Posts tagged “Passion

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


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


Lust

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Lust

To want you is never enough to know you–
What it is to touch you, to hold you,
to wake up in arms of which I do not wish to stir.
As I am neither the light in your eyes, nor the wind in your hair.
And yet you are ever the warmth in my arms at night,
even though I can only hold you–
In my heart

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


Rafters

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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


Apricot in Red Wine

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Apricot in Red Wine

for Alicia

She lay wrapped in a soft-white blanket,
imagining how warm it would be–her back against his chest,
their bodies curved around each other.
She has this addicting idea that his thumbs will fit perfectly
into the groove of her hips–his breath on her neck.
Leading him by the hand to her bedroom,
she silently lets him undress her, promising to be quiet,
to be quiet enough that no one will hear
Her naked soul

Charles Coakley Simpson


Poetry

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Poetry

The moment before the kiss
where I linger in the silence of intimacy.
Thus my eyes caress you with a delicate obsession
as I am smitten with tender anticipation;
that to want you is to need you for I live to adore you,
and yet I never knew I could love you–
Even more

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


Plum

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Plum

Purse of passion–
fill my mouth with sweet reward.
And thus mind you not these lips pressed
as I lay my cheek on thigh’s pillow.
For it is the tongue which plays ardently in your garden,
exploring the virtues of smoothen skin,
divining for wine—
Sublime

Charles Coakley Simpson


Infatuation

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Infatuation

Speak to me in colors–
thus tinted are the windows to your soul.
Might that I marvel in the mystery
as it skirts ‘cross their pond.
And yet stilled are the words; they lie like copper
upon my tongue–tarnished.
For I cannot find them enough to say
“I love you.”

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


Vesna

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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