Choosing my words carefully

 Has never been my strength

 I’ve been known to be vague

 And often pointless

But you sure as shit know me

 Better than anybody else

 And for that in my heart I am hopeful

So I helped you pack your bags

 And I folded up your snap shirts

 And when you come back

 It will already be the winter

If you look at other girls

 Working out in the nighttime

I don’t mind but I don’t wanna know it

And these years that I have known you

It’s gone and blurred my sense of time

And now I can hardly even recall

What came before this

Letters left on pillows

Messages left on phones

And the postcards in the mail

When we sent them

Cobwebs all collected

Paintings on the walls

Lounging around all day

In a hot pink chenille housecoat

And the secrets that I whispered

In your ear while you were sleeping

You can call to mind

When you’re out in the world without me

Oh, the denim king

Oh, the denim king

And I sure as shit do love you

And I cuss because I mean it

And for that in my heart I am hopeful

And these words that I chose I was so careful

—Kathleen Edwards

—Winston Churchill

Call me superstitious, but there are times when you come to mind so suddenly that I’m almost sure you’re thinking of me.

sharingpoetry:

One of the objects I’ve treasured most in my life
Is this letter scale which, long ago, you gave me.
I was an active correspondent at the time,
Even sending lots of letters overseas.
While still enjoying the pleasure of going to the post,
I now had another: assessing exactly, in advance,
At my counter, the cost of packets and envelopes,
To which, price list in hand, I stuck my stamps.
I use it less these days, this quite simple device
Graded with little marks up to a whole pound,
For my mailings rarely still exceed the price
Of an ordinary stamp. The tray of polished metal’s now
Covered with dust, without the slightest hint
That the red pointer marking the weight on the front
Has budged. But in the long run, one would, I think,
Discern a difference and see how much the months
Were worth in terms of dust, the seasons elapsed
Since the previous weighing. But having been seized,
Suddenly, just this morning, by a tremendous attack
(Annual) of cleaning, from which nothing is released,
I restored to the tray’s slightly concave stainless steel,
That ever so slightly distorted mirror, its polished shine.
It reflected all of the sky, through which clouds reeled,
And I could confirm that space does not weigh more than time.

(Source: blogut)

sharingpoetry:

So long I have been carrying myself
Carefully, carefully, like a small child
With too much water in a real glass
Clasped in two hands, across a space as vast
As living rooms, while gazes watch the waves
That start to rile the little inland sea
And slap against its cliffs’ transparency,
Revise and meet, double their amplitude,
Harmonizing doubt from many ifs.
Distant frowns like clouds begin to brood.
Soon there is overbrimming. Soon the child
Looks up to find a face to match the scolding,
And just as he does, the vessel he was holding
Is almost set down safely on the bookshelf.

(Source: web.ncf.ca)

blazingdynamite:

Things I love:

1. You
2. You
3. You
4. And you