The Umbrella - at his left
He still holds his umbrella slightly to the left,
As if she’s still there.
He’s still trying to keep her from getting wet.
He looks to the skies and sees the grey
And heads out with a skip.
It’s raining today and she’ll need someone to keep her from getting wet.
He pops it open, barely wetting his shoes.
The thunder claps, the drops fall heavy,
And today’s the day, he’ll be the “who” that she’ll need to keep her from getting wet.
She wasn’t there when he arrived at her door.
Oh, what a painful thing to forget.
That’s she dead and gone, and he yells it more, “I should have kept her from getting wet!”
One thing he promises, like he does everyday; it‘s so easy to forget,
That when he dies, he will surely keep that umbrella to his left,
Even if it is all soggy and wet.
He’ll hold it there, all wrapped up beside him,
As people go by, they’ll stop and stare.
They’ll stare at him and his umbrella in the coffin and wonder why it‘s there.
He won’t care if they make a joke or stop and ask out “Why?”
Cause that’s the thing he used to keep her from getting wet
and that’s the reason why.
Notes on Doors
You’ve really got something,
Something right there in your eyes.
The cobblestone roads, the snow-ridden roads I’d go
To be something they’d fix upon, for only a spell in time.
And if you’d let them,
If you’d let them hold their gaze,
You’d see that I’m “her,”
The one you’re meant to see for the rest of your days.
It’s silly, I know.
All-ridiculous-and-such,
But I really mean it and I’d do
A-whole-hell-of-a-lot
To be right there at the-end-of-your-touch.
I know you’ve got places to be
And girls to pick from;
They’re all lining up in flimsy dresses,
But don’t ever forget:
That’d I’d crawl up the miles,
For my knees won’t work,
Just to arrive
And knock on your front door.
And on that door, I know I’ll be proud to see
A note that’s there, that you have
Written for me.
I’ll grab and squint at the blurred ink as I read;
“I need you in here, the only one I’ll see.”
I’ll know it’s me you’ve wanted for;
The only one you’ll see.
Cause I’m the one who’s at your door,
For all the pretty snowflakes to see.
Knocking
If you knocked on my door, I’d let you in without even a blink.
And I’d let you fix yourself a drink.
And I’d pull out my trundle bed,
And I’d let you fall asleep.
And I’d line up the stars and tell them to get-in-order!
And I’d let you pick one from the sky
And I’d wrap it up in mortar,
And you could take it home, as a memory from that one time:
That you knocked on my door, and I let you in without so much as a blink.
And I’d do it again tomorrow, because now, I wouldn’t even have to think.
Whiskey Cure
She had never been drunk before, until she looked in this mirror.
Her cheeks were blushed, her lips, they shone
As if to say, “come hither.”
That’s not at all how she wanted it to go,
But here she was standing,
With this shot-glass-of-whiskey and her heart started panting.
Another walked in ready to cure her of her sin.
He gave her an apothecary’s look.
He took her home, laid her up, and off-the-whiskey he shook.
He told her that “she was just-alright,”
And that “she’d feel better in the morning,
But she’d have to stay for the night.”
(that he didn’t have to say; that she liked just fine.)
And as he shut the door, fluffed his pillow,
And decided to stay for a spell;
He blew out the light and thought of the night, and the whiskey on her breath.
He’d been an alright one to take care of the girl right next to him
And he knew that he didn’t mind the scent she left on his sheets and the hair she left on his pillow case, that would reveal themselves in morning’s light.
(that he didn’t have to say; that he liked just fine.)
2:03
I found out who I want to be;
Last night, somewhere around 2:03.
It ain’t no doctor,
It ain’t no poet,
It ain’t no King-of-Philosophy
It’s just a life spent rocking in a chair, with you right next to me.
I thought about that life
And who I want to be
And how I want to wear your flannel shirt and open our cabin door,
And here is what we’ll see:
A tree, some grass, a snowfall or two,
A lake in the view, a swing swinging, too,
A circle of smoke hangin’ round about our chimney top,
A barn with a bed with a quilt lying on top,
And a dog who comes running when we call her name,
and we’ll make sure to call it a lot.
I think you know what you want
And oh, how I hope it is the same.
Because right at 2:08, a cabin I went out and bought
And a dog I went out and named.
Yes, that’s exactly what I want, and it took me five minutes to know
That it‘s nothing but:
Our love in the fire that heats our cabin up,
Our love in the grain of the wood that builds the fire up,
Our love in the wind that fans up the flames;
It sounds real-super-special, but it’s just our love, all the same.
I sure did find out who I want to be, right there at the stroke of 2:03.
I hope you read this, and I hope you know, that there’s something pretty great about hyphenating
“you-and-me.”
Reconfirmation
I’d love you, I’m almost certain.
I’d love you, and you’d love me just as sure as the dust hangin’ in that curtain.
When you have my love, know that there won’t be anything better than this
Cause my love is loyal and like a good-pup it’ll sit.
Boy-oh-boy, if we could just get it together,
I know we’d be getting it right.
Cause I’d tell you things like this, morning, noon, and night:
I’d love you the way that strawberries love summer,
I’d love you the way that you should really love a lover.
I’d love you the way that grapes in jelly love peanut-butter
I’d love you the way that the cold wind loves to see us shudder.
I’d love you the way that the barkeep loves his shiny bourbon bottle,
I’d love you the way that the wisteria loves to coddle.
I’d love you the way that the icicle loves to drip,
I’d love you the way that the gun loves a grip.
And you’d know it, when our love was revealed,
When we say it, and we know it’s really real.
But let me tell you something, sweet love of mine,
That my love will whip like a turpentine.
Cause, you see, as good as I can list,
My love will be better, and you’ll open the door and out it you’ll shout,
into that cold morning mist:
“There is nothing! no strawberries in summer, no lovers loving lovers, no grape jelly loving peanut-butter, no cold wind loving a shudder, no barkeep loving his bourbon bottle, no wisteria loving to coddle, no icicle loving his drip, no gun loving the hand that grips, that could ever compare to the way that I love the love that I am in.”
And when the townspeople look around in confusion,
Wondering how love could be better than those in that list,
You’ll reconfirm what you said, as you holler out:
“There ain’t nothin’ better than this.”
Special-sort-of
It’s an ordinary day, in an ordinary place, but let me tell you something;
I see a special-sort-of-look in your face.
It’s somewhere right there in your eyes, both left and right.
It’s a special-sort-of-twinkle, it bounces round about as your head tilts toward the light.
I don’t know if it means anything, I’m probably just lookin’ for clues,
And here’s the thing, I don’t really know you, no matter how much I want to.
But I can tell you that on my list, getting to know you -
well, it’s the number one thing that I’d like to do, in fact, that’s my number one wish.
Summer Whispered, She Whispered to Me
Yesterday, I thought I heard Summer whisper.
I thought I heard her say that she was whipping her currents, ready to blow-on-in.
She told me she was ready-and-waitin’ and that she’d be here soon, hugging me like my next-of-kin.
So I’m going to wait up, with my ear on the door, cause I don’t want to miss her.
Last night, I know I heard Summer whisper.
She said:
“Gather your skin, all pale and gaunt, and let me kiss it with my warmth. Gather your hats and suits made for swimming cause I’m coming real soon, but then I will be leaving. So gather your sweaters and don’t let ‘em get too far, because I’ll be gone, like the whisper of me that you first heard. I know it breaks your heart, to see my green grass fade to brown, but don’t worry too long, cause just like history, I’ll be coming back around.”
Antiqued Lines
Don’t come to my door, bringing me roses.
No, that’s the last thing that I want,
But if you did bring me roses, they’d be the best I’d ever got.
Don’t buy me some shining diamond
That’s all brand-new.
The one that I want will be an heirloom.
Because it’d mean the world,
That sign hanging in our minds,
That my hand fits the simple ring that rested on your grandmother’s hand for all-of-this-time.
And how incredible to know,
That when our life is drawing to a close,
That the simple ring will fit the hand of the one that our progeny chose.
And there it will be, that simple ring;
Living on and carrying through the next-in-line
Those sweet and simple memories
Of you-and-me curving around the antiqued lines.
Your Door
I can’t. I can’t shake you.
You’re there when I close my eyes
You’re there when I open them back up.
Oh, what a pity.
Cause you’re so damn close, but I can’t just show up.
But what if I did?
What if I used my key to get into your door.
And I didn’t announce myself, like I had been there before.
And I acted all normal, like it was completely such;
That I was meant to be there and we sat down and ate lunch.
But what if you had someone else?
Oh, what a pity.
That I couldn’t take.
No, that I won’t be able to take.
If you have someone else in mind, don’t tell me. Think of my sake.
Let’s just pretend like it’s all normal-and-such
And we’ll sit down in the kitchen and have lemonade with our lunch.
Cause that’s all I want.
I just want to be the one that gets to walk through your door.
I hope it’s me, and I hope it’s not too much to ask for.
Well, if you’re reading this, you’ve made it to the end of an obnoxiously long post. but it means the world that you did it, and, really, I should give you some sort of a gift for doing so. feel free to head back on over to Facebook and let me know how it made you feel. thanks for taking the time.
Yours,
katie beth
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