Posts tagged “Compassion

Dogwood

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Dogwood

for Sarah

We are but poor passing fates,
that I could not love you any more
than I do right now.
For  I know of nothing in this world
so sad—or so beautiful
as your branches heavy with rain.

Charles Coakley Simpson


1-900-Anxiety

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1-900-Anxiety

I get my therapy over the phone—
She pushes happy pills between cam shows.
“Take two of these
and call me in the morning…  Darlin’.”
I receive the anti-depressants
through the mail in a plain brown wrapper.
The sensation of silk
feels good against my naked skin,
but what I really needed—was a Valium.

Charles Coakley Simpson


Seashell

tumblr_mlz8dkPn4h1sptnddo1_500Seashell

My little heart of pink and pearl
bourn from bed of coral,
Deepest in blue I remember you
a shellfish with a soul.

Tiny crustacean, cerulean elation,
found is your way to me.
‘Cross whitened sands into my hands
a siren sad of sea.

Shallows roared, washed ashore
abandoned and alone.
Yet ‘tis within your kiss that I remiss,
your mother calls you—
Home.

Charles Coakley Simpson


The Clown

 

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The Clown

And so they laughed at your expense—
Giggled when you tripped,
chuckled as you fell,
and applauded while you wept.

Still—there is nothing softer than your heart
except for your soul sad with tears.

And I shall find you when you are lost,
love you when you are lonely,
and lift your heart up in spirit so you know—

You will always have the key—

To mine.

Charles Coakley Simpson


Ambiguity

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Ambiguity

Are we not meant for mystery
that we wander the corridors of our hearts—
Searching for love

Charles Coakley Simpson


Vespers

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Vespers

Wake me with a kiss,
and stir my dreams with lips brush.
Might that I feel–
the soft, tender press–of loves flower.
Between the unturned  pages
of my heart

Charles Coakley Simpson


Three Days in Bed with a Stranger

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Three Days in Bed with a Stranger

The morning light is dark with rain.
There is an unfinished tattoo
on her left shoulder.
And I remember
you closing the door on us.
Your words hung in the air for days,
like this Louisianan heat.
As if saying that you still loved me
would set things right.
There is an unfinished tattoo
on her left shoulder.
In the dark. I am grateful.
That our scars don’teven matter

Charles Coakley Simpson


Comprehensive

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Comprehensive

It has been long–I think, since I held you.
And wrapped myself warmly
Within the soft, white blanket of your skin.

Charles Coakley Simpson


Cricket

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Cricket

Out of the distance, through my darkness,
I listened quietly for the solitude in your summer’s night song.
And yet I never knew where upon your heart did lie.
Had it only belonged to me, for in that fleeting moment I knew
That I was never truly
Alone

Charles Coakley Simpson


Plush

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Plush

Thus awakened
within arms womb–Embraced.
I am locked timelessly in amniotic warmth
Without condition–Immaculate
Therefore suspended–I am thus weightless
except for the delicate influence
Of a whisper

Charles Coakley Simpson


Mistress

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Mistress

My comfort does lie not
in the compassion of your companionship,
even as I lay the weight of my heart on your shoulder,
but in the deep knowledge of the promise
that you will never say
“I love you.”

Charles Coakley Simpson


Thorns

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Thorns

Such is the threnody of thistles–
That we are always hurting the ones we love
only to be left to love the ones we hurt
when we are simply always only hurting to be
Loved

Charles Coakley Simpson


The Catharsis of Love

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The Catharsis of Love

Have we been any less loving—than kind?
When it was love we wanted, there was no love to give,
and yet when there was love to give–it was not the love we wanted.
Thus the love we receive is no more than–
The love we deserve

Charles Coakley Simpson


Rapture

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Does beauty sleep alone—
that all her leaves have fallen in the night?
Her trees shivering quietly within their newfound nakedness,
and yet not so immodest is the wind as it caresses
the starkness of her limbs now bare.

Clouds churn in the half-light.
Rolling barrels of thick, black smoke spinning silently on the horizon.
Like oil upon water; they delicately contort the dawn
with the soft and wistful mutiny of their unspoken revelations.

The sun begrudgingly awakens,
his pride subdued by the currents of reckless circumstance.
Therefore,  not but a shadow of its self, he clambers listlessly into the sky
treading the waters of his own light.

And the streets scurry with ocher—
The umberlings of motherless children chased along by the wind.
The air—indifferent, is yet sweet with their laughter,
and I am haunted by the inflection, as her soul gathers in the twilight
of my shadow.

Charles Coakley Simpson