805
Beauty
Jo Barber Jul 3
I was not beautiful.
Too sharply did the features
of my face intermingle,
strong eyebrows jutting
over a too pale face.

But the more I saw of
this strange and magnificent world,
the more beautiful I became.
Every sun setting
over peaceful lakes
at home and abroad,
among strange company
and familiar,
added to my essence.

The cliffs and the rivers
and the sun screaming
its multi-colored cry
above me imbued itself
in my eyes.

The world's beauty filled mine
and I grew light with the burden of such joy.
Jun 27 · 124
Scribbling Away
Jo Barber Jun 27
How many hours
spent scribbling these poems?
How many days wasted
rereading them,
nudging and prodding
each word into its proper place
until it all flowed and sounded...

still not quite right.
Jun 27 · 553
Tired
Jo Barber Jun 27
I grew tired of the sun and the snow;
of the night and the day;
of the right and the wrong.
Lines once so clear
began to blur together.
I grew tired of searching
for something more than what I had.
I grew tired of being happy,
just as I grew tired of being sad.
The days were long,
but nothing felt so long
as the days I spent with you.

Our vacant selves plastered
together in some vain attempt at intimacy.
And yet,
I've never felt further away from someone.
Jun 27 · 163
Oh, Mr. Sandman
Jo Barber Jun 27
If you must sing me a song,
make it soft and gentle enough
for a baby's skin.
If you must shut the lights off,
give me a colorful nightlight
to reflect bouncing shades
about the perimeters of my walls.
If I must sleep,
allow me a sweet, sinking feeling
in the center of my everything
as I drop from reality into dreams.
Jun 20 · 132
Hands of the Clock
Jo Barber Jun 20
The calendar days crossed themselves off,
one by one,
and the hands of the clock
ticked, ticked faster.
I did not know what I wanted,
but  I knew I wouldn't have enough time
to figure it out.
Jun 17 · 364
End of Day
Jo Barber Jun 17
My body twists in reverse,
Each foot perched above me
In an arch on the couch.
A bottle of gin lies to the side,
And a book flutters open
To a dog-eared page of a poem
That’s often been reread.
My eyes droop
Under the weight
Of another day done.
The work is over,
The money is made,
But it must be made again
Tomorrow.

For now,
We sleep.
Jun 17 · 1.2k
Alaskan Summer Sun
Jo Barber Jun 17
The days went fast,
but the nights moved slowly,
like a sad country song
or the Alaskan summer sun -
forever trying to set,
yet never able to do so,
leaving the sky with
the coloring of perpetual dusk.
Jun 17 · 874
Balloons
Jo Barber Jun 17
The world was small,
but the days felt big.
They stretched out before me
like big, beautiful balloons,
just waiting to be popped.

Like a child,
sometimes I let one go;
a waste of something good,
but it certainly was eerily pretty
to watch float off into the ether.
Thoughts? Feedback?
Jun 14 · 1.6k
Mess
Jo Barber Jun 14
What a laugh!
I looked in her eyes
and saw that she was broken.
No one in this world
ever gets enough love.
We bleed our feelings
and silently beg others for help,
but no one ever comes.
Or if they do,
we smile and nod
and bandage our wounds ourselves,
afraid to be vulnerable,
afraid to be human,
afraid to give others the love we so crave.
Jun 12 · 168
Four Hours
Jo Barber Jun 12
Four hours is a funny thing.
In four hours,
I can earn 48 dollars,
or I can shower and make breakfast
while flipping through the pages
of old books
and sipping my bitter coffee.
Four hours...
I suppose some could
save a life or maybe the world
in four hours.
But I cannot.

I can make 48 dollars,
or I can stare at the ceiling
and maybe think big thoughts
and not do much of anything
in four hours.
Jun 11 · 118
Grief Evolved
Jo Barber Jun 11
The air is filled with lilacs and pine.
The summer scents stuffed into the air
overflow with old memories.

I miss my father.
I miss his smile, crooked and hard to win though it was.
I miss his love, warm and abiding.
I miss his broken nose and his gruff wisdom.

These, however, are not gone
but merely transformed.
I feel and see them everywhere.

The rain beats down harder now,
blurring my vision of the cloudy summer day around me.
I love the sound, quickening every second
until I feel like it might break the window pane
and come rushing in.
It reminds me of the day he died,
although he died in November,
and surely it couldn't have been raining...

Grief and time do strange things to the mind;
they bury some things and clarify others.
Prose poetry about my father's death and how my grief continues to evolve. Thoughts and feedback are always appreciated.
**EDITED VERSION
Jun 10 · 113
Music Box
Jo Barber Jun 10
As a I girl, I had
a small music box,
which I played over and over.
I wound it up,
and the ballerina inside
would spin and spin,
her dance and the song
a simple embrace of youth.

There are versions of myself
that I have long since forgotten,
long since forsaken.
The rhythm will find you,
make you into someone new.
But this tune brings me back,
always,
to the little girl
who spent hours watching ballerinas dance.
Jun 10 · 239
Beauty of the Chase
Jo Barber Jun 10
The puffs of air around me
were impossible to catch,
but I jumped along
and snatched at them anyways.
The beauty lay in the chase,
not the capture.
Wild things were meant to be free.
Beauty like that loses its touch if caged.
Jo Barber Jun 5
The leaves all fluttered in imperfect synchronicity.
Like a dance,
unchoreographed,
yet so beautifully so.
The day was filled with flaws,
but the pure, effervescent blue sky
against the too-large green of sprouting trees
made all the rest melt away.
A hill that was covered by snow last month
now screams with yellow dandelions.

When humanity fails,
man may always return
to where we were never meant to leave:
to the blue, green, and yellows of nature.
May 21 · 3.1k
Summer II
Jo Barber May 21
It's hard to feel sad
when the sun shines in rays,
persistent as a mother,
and just as sweet and caring.

Green, microscopic leaves
flutter like the wings of fairies.
If cleanliness is next to godliness,
I feel like I'm in the clouds.
May 18 · 185
Summer
Jo Barber May 18
Azure skies stretch above me,
the sun a fiery devil.
It warms my hands as I drive,
the steering wheel
a permit for freedom.
Apr 18 · 592
Spring Rains
Jo Barber Apr 18
Rain pours down on the windshield,
and leaves rustle in my wake.
It is still cold, the air clinging to the crispness of winter,
but I roll my window down
and feel the pitter-patter of droplets.
Breathe deep the clean essence of life.

Spring is here. And joy begun anew.
All is possible. All is simple once more.
Feb 22 · 861
Death
Jo Barber Feb 22
As her final breaths escaped her,
she felt calmed by the epiphany
that peace would follow her.
Not right away, but it would come.
Sleepy Sunday afternoons,
and days spent without thought.
Her pain now was fleeting,
so corporeal in nature
as to be meaningless.
Her mind as white
as the snow in which she lay.

All was still. All was done.
And all was begun anew.
Feb 13 · 195
Grief
Jo Barber Feb 13
The injustice of death brought all other
injustices to the forefront of consciousness.
For a short time, right and wrong were very
clear and the world was very simple, albeit
false and irreconcilably wrong.
Feb 10 · 261
Writer's Block
Jo Barber Feb 10
The blinking cursor
forever fading in and out,
mocking me
for my inability to create.
The words don't come
as they once did.
Blink. Blink.
It's daring me not
to stop typing,
so I don't.
Words flow.
Ideas flow.

Who can tell if any of it
is any good anymore?
Feb 7 · 193
Heimkehr
Jo Barber Feb 7
A light sprinkling of snow
over mountains high above.
The way it's always been,
but not for me alone.
Why can't I return home,
even while standing in it?
Feb 6 · 520
Home
Jo Barber Feb 6
The leaves change,
and with them the smell
of August floats my way.

The sweet-sour memories
of summer morph into
something new.

Plants die, but they will return.
Fiery red hues infiltrate
old life anew.

Summer love fades;
it wasn't meant to last anyways,
but it bloomed for a time.

The flowers wilt more each day;
In the wind the petals shall blow away.
Earth will later create a new bouquet.

For now, change is all that stays.
I switch between descriptions of nature and life. Both are changing and the speaker is unsure of how they feel about both.
Jan 10 · 795
Lost
Jo Barber Jan 10
Write of lost people,
Of times gone by,
So that you might know,
So that you may remember
The hellos in my goodbyes.
And the goodbyes
In every hello.
Fleetingly and forever,
We stand apart together.
Jan 8 · 494
Selfish Nights
Jo Barber Jan 8
I will miss the quiet, selfish nights,
spent among books and TV and music.
I will miss missing home
while feeling at home
in a foreign country.
I will miss my time being my own
to split between friendships, travel, or nothing.
I will miss the feeling of my own body,
free from the dirt of past indiscretions.
Free to be myself,
foreign though I may be.
Dec 2018 · 248
Rain
Jo Barber Dec 2018
The way the rain splatters
against the windows of the car
as it drifts through the city.
Each droplet looks like a tear
as it streaks its way across the pane.
Dec 2018 · 2.8k
Silent Encounters
Jo Barber Dec 2018
Beads of sweat
curve down the lines
of your neck.
I place my lips to you
and ****.
You tasted sweet,
sweeter than summer strawberries.
I would've gone everywhere with you,
if you had only asked me to.
Sweet, silent nights
spent learning something
words could never teach.
Dec 2018 · 329
Chilly Days
Jo Barber Dec 2018
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 2018 · 820
Home
Jo Barber Nov 2018
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?
Nov 2018 · 1.5k
Barefoot
Jo Barber Nov 2018
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.
Nov 2018 · 236
Splintered Suns
Jo Barber Nov 2018
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.
Nov 2018 · 212
Without You
Jo Barber Nov 2018
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?
Nov 2018 · 64
Single
Jo Barber Nov 2018
Single white female;
5'2, blonde, blue eyes.
Seeking no one -
just a little peace of mind/
piece of meat
to keep her warm at night.
Enjoys reading, travel, and
avoiding conflict.
Dislikes commitment, sleep,
and cats.
Doesn't have her **** together -
drinks a bit too much
and smokes, as well.
Her sailor's tongue
leaves no illusions.

She's trying her best, though,
and certainly there are worse things than that.
Jul 2018 · 1.5k
The Senses
Jo Barber Jul 2018
If the work breaks your back,
then laying down shall be all the sweeter.
And if the noise deafens your ears,
then listen for what cannot be said.
If your skin grows raw from the sun,
make all your touches light and gentle.
If the food tastes of filth,
find joy instead in the fullness of your belly.
If the air is polluted with cigarettes and gas,
plant a flower to fill your nose with sweetness.

If you find yourself alone,
just focus on finding yourself first.
If you are unable to live for yourself,
live for others.
Jul 2018 · 2.9k
Loving
Jo Barber Jul 2018
I fell in love
down by the shore,
where the water was sweet,
and the air even more.

A field of sunflowers
stretched out before us.
You plucked one
and placed it in my hair.
You said I was beautiful,
and I believed you.

Lazy days of smoking joints
and drinking too much
made me melt like butter.
I was lost and now I'm found.
I was alone and now I'm not.

I found myself at the end of myself
and forever continue to do so.
I stole the ending from a previous poem of mine, but I think that it works better here. Thoughts? It still needs some work, but I think the bones of it may have potential..?
Jul 2018 · 192
Youth
Jo Barber Jul 2018
Charming and beautiful,
glowing with iridescent youth,
they swarm about me
in their languid days.
Some wear all black.
Others adorn themselves
with baubles
and rainbows of color.

No matter how fair their skin,
or clothes or speech -
no matter how rich
or poor they were born,
they are all the same.

The clock ticks for each
at an indifferent pace.
Jul 2018 · 476
Stars
Jo Barber Jul 2018
I have as many flaws
as there are stars in the sky.
Mine are not nearly as beautiful,
yet I love them just the same.
Jul 2018 · 860
City Life
Jo Barber Jul 2018
Roaring skyscrapers.
Businessmen shuffling papers.

Beautiful women with stilts for legs.
Maids making rich men's beds.

Runners swoosh by with grace.
Everybody a brand new face.

It's all too easy to leave no trace.
Dear God, what a place!
Jul 2018 · 531
Loneliness
Jo Barber Jul 2018
Don't let it define you.
Wield it as a weapon -
as both sword and shield.
Be happy for no reason,
so that there will always
be cause for joy.

Don't let the noise of others
drown out the music that is you.
Jul 2018 · 294
Colorado Summer Night
Jo Barber Jul 2018
Stars in sky,
Plane flys above.
Lightning thunders below,
Flashing and dancing
From cloud to cloud.
Silence and darkness,
Then an explosion
Of light and expression.
A Colorado summer night.
Jul 2018 · 214
Purple Flowers
Jo Barber Jul 2018
A women boarded the same subway stop as me today.
She wore a white, flowing shawl with tiny purple flowers on it
that stretched down to her knees.
She reminded me of my childhood and of my mother in her thirties.
She held a grocery bag with daffodils in it,
and I felt she was something rather special.

Perhaps we had been joined in each other's lives
for these fifteen minutes,
for some strange reason,
much unbeknownst to the two of us.
I tried to figure it out,
but ran out of time,
and as we emerged from the station,
she walked north,
and I went east.
Maybe I'll never know.
Maybe she was just a woman
with a white shawl and purple flowers.
Prose-ish poetry. Thoughts?
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