Posts tagged “Longing

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


California Dreamin’

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Cali was a cute little surfer girl from Santa Ana.
She was about this tall, had a sweet laugh, great smile,
deliriously long sun-bleached hair,
and a nice, tight little IM.

We liked to pretend we were in love.

She used to send me photos
of herself in the Victoria’s Secrets dressing room
at the mall with her iPhone
while she was sitting in Physics class.

“There’s more where that came from,”
she would wink.

She took me for a drive one night—
just her, her iPhone, and I.
We ended up out on the beach where
she lay me out beside her on a blanket, flipped me open,
and began texting with a warm, seductive voice
into my ear.

I thought I was roaming.

“Touch me—here,” she teased.
And forwarded me a photo of the inside of her thigh.

I was all thumbs.

I moved my hand slowly up the inside of her LCD.
She giggled as I started caressing her Instagram application.

Do you love me?” She purred.

“I thought we were pretending.” I replied.

Charles Coakley Simpson


Ghazal

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for Triin

Longing is the agony of the nearness of the distant. —  Martin Heidegger

The wind caresses me in the winter of the night with the nearness of the distant,
while memory wraps me, warmly, like a blanket of wool, with  the nearness of the distant.

Your eyes: grey stars , a pallor in the darkness that leads me through the absence,
a chiaroscuro, an unfolding of shadows, where I meet you in the nearness of the distant.

There, standing with the crows, your hair windswept with the color of the wheat,
I walk alongside you through the forest of the trees of moss in the nearness of the distant.

A great, golden spire rises up out of the fog, and a snow lays lazily on rooftops.
A sea embraces a sleepy fishing village as my windmills turn in the nearness of the distant.

The wind caresses me in the winter of the night, and yet I hear the singing of bees.
I am the sparrow caged by the snow laden limbs of its tree, but  I will meet you—always,
In the nearness of the distant.

Charles Coakley Simpson

 


Snowflake

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Single, solitary angel of wing
sifting softly, slowly sadly thou bring
Mine heart tumbling, trembling tragically down
As thou makes thy journey
To the ground.

Fleeting, frozen feather of white
Doest thine heart shine with the sun and light
That a cloud of high did set thee free
Hast thou fallen from the sky into the heart
Of me.

Wisps of whimsical wintry wind
Thou rides ‘round mine head as doest thou spin
Powdery kisses perfectly placed
The lilting of thy lace ‘pon
My face.

Touch, tease, tickle my nose
Lay ‘pon my tongue thy bittersweet ambrosia
For alas my endearments warm I fear
Are to leave me to be holding what ‘tis only thy
Tear.

Charles Coakley Simpson


Fate

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Fate

What is the fault in our stars
that could I have held you but once,
I would have held you forever
If ever I was destined—to hold you  at all

Charles Coakley Simpson


Seashell

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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


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


Intimacy

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Intimacy

Even in the dark I think of you—
That these shadows have made me long for your touch.
Might that I wrap myself in the soft, white blanket of your skin,
your whispers tumbling warmly into my ear.
And yet as I consider the tenderness within your voice
It is only the sound of my heart—trembling
To be next to you.

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


The Memory

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The Memory

I had thought to capture the moment,
However fragile. However fleeting.
And feel it move between the palms of my hands.
Soft and silent, like a moth.
With wings fluttering–yet frightened.
as it searches for light–
Within the darkness of my skin.

 

Charles Coakley Simpson


Feathers

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Feathers

When I hear    the sound
of sadness.     And the light     is broken
by the silence.    Of the trees.
I know    all the birds      have flown     Away.
Their wings like words     whispering
Your     name

Charles Coakley Simpson


Twilight

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Twilight

The bridge between
dusk and dawn
is merely the distance
transversed
from my lips to yours

Charles Coakley Simpson


Thistles

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Thistles

Might the thorn
be as fragrant as the flower,
that the paradox of love is in the irony of its pain.
Thus I am drawn into a garden of thistles
where even the rose is entangled within its vine
that I cannot deny my passion
for beauty

Charles Coakley Simpson


Aubade

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Aubade

And it is not the radiance of the dawn
which stings my weary eyes,
but the passing of  yester-eve’s touch as I leave you
to tremble like the leaves with
Light

Charles Coakley Simpson