Snowflake
Snowflake
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
Feathers
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
After the Rain
After the Rain
When once tears did fall–
that we were embraced by the joy of intimacy,
and yet the deluge which befalls us now
is not for the want we have of holding each other still,
but that we never held each other
Enough
Charles Coakley Simpson
Rafters
Rafters
What was the elevation of my heart,
except that it rode on the wings of your words.
And yet there was no “good” in goodbye that we said good night
when all I ever needed to hear you say was–
“I love you.”
Charles Coakley Simpson
The Catharsis of Love
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
Mortality
Mortality
Merciful thread of Grace–
Why hast thou bound me with Fate?
Not e’en Destiny can show me fair recourse.
Thus will come a day, when I shall look back on today
only to know that tomorrow will ne’er
Come
Charles Coakley Simpson
Ashes
Ashes
There are no birds today–
clouds wither slowly along the horizon,
and in the distance–the delicate sound of thunder.
Might it simply be the wings of angels having stole you away,
or the torment that tears tenderly at my heart
knowing that the world is too big
Without you
Charles Coakley Simpson
December
December
Here lies my lament–
deep beneath the cold-hard ground
where the lilacs bloom
Charles Coakley Simpson
Vesna
Vesna
And thus I die–like the wind
in your arms, Beloved.
Tumbling like the kiss which falls
from your lips–descending
softly, slowly, sweetly.
Lingering lovingly on each limb;
like a leaf that trembles
with the loss of your embrace.
Charles Coakley Simpson
The Dead
The Dead
Lying in the cold-hard bed, he waits for sleep to take him.
The snow falls quietly outside his window and yet the night is filled with the sounds of darkness–a lover’s quarrel, the alibi of a passing train, the shriek and cry of a forgotten child, and still he lies there waiting—waiting for sleep to take him, a name sitting voicelessly on his lips.
And in the shadows he longs for her touch. He imagines her beside him–face shrouded in the half-light; the sheets delicately forming the line of her hip. She lies in silence beneath his watch–silent like the edge of night where the wind is still and the trees do not speak.
His heart trembles to be next to her. His eyes follow the nakedness, climbing the curve of her spine, crossing the breadth of her shoulders, and pressing his lips gently into the crescent of her throat he remembers how her kisses used to taste like moonlight and mercy.
And the snow continues to fall quietly–scurrying down the empty streets, huddling into the darkened doorways, covering the green fields where the trees used to fly up to the birds and still he lies there waiting–waiting for sleep to take him–to where the lilacs bloom.
The clock chimes madly in the darkness.
Charles Coakley Simpson
Charles
Outlandos d'Amour 
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