Dogwood
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
Nesting
Nesting
We carve a nest in the wheat behind your parent’s house and lay there at dusk waiting for the stars to fill the indigo void left by the setting sun speaking in half-whispers the tender sincerity of your words filling my head with the thought of what it would be like to kiss you pulling your hair gently behind your ear the Harvest moon shining softly on the nape of your neck your mother calling out for us in the darkness the cicadas singing their summer song from the shadows of the trees which line the river of my no return.
Charles Coakley Simpson
Poise
Poise
And yet not even the rose
knows of its beauty.
But simply how to be—a flower.
Charles Coakley Simpson
The Clown
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
Ambiguity
Are we not meant for mystery
that we wander the corridors of our hearts—
Searching for love
Charles Coakley Simpson
Vespers
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
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
Thistles
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
Comprehensive
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
Lust
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
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
Cottonwood
Cottonwood
Where are my words–are they lost on the wind,
that ours have suddenly gone still?
For I have found myself beneath your dreaming
and your hold on my heart is my will.
Your sway is soothing, your whispers are warm,
and there is no place rather I’d be.
Than caught beneath the comfort of your dreaming
contemplating—if you dream about me.
If your dream is a wish of a kiss that you missed
then certainly your dreaming is true.
For of all of the wished of the kisses I’ve missed
know they have all been dreamt
Of you
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
Charles
Outlandos d'Amour 
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