Outlandos d'Amour

A Certain Slant of Light

2011-10-31T08:10:00.002-05:00

Emily Dickinson was born the middle child in a prominent Amherst, Massachusetts family on December 10th 1830 and passed away on May 15, 1886. Sadly, only a smattering of her poems was published in her lifetime. The body of her work was discovered posthumously by her sister Lavina, bound in hand-stitched pamphlets. However, Emily Dickinson is considered to be one of America’s greatest poets. The mystique which surrounds her life has made her and her poetry a subject of scholarly research for decades. However, the appeal of Emily Dickinson is truly in the simplicity of her life and sincerity of which her poetry was written.

Dickinson’s poetry has a disarming innocence, a childlike quality which might even exhibit an underlying desire to remain a child. However, it is equally as disciplined as her childhood was. Her verses, although eccentric are quite structured; her punctuations, although perplexing are consistent. However, her imagery is soft yet vivid, her words are gentle yet profound, and her rhyme and meter are lyrical yet arrhythmic. Consequently, this it is an example of how a child might write. Moreover, it’s better example of how Emily might have written were she still a child.

As a child, Emily’s bedroom window overlooked the West Street Cemetery. This may well be where she first became fixated with death. In any case, at the age of fourteen, she was traumatized by the death of a second cousin. She fell into a severe state of melancholia and was sent to stay with family in Boston to recover. Merely a year later, at the age of fifteen Emily attended a religious revival and professed to having been profoundly moved by the experience. However, the spiritual revitalization didn’t last. She only attended church for a few years and never declared her faith formally.

Nevertheless, Emily Dickinson is often considered to be a transcendental poet, even a spiritually-devout poet. However, her themes are often agnostic in nature and she frequently explores the existence of a higher power and the mystery of the afterlife. As a result, her poetry often delves into the aptitude of Death itself. Although the ideal of this might strike some as frightening, she does no more than exemplify my own reservations. However, the tone of which Dickinson examines mortality is somewhat anesthetic, if not even peaceful. To that effect, I find her expositions of death and the afterlife quite comforting.

Even though a poem like “I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died” might send chills up your spine, there is something serene about the way the poet accepts Death. When I read “I Died for Beauty, but was Scarce” I am comforted by the thought that whatever loneliness I may feel now won’t be compounded in the afterlife. Might the poem “My life closed twice before its close” fill me with a tenderness of despair, “A Certain Slant of Light” fills me with the exhilaration of hope by using the beauty of nature. Consequently, I want to believe that there is something more beyond this mortal coil.

Emily Dickinson has often been described as a heartbroken introvert, possibly suffering from agoraphobia, or simply an ascetic. Regardless, her poetry radiates with sensitivity and honesty and has a vulnerability which much of the poetry of the time and even the present day lacks. For whatever reason she chose to seek solace in solitude, there is no harm in being human. She might have been anxiously aware of her mortality—so am I. She might have been contemplative about the existence of God—so am I. However, the one thing Emily Dickinson’s poetry does more than anything else—is give me hope.

Apricot Standing in Red Wine

2011-10-29T16:36:00.002-05:00

She lay wrapped–in that 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.
She leads him, by the hand, to her bedroom,
quietly lets him undress her. She promises to be quiet.
To be quiet enough–that no one will hear
her–naked soul.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

Weld

2011-10-27T09:28:00.004-05:00

What is the price of godliness
Save the seduction of a slow bullet burrowing beneath the skin
Loose the cold steel upon the rails of veins; unbridle the ether to make a bed
of a tongue, and abandon oneself to fleeting eternity
Milk the blood might that it raze the pain on a higher level consciousness
and walk amongst giants, savoring the taste of immortality
for you cannot kill the one who forfeits
Hope

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2007

The Diner

2011-10-26T10:42:00.004-05:00

Dressed in her Sunday’s best, she sat alone next to the window watching the sun climb over the whitening tops of the snow-laden trees. The morning light drew back the lines in her face, and her skin was delicate and translucent. For a moment she is a vision of the woman she used to be, and yet when she bowed her head in prayer, the shadows marked the trials of her years. Smoothing out a wrinkle in her pastel-blue skirt, she laid a paper napkin neatly in her lap. Then clasping the cup of tea in front of her with both hands, she carefully lifted it to her lips and sipped at it gently. She smiled quietly at the room around her.

The waitress was sitting anxiously at the counter preparing menus for the Sunday rush, and the bus boy was joking with the cook through the serving window. In the back booth, two disgruntled farmers were discussing the precarious condition of the winter wheat over a neglected short-stack and two black coffees. The front door chimed and a middle-aged couple walked in followed by a brisk wind. The man was carrying a paper under one arm as his wife, still clutching a church bulletin, clung to his other for warmth. They stamped the mud from their galoshes onto the entry mat and shook the chill from their shoulders.

“Good morning John. Dorothy,” said the waitress standing up. “Will you be having coffee this morning?” She snatched the pot from the burner. “Yes, I do believe we will Patricia,” the man replied. “Thank you.” As the diner started to fill with the after-church crowd, the couple removed their coats and made their way to their regular table. The waitress motioned to the bus boy to let the cook alone and then moved quickly up the next aisle with coffee and menus so that she could greet them at their table. “As you know, we’re still serving breakfast,” she said, getting to the table first. “But I have the lunch specials made out and on the menu.”

“Why, good morning Edna,” said the man, stopping to greet the old woman. “You’re looking awfully fashionable this morning.”

The woman looked up at him blankly, and then smiled brightly. “Yes–yes it is a beautiful day.” She paused and looked out the window. “Yes it is, isn’t it?”

Trying to be patient, the waitress stood at their table, menus in place and pen poised to take their order. Looking out across the room she saw the tables were filling up quickly. “We have the hot roast beef on special today, John.” She prompted. “It comes with a vegetable and a salad of course,” she continued. “And we have pecan pie, fresh from the bakery only yesterday.” The man looked over at the waitress, dropped his eyes and looked back at the old woman. “Yes–yes it is a beautiful day, Edna.” He smiled. “How have you been? We haven’t seen you in church in quite some time.”

“Yes, it is quite smart isn’t it?” She smiled, brushing down her collar. “This is my Easter dress. I wear it every Easter Sunday.”

“Yes, as I was saying, you look quite becoming.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “It is, isn’t it?”

Her eyes wandered away from the man and she turned her attention to the window. The pear trees in her grandfather’s orchard were white with blossoms, and her laughter echoed kindly through their limbs as she ran barefoot through the garden of her youth. The morning light drew back the lines in her face. Her skin was delicate and translucent. For a moment she was a vision of the woman she used to be, and yet when she bowed her head in prayer, the shadows marked the trials of her years. Clasping the cup of tea in front of her with both hands, she lifted it to her lips and sipped at it gently.

Awakening

2011-10-09T12:01:00.003-05:00

Is it not the radiance of the dawn
which stings my weary eyes,
but the passing of yester-eve’s touch
that I tremble like the leaves
with light

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

Wither

2011-07-24T11:35:00.002-05:00

Is it no more than the years
which have seduced me with this beautiful regret
that I am the rose dying on its vine
Memories fall like petals to the ground—lifeless and spent
like the very hope of which
I was born

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

Love and Death

2011-06-06T08:37:00.007-05:00

I find my blessings where they are
Lost in the reverberating laughter of my childhood
and hidden in the quiet moments when I held you in my arms.
And yet as fate scatters these fortunes to the wind
I have yet to find the strength to say
Goodbye.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

Guilt

2011-05-25T11:53:00.003-05:00

The more I look—the more you are not there

And thus my heart is cracked by the weight of its sorrow.
Forgive me that I have found it easier to cry
Than to weep

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

A Momentary Lapse of Reason

2011-04-23T11:29:00.004-05:00

Wrestling with redundancy, he finally finds himself at the edge of night. This is where he tries to hold on to beauty. Sitting down before the typewriter, the blood drips hungrily from his fingertips and he recalls a whisper which once caressed his ear—someday you’re going to miss me. It sits sullenly on his thoughts as he rolls back the recollection, for the memory haunts him with metaphor. Thus he sharpens his wit, threads a piece of paper noisily into the carriage, and begins to type slowly, delicately—deliberately. The room is filled with the repetitive sound of typebars striking the virtue of the paper as the ribbon flows with his thoughts. Suddenly, the phone rings obtrusively from the desktop.

His fingers are poised in predicament. He looks down at the Motorola as is skitters across the desk clamoring for attention. Go away. With each ring, the cigarette ash dances gleefully on the desktop. Go away, damn you. He tries to focus on the task at hand. Nevertheless, the LCD flashes like a migraine in the corner of his eye. Despite all his efforts to ignore the intrusion, it teeters on the brink of his sanity. God damn it! He snatches the phone up abruptly before it skirts capriciously off the edge of the desk. “Hello Charles,” the voice says familiarly. “I just wanted to remind you—she is with me now. Her kisses are slow, her breasts are soft, and her thighs are warm and inviting—she is mine!”

The machine rings with the margin, and stripping the paper from the carriage, he sits back in the chair and reviews his thoughts. He notices the Motorola sitting silently and undisturbed on the desktop, the LCD is dark and lifeless. Picking up the phone, he examines the dark infinity of the display as if searching for something. It had been quite some time since anyone had actually called him; he wasn’t even sure why he kept the cell service. Flipping the phone open, he browses to the contact list and scrolls down until he has highlighted a particular name. He pauses momentarily as the melancholy sinks in, and once again his thoughts roll back with haunting recollection.

“Hey,” she says softly. “Hey, what are you doing up so late, it’s after two in the morning,” he asks trying to juggle the conversation with the post he is working on. “I can’t sleep—I’m scared.” He recognizes the anxiety in her voice and gives her his undecided attention, “Scared? Honey, what are you scared of?” “Dying,” she states matter-of-factly. He is taken aback by her reply and stumbles over his words. “Oh—sweetheart—did you, did you take your meds?” “Yes, a couple of hours ago. They don’t seem to be working and it hurt. It hurts so much,” her voice trembles. He searches for an appropriate response, and yet he is overcome with helplessness “I’m scared—tell me a story.”

“Tell me a story.” The words echo through his mind. Snapping the phone shut, he sets it gingerly back on the desktop trying to distance himself from the reality. “She is with me now—she is mine!” Having almost forgotten the page in hand, he turns his attention back to it with a pang of sentimentality. Placing it beneath a stack of other neatly-kept memoirs he thinks to himself—no, she is with me. Threading another piece of paper noisily into the carriage, he begins to type delicately, but deliberately. I will tell you a story. I will wax you poetry—about life and love and loss and living. The room fills once again with the sound of typebars striking paper as the ribbon flows with his thoughts.

Intangible

2011-04-02T14:57:00.002-05:00

When the night has gone still and the stars are cold
I think of you—quietly, softly, warmly.
like the kiss which floats on the fringes of my dream
and yet I am only able to ever hold you
in my heart

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

Sleepwalking

2011-03-15T14:41:00.005-05:00

The irony of my awareness, is the infinity of my consciousness
that I am trapped in a constant state of wakefulness.
Here, veiled within shadows, I am caressed by the intimacy of illusion.
The fleeting color of your kiss, the soft scent of its touch,
and the music of a voice which flows over me warm with memory.
as perception lies between the dream and the dreaming
that I am awake

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

The same old sin

2011-03-12T11:16:00.004-06:00

She used to call me “baby.”
Gliding effortlessly over to my table, she would sit on my lap
Then slowly tracing the line of my jaw with her finger
Put the warmth of her mouth to my ear and ask me to buy her a drink
I must have bought that insatiable bitch a thousand drinks
And yet here I sit, swirling the memory around in the bottom of my glass
as I grind my forsakenness into the abyss of an ashtray.
Still, watching the remnants of desire dissipate into the darkness
I tempt the brunette with a freshly creased dollar bill
She used to call me “baby.”

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

Faustus

2011-03-06T12:20:00.003-06:00

You incorrigible fool
how easily led you were down the path of damnation
for a simple promise at the cost of your soul
And yet it was not your vanity which was your undoing
nor your pursuit for knowledge in the stars
but this loneliness which torments me in my misery
that empathy corrupted
your heart

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

Truth

2011-03-05T10:42:00.003-06:00

As I lie in the solitude of my bed
I hear clouds move restlessly across the night sky
Moonlight bends softly through my window
and I feel truth lurking in the shadows of my room.
I am voiceless in the presence of epiphany.
It climbs into my bed trying to comfort me with regret
caressing me with the fingertips of memory
and yet there is laughter in the promise of the sun
as it finds me cold in the solitude
Of my bed

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

Nicotine

2011-03-01T18:39:00.004-06:00

Kiss me
Kiss me as if it were the last time.
That I might taste the bitter sweetness of yesterday
and all the tomorrows that will never
come

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

Beyond the Sea

2011-02-21T12:49:00.002-06:00

Does my comfort lie further than where the waters touch the sky

that my hope has been hindered by the reach of my eye
Are these waves upon the shore merely memories that I caress
rolling back into the sea as they are lost with its egress
The clouds along the horizon are they the dreams we once shared
or the wisps of wanderlust as they disappear into the air
And tell me what then could be this wind which combs my hair
like your fingers once did when I was holding you near
Then so I am thus moved by the recollections they would impart
that even the sun does sink with the weight of my heart
And yet as I sit within my solitude, it is surpassed by my envy
to I know he is with you, in those lands beyond
The sea

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

Blind Intervention

2011-02-19T16:21:00.004-06:00

Where were you
When the darkness enveloped me?
That you left me to tread these shadows alone
As I fumble through my memories
Of light

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

The Scent of a Woman

2011-02-11T15:21:00.004-06:00

Fair is the bouquet which wakens my heart
with scents fragrant of ardor and allure
For it kindles the flame of mine embers dark
that the scent of her passions are pure
Garlands thus sweet of her wine and red rose
so honeyed are my words by her flower
Might into these arms they court her repose
and on her mine adore I could shower
Like a summer’s rain stirs a garden’s scent
I am embraced by petals thus warmed
Where the caress of her flora’s fragrance
does arouse inhibitions of mine own
Hence these gardens of amour I thus aspire
to hold and be held by the scent of a
Flower

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

Stolen kisses

2011-02-05T08:02:00.002-06:00

What then is this warmth which lingers?
For it sits on my lip, trembling like a lost summer’s day
Is this how the night feels when it pales with the morning’s light?
For I am trapped in the twilight of your advance’s retreat
knowing never that temptation could taste
- So sweet

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

Shadows

2011-01-17T14:17:00.002-06:00

The tears of the sun
As it sinks beneath the weight
Of my tasks undone

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2011

December

2011-01-13T23:54:00.010-06:00

Here lies her lament
Deep beneath the cold-hard ground
Where the lilacs bloom

The Power of Estrangement

2010-12-28T18:27:00.003-06:00

Such is the personification of my solitude
Whereupon my joy is restored by the winds of laughter
Just as my companionship is assured by the starry pillows of night
Even so, I am still subject to the implacable deceit of hope
that such was my heart seduced beyond the realm of its conviction.
May these matters now be matters of most, matter not
yet I never knew the meaning of loneliness
Until there was you

© Charles Coakley Simpson 201

La petite mort

2010-12-15T21:27:00.005-06:00

As her skin tastes like wine
having pressed the fruits of her passion.
brushing lips softly along the flute of her throat,
caressing the small of her back tenderly
so as to feel her breasts ripening beneath my weight.
She yields to the firmness of my resolve,
and gathering me into the garden of her lilies
embraces my eminence with
Death

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Acceptance

2010-12-05T11:33:00.007-06:00

Come despair, my old friend
and wrap me within your arms again.
Encompass this sorrow of which I am beset
with gentle console of hopeless regret.
Might it have been better to jump than to fall
or is better to have loved and lost
than never to have lost at all.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Babybird

2010-11-25T07:27:00.006-06:00

Won’t you hold me within the wing of prayer
that the comfort of love wll find me there
and strengthen my heart while it you enfold
with the warm embrace of your feathered soul.

For there I am found safe against your breast
encouraged thus, my dreams are possessed
so nurtured by hope and visions of height
you grantsed me wings of which to take flight.

With newfound poise I stand before my fate
wings heartened with your faith I elevate
when I step from the refuge of your bough
that I soar higher than I thought I knew how.

Embolden by love I climb higher and higher
up toward heaven, that of which I aspire
with your love given, I am well recieved
for the love that you gave, made me comlete.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Tender hooks

2010-11-16T08:47:00.003-06:00

Tender are the hooks of what might have been

thus with fond despair I do regale in them
Splendor of sadness and lighthearted regret
are the sustenance of hearts thus beset
Might the trappings of hope been false with allure
I grieve them with grace that I may endure
Thus I pray fair the imminence of death
shall spare you the pain of my dying breath
and think of me, as I thought of you when
Tender were the hooks which might have been.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Regret

2010-11-13T09:43:00.002-06:00

When it is I sit in darkness
I see a thousand lights shining in the distance
And yet I know they are not of heaven
But all the things I have left
Undone

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The Mermaid

2010-10-30T11:23:00.005-05:00

Dropping her blouse at the water’s edge
she dives silently beneath its cool and placid embrace.
In the distance, I hear the sound of a car crossing an unkempt wooden bridge
as she climbs sinuously onto the floating dock and calls to me softly–
“Come on,” she pleads. “It will be dark soon. They will be wondering where we are.”
The pungent scent of summer blossoms passionately in the alfalfa
as the waters of my unrestrained indulgence glisten off her sun-kissed skin.
and I wonder how heavy the heart of a sinking sun is
as I wade into the uncharted waters of
Desire.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The beauty of agony

2010-10-19T03:09:00.003-05:00

As your eyes are filled with anticipation -
That you are a fawn caught in the light of your own desire
They flutter like butterflies, and your lips tremble
Red and full, like plums of passion being shaken from their tree
r inhibitions plucked, falling breathlessly
From the height of intimacy’s
-Touch.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Constancy

2010-10-18T08:19:00.003-05:00

May I instill within you–a longing.
A delicate imminence surrounded by the whole of your heart
An insecurity of intimacy, craving for companionship
Would you embrace it as warmly
With thoughts of me.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Solace

2010-10-17T10:55:00.002-05:00

As when I think upon you
That I long for the warmth of your shadow
Where I might close my eyes and cross this river of sleep.
For I seek not an occasion of flesh or a fleeting moment of adore
only the knowledge of when holding you
- I cannot feel the pain.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Distance

2010-09-24T09:57:00.004-05:00

Such were the miles between our years
That we believed in forever
And yet forever was simply too good to be
True.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The Babysitter

2010-08-28T06:38:00.005-05:00

Summer smells like fresh-cut grass, and the lawn clippings stick stubbornly to bottoms of his bare feet as he jumps through the sprinkler. Leaving a trail of tiny-wet footprints, he hurries across the hot pavement and sits down beside her on the porch. She tries to ignore him as he looks up at her inquisitively. Sandy-brown hair in a loose bouffant, glasses perched at the end of her nose, she is absorbed in a teen-romance novel and The Mamas and Papas playing on her AM radio. Monday Monday, so good to me. Flicking her cigarette to the side, she acknowledges his presence out of the corner of her eye. His dark-almond eyes sparkle with attention and looking up at her asks. “When are we going to the pool?”

He bats his eyes playfully. “You are so bad, you know that?” He grins up at her innocently and she laughs. “Okay, let me change and I will take you to the pool.” YAY! “God forbid–you might melt.” She teases, and closing her book, digs the car keys out of her purse and tosses them to him. “Go listen to the radio, I’ll be right back,” Keys? “And don’t start the car this time.” Who me? She gives him a fresh look like she might mean it this time. “And I mean it this time!” She emphasizes before the door closes behind her. This time. He palms the car keys in his hand for a moment, then jumping up off the porch, he bounds out to the 65 Ford Galaxie and climbs anxiously into the front seat.

He slips the keys into the ignition–welcome to the KLEO top 40 countdown and we begin today’s slide with Iron Butterfly In a gadda da vida–and scrolls through the stations. Sliding behind the wheel, he attempts to touch the pedals with his toes. He races the engine, va-room, va-room, signaling her that he has arrived. She comes running out the house, her hair still in a loose bouffant, but she has changed blouses and slipped into a pair of tight-fitting blue jeans and leather sandals. Hopping into the car beside him, she gives him a quick kiss and sitting back in the seat, shakes a cigarette out of a crumpled pack of Marlboros. “Let’s go,” she exhales. “If my parents see me with you again they will ground me for a month.”

Spinning the tires, he whips the car out of the driveway and thunders down to the end of the block, careening around the corner. He pulls up to the stop sign at Main Street, the fire-breathing 427 rumbling beneath the hood, and looks to her for approval. Exchanging smiles, he coolly turns out onto the main drag. The midsummer’s night is alive with the electricity of teenagers cruising, their radios blaring, shining black chrome glistening in the night. Laying her head out the window, she lets the wind undo her hair and the car is filled with the scent of hairspray. Her features caressed delicately by the passing streetlights, he can’t help but notice the shadows moving beneath the veil of her blouse.

“What are you looking at?” She purrs playfully, and sliding effortlessly across the seat to his side, nuzzles naughtily into the nape of his neck. He can feel the warmth of her thigh pressing against his and the heat of anticipation builds between them as she stokes the fire. Her untamed hair hiding the intent in her eyes, she moves her hand silkily up the inside of his pants leg. “I bet I know what you want,” she whispers warmly. Their eyes meet automatically as the magnitude of her intentions are revealed beneath the dashboard lights. Every fiber of his being is filled with throbbing expectation, and yet as she envelops his eager imagination with something wet and wonderful, his fantasy explodes prematurely.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She snaps at him through the window. “I told you–not to start the car!” She jerks at the door handle and he moves quickly to the other side of the vehicle as she slides in behind the steering wheel. He can’t help but notice the shapely black bikini visible beneath her white blouse. “And just what do you think you’re looking at?” She smiles at him knowingly. He tries to escape the question but there is no place to run, and then it suddenly occurs to him that there are no secrets between them. He smiles back cleverly and she laughs out loud. “You are so bad, you know that?” Shaking her head to herself, she slips the car into reverse and after backing out of the drive, turns towards Main Street.

Summer smells like fresh-cut grass and the sound of The Mamas and Papas playing on the AM radio. Monday Monday, so good to me. Summer is the repetitive echo of tires on a brick-paved avenue as they drive down Main Street. Monday Monday, it was all I hoped it would be. Driving downtown, summer is the elderly-black man sitting patiently on the step of his shoeshine stand as the townsfolk move in and out of the drugstore exchanging gossip. Oh Monday morning, you gave me no warning of what was to be. Summer is the whisper of cottonwoods as they pull into the park, and the laughter of children splashing in the pool. Oh Monday Monday, how could you leave and not take me.

The Incubus

2010-08-01T11:52:00.009-05:00

The Victorian house towers before her as she comes up the ornate pebble walk, its shadow crossing the street in the setting sun. She had spent weeks scouring real estate brochures for the perfect home in the perfect neighborhood, searching for something comfortable and reflective of her refined tastes. She had almost relinquished herself to spending another winter in the city, when one summer evening, she discovered the home tucked away in a prestigious neighborhood of a small community just outside the edge of town. Not surprisingly, he seller was asking too much. However, there was no price she wouldn’t pay for her solitude and thus began moving into the distinguished residence in the fall.

The home was certainly more than she required, having only needed to furnish a small penthouse in the city. However, she had been buying and storing antiques in hopes that one day she would find a suitable house to situate them. In view of that, she was there to supervise the move. Standing watch at the garden’s edge, she bit her lip anxiously as the moving van backed into the length of the cobblestone drive. Admiring the antiquity of the furnishings as they were being unloaded, she cautioned the workers against a painful death should anything be damaged. All the same, they were quite mindful of the value of each piece and bore them respectfully to its rightful room without question.

She had also acquired several Persian rugs for the house. A large golden Tabriz was placed in the Great Room, its earthen tones contrasting beautifully with the rich wood of the Louis XV furniture nicely as well as bringing out the blondes of their upholstery. Comparatively, she had several runners for the hallways, two elegantly colored Hamadans and a vibrant Heriz for the foyer. The dining room played host to a subtly patterned Turkomon and a long-leafed table with high-backed chairs. A golden-flowered Kashan went to the bedroom, its rich reds and deep blues supporting a Queen Anne cherry-wood vanity and similarly fashioned four-poster bed with canopy. A woman can never be too comfortable, she maintained.

She spent the better part of that weekend having the movers arrange everything. The Louis XVI mirrored armoire was, of course, placed in the bedroom, while the Chippendale china hutch, with its two beveled-glass doors, fit perfectly at the end of the dining room. She finished the move by setting the George II clock, its long walnut case and gold face intricately detailed, at the bottom of the stairs. If I put it here, the chimes will be heard throughout the house, she smiled expectantly as she watched the steady swing of its pendulum. At last the move was complete; however, she had another week in the city tying up loose ends before she could spend the night. I'll be back soon, she pledges intimately and locks the door behind her.

As promised, she has returned to find herself admiring the cornice work of her new home as she climbs the front steps, the soffits festooned with arcs of wooden lace. On the side of the porch the formal dining room is on display, bedecked by her gabled bedroom. A balcony and black-iron rail transverse the porch roof to a sitting room in the two-story bay, its narrow windows symmetrically stacked as its segmented roof spirals into the dusk. A stone chimney projects high above the tile cap of the main ridge, its flue exhaling heat into the cool evening air while the entire structure is flanked by two soaring white oaks with whispering leaves. She is openly pleased with her purchase, and retires momentarily in the porch’s swing.

It’s good to be home, she admits. I have the entire weekend ahead of me. Suddenly, it occurs to her that he hasn’t called on her all week; she had been so busy getting settled into her new home that she hadn’t even noticed. Instinctively, she looks at her watch as if expecting him to arrive at any moment. I wonder why he hasn’t called, she asks herself, last weekend had been positively splendid–dinner, theatre, dancing the night away under the stars–or was it the weekend before? She ponders, and tries to retrace the memory. Oh bother, she concedes. I don’t have time for this; he will call–they always call. All she really wants to do right now was sink into a hot bath with a good book and a warm memory.

Hearing laughter; she notices children across the street. Instead of dwelling on her latest suitor’s apparent discount, she abandons herself to the harmony of the neighborhood. The fact that the brood are scattering the fallen leaves quicker than their father can rake them amuses her. She remembers how she used to torment her father in the same way when she was a little girl. More Daddy, make another pile, please– I’m trying, sweetheart, I’m trying. The portrait of a woman on the porch holding a baby mysteriously appears over the man’s shoulder. Feeling incomprehensibly incomplete, her heart sinks. Damn it Daddy, why hasn’t he called, she lashes out in her mind. Consequently, she shifts her attention.

A barn owl calls out in the distance, its lonesome cry reverberating hauntingly through the limbs of the neighborhood trees. She intuitively tilts her head in its direction and yet before she can attune herself to beauty of its lament, another returns the call from a different direction. Subsequently, a similar owl perched across the street cocks its head inquisitively at the family below and answers somberly as well. However, the gentle graveness within the owl’s evening communiqué stirs a melancholy within her. She cannot help but think that her attentions, no matter how reserved or misplaced, have been disregarded. The fool is patronizing me, she deduces unforgivingly. Well then–we shall see to that.

Decidedly, she gathers her self-esteem and sashays seductively out to the garden alongside the approach. The purpose within her stride reveals the shapeliness of her legs as her dress flows fluidly back over her advancing figure. Thus, endeavoring to drop a hint, she picks up her skirt and kneels down at the garden’s edge and starts to put together a spray of flowers for the foyer. The veil of the dress stretches enlighteningly across her thighs as her proposal hovers invitingly over the ground. Looking innocently over her shoulder, she is pleased to see that she has caught her neighbor’s undivided attention as he stands smitten in his yard, offspring perpetually tugging at his pant leg.

Bouquet in hand, she stands with her back still to her voyeur. Pulling the folds of her skirt back over her thighs, she plucks the cleft delicately from her peach. Subsequently, she spins on one heel glides back to the porch in long-slow-deliberate steps. She smiles mischievously as she feels her neighbor’s stare on her back and giggles naughtily when a door slams impulsively behind her. She glows accordingly and acknowledges the building warmth of her own desire. Yes, we shall see to that as well. She casts one last tempting glance at her admirer, and climbing the porch playfully, enters her new residence with a measure of accomplishment and renewed sense of sexual expectation. He will call–they always call.

To be continued.

The Bridge

2010-07-20T10:56:00.003-05:00

I saw her standing alone on the bridge, shivering within the cold embrace of the autumn rain. A portrait of solitude, I fell to studying the lines of her loneliness. Her hair was wet and disheveled by the grieving skies, and the contrast of darkened eyes set deep in alabaster skin reflected the melancholy of the day. Thus she was weeping; her tears falling silently into the running waters below. Perhaps she was in hopes they would sweep her sadness out to sea, and yet as her tears mingled with the rushing current, I could not tell her anguish from the rain. Thus, I was moved by the ambiguity of her emotion, and set out to soothe the sorrow which seemingly tore at her heart.

As I slid my hand up the stone rail, I noticed the sharp radius of the bridge’s arc. Its spirit dampened by the rain as well, the smoothness of its paving stones appeared slippery. Regardless, I gathered a foothold on fate and started up the incline; seemingly, she was still unaware of my presence. Thus, with each careful step I felt the humility of labor in every stone. I admired the bridge’s design, an exquisite example of architecture hidden back in these prideful woods. It was seemed fitting that something so beautiful would traverse something so serene. Suddenly, I stopped; she was looking over her shoulder, and yet quickly turning away, curiously–pretended I wasn’t there.

Taking a deep breath, I carried on unassumingly, and yet with every step I felt my heart pound with concern. Perhaps she might jump–I could not imagine. Trying to put myself at ease, I continued to study the design of the bridge. The foundations on either side of the river appeared visibly sound, as if age had only strengthened them, and at the foot of each stood a single streetlamp, which glowed even in the gloom of the day. As I reached the apex of the bridge, I could feel the rush of the waters beneath me. Still, I felt secure enough upon its suspension to approach the poor woman and attempt to mend her despair. Sadly, I was met with considerable contempt.

She glared at me defensively, and drawing an air of disapproval, closed the curtain of her isolation. Consequently I felt quite disregarded, and yet it occurred to me that she was only allowing me within the perimeter of her presence. Apparently, she was more willing to allow me break my own heart upon hers than I thought. Thus, stepping through her ruse, I removed my raincoat and placed it gently around her trembling white shoulders. Pulling a length of hair behind one ear, she looked up at me halfheartedly, and seeing my Armani soaking up the weather, forced a smile. Taking my hand, she pulled it sympathetically beneath the shelter of the coat and squeezed it tightly.

“What took you so long –damn it?” She asked.

“Forgive me–I lost my keys.”

Emotional truth

2010-07-18T12:55:00.003-05:00

As I imagine you lying here beside me -
I am embraced by the evanescence that you loved me once
and the promising warmth that you love me still
as the validity of my own heart caresses
- The sky.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The Vanity

2010-06-25T21:56:00.005-05:00

In the evenings, she found her comfort in the cushion of an ottoman, sitting down softly in front of her own reflections–a three-mirrored vanity of Victorian origin. Despite its apparent antiquity, the surface of the dainty dresser was still polished and unmarred and housed one slender drawer whose brass handle is starting to show signs of tarnish. Each mirror, a center one flanked by two narrower ones, was lovingly farmed in cherry wood while the cabinet’s long and willowy legs fell curvaceously to the floor, ending in wooden cat’s paws. It was here, within the warm caress of a fine chardonnay, that she reviewed the items of the day as well as the articles of her life.

Organized atop her cherished repose were vials of scented oils and memoirs. On the right lay a horsehair brush, its silver back embossed with rose petals and vines, attended by a similarly engraved fine-tooth comb. There were assorted barrettes and hair ties and a jeweled French comb which held a particular place of prestige. Across the back, beneath the mirrors, stand several assorted perfumes, lotions, and crèmes of jasmine and lavender. A copy of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Adonais, its corners curled and tan, sits conveniently on her left as she picks up the silver-handled brush. Thumbing the horsehair bristles softly; she looks into the mirror on her left and begins to reminisce about the past.

Drawing the brush slowly through her hair, she remembers how her mother used to brush it every night when she was a little girl. She used to pull her golden tresses behind each ear and tenderly, cupping her cherub cheeks in the mirror’s reflection, assured her of the hidden beauty of which a looking glass cannot reveal. She imagines her mother still standing behind her in the mirror’s reflection, her eyes bright and full of life. Warmed by the memory, she gently sits the brush back in its proper place–not so far away that it isn’t still close to her heart. The image of her mother in the mirror slowly disappears, and yet the warmth of her touch remains.

Holding the length of her hair back with one hand, she fumbles for a barrette with the other while gazing into the center mirror, reflecting on the present. The French comb finds her hand and she began to secure her freshly-tended tresses. An ambiguous if not noncommittal gift, she thought; after all this time, what had he seen or not seen in me, she inquired of the mirror. Affixing the jeweled barrette, she examined each cheek in the mirror looking for that veil of beauty. Her features were still strong and angular, and yet her eyes were beginning to reveal the pangs of living. Thus pouring another glass of wine, she repositions herself with a huff and downs the entire ration.

Refilling her glass, she looks into the mirror on her right and tries to focus on the future. Her left hand drifts to the paperback and caresses its cover. It is soft with sentiment, and she is overcome by her loneliness as she recalls a particular passage of verse–The breath whose might I have invoked in song, descends on me; my spirit’s bark is driven. Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng whose sails were never to the tempest given; the massy earth and sphered skies are riven! I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, The soul of Adonais, like a star, beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.

Sitting the wineglass gently down on the polished wood, her gaze drops slowly from the mirror’s reflection and she begins to weep. Running her fingers softly over the tarnishing brass handle, the drawer slides silently out on its rails as she opens the cache of her secrets–bundles of aging letters bound by the confessions of undying love of which she was too good to reciprocate the affections. Where are you now, she thinks; that here in the remainder of my life, this cushion offers little comfort compared to the warmth of the love you professed to me. If I never said I loved you, it was only because I could not say it enough. Closing the drawer, her tears run warm with the absolution of which she cannot even forgive herself.

The streams of consciousness

2010-06-19T07:28:00.004-05:00

As my thoughts are a babbling brook -
That they wind gently through the forests of my imagination
With their gurgling rhythms and echoing rhymes
And the cool, stimulating, caress of serenity’s inspiration
as they polish the very pebbles of my
- Poetry.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The paths of fate

2010-06-18T12:34:00.003-05:00

Two souls stood upon a divided course
That together they could not take each
Therefore they stood in a length-full remorse
Such fortune feinted by dire discourse
And to fate's end they did then beseech–

“Our souls are bound.” Was their fair entreat
“Please spare us the choice of this sorrow;
This road is too narrow for our retreat;
The other too wide and incomplete
Thus of your wisdom may we borrow?”

The fates listened to the pain heartfelt
As their duty was not to proph’cy.
And here was a mystery to be rebuilt
This card of providence misdealt
Might they alter what was not to be.

Then spoke up the one wielding the shear
It matters not of which path you choose
For each road leads to Death’s kiss endeared;
If souls are bound they have not to fear,
For nothing can separate such hearts
- Thus true.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Damaged goods

2010-06-16T01:20:00.003-05:00

Swans sing songs of such tales should you heed
of young maidens who weave webs of deceit.
Once a fetching such lass found me in need
and spun her spell on my heart’s last retreat.
Her kiss like honey was sweet with desire;
sugar flowing slowly from her tongue soft.
And her hands down my back’s length did aspire
as she lifts my last dollar from its loft.
Identity stolen, lust is dismissed
Bank account broken, betrayed by a kiss.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The intervals of inspiration

2010-06-13T11:21:00.006-05:00

Such are the sparrows of thought -
Which land lightly upon my shoulder, wings whispering.
Their tiny black talons bite into me with invention
and my blood flows with the stream of their consciousness.
Thus with prophecy perched upon my tongue
I am moved by the weightlessness
- Of my heart.

Searching for Zen

2010-05-24T09:52:00.003-05:00

Where were you when I was lost and broken -
And my heart was hurt and helpless
Did I not hold you the way you wanted to be held
And kiss away the sorrow in your eyes
That given the wings you needed to fly you flew
- Away.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Broken things

2010-05-15T09:42:00.003-05:00

What is a heart that cannot be hurt -
Or a love that cannot be lost
When even a rose can only be a rose if it has
- Thorns.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Sleep’s dark and silent gate

2010-05-13T10:55:00.006-05:00

Such is the threshold of a dream -
that I travel upon its bridge between light and lucidity
Guided by the shadows of your memory
that I might find my way back into the refuge of your
- Arms.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

When love isn’t enough

2010-05-01T09:17:00.003-05:00

Would you not suffer my affections -
That I am left without the inspiration of your heart
Only to reconsider the passion within
- My own.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Denial

2010-04-28T20:07:00.002-05:00

To indulge doubt -
with the intention of suspending belief
might we no more feel the pain than we acknowledge it
is simply to keep breaking the heart
which has already been
- Broken.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The death of a swan

2010-04-24T10:15:00.003-05:00

With black pearls pleading -
she thrusts her breast skyward in absolution.
Angelic wings pound the air furiously with fabulous disaster
as the silken slenderness of her memory sinks
silently with the weight of my
- Heart.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Because we ended as lovers

2010-04-21T12:48:00.004-05:00

How tender is the touch which lingers -
and soft the kiss that still sits silently upon these lips
that I reminisce about a lifetime of laughter
summer rain, autumn leaves, and those long cold winter nights
when I am remiss of the reality that you
- Are gone.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Blonde ambition

2010-04-07T10:49:00.012-05:00

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.
He loves me not, he loves me…

(ring-a-ling-a-ling)

Hello? No, I’m sorry you must have the wrong number.

!

Dammit… where was I?

Kestryl

2010-04-02T12:18:00.005-05:00

Raven-haired beauty -
your kisses run wild like horses in the night
that I long to lay my own behind the trumpet of your ear.
Your fingers softly brushing the back of my hand
having caught me wandering wickedly through your wilderness
dropping apple blossoms along your
- Winding paths.

All that we leave behind

2010-03-21T11:57:00.002-05:00

As I lie here –
I listen for the unspoken beat of your heart
and the reassurance of your breath.
And yet the rain still taps coldly against my window
as the wind blows woefully through my wall.
And I cannot help but wonder
if there had been a better way to say
- Good bye.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The art of suffering

2010-03-16T09:06:00.002-05:00

How sweet is the madness -
That you acknowledge the inspiration of pain
Simply to reshape the design
- Of your heart.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

My messiah

2010-01-11T09:40:00.004-06:00

May I lay my head in your hap -

That you might comb your fingers gently through my hair
Whispering softly the comfort of your promise
As you help me find a better way
- To die.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Drowning pools

2010-01-10T09:49:00.002-06:00

When the looking glass looks back –
May my words always be an expression of courage.
For a mirror is the reflection of truth
that I might not wish to see the revelation in my
- Voice.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The tears of felicity

2010-01-09T10:53:00.009-06:00

Yet it is not inspiration I seek –
That I find enlightenment within a single blade of grass.
But that I long for the release of my passion.
As like the dew which silently weeps, even for the rising
- Sun.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

1-900-Anxiety

2010-01-06T23:03:00.002-06:00

I get my therapy over the phone -
She pushes happy pills in between cam shows.
“Take two of these and call me in the morning... Dahlin.”
I receive the anti-depressants in the mail in a plain brown wrapper.
Sure… her silk feels good against my naked skin.
But all ll I really needed was a
- Valium.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2007

Your love & other lies

2010-01-05T11:44:00.004-06:00

Just as I used to believe in forever -
I used to believe in you, until you made me realize
That even forever is too good to be
- True.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Irreconcilable differences

2010-01-03T12:59:00.003-06:00

When the distance is not enough –
Even that you may never have meant - to hurt me
You’re the only one who made me
- Cry.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Small mercies

2009-12-28T11:59:00.016-06:00

Thus you curl up beside me in the dark -

Pressing your lips warmly against my ear, whispering inaudibly
that the words still stumble silently through my memory.
For your hair was scented softly with hyacinth and your touch like rain
that as your finger traced the outline of my heart
I never even heard you say
- Goodbye.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Sleeping with a broken heart

2009-12-21T12:42:00.004-06:00

Thus we lie in the ruins of pleasure -
As our intimacies lay scattered like shells along a shore.
Where only the memory of your touch remains - I should have known
that it was never about how much love I had in my heart
but about how much love your heart
- Could hold.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

The enlightenment of death

2009-12-17T09:14:00.003-06:00

Even as the mirror of mortality –
Is not merely the reflection of all things to come
but the revelation that all things
- Will pass.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Threshold

2009-12-16T11:22:00.009-06:00

As is the capacity for pain –
Determined by our willingness to be hurt
Solely by the ones whom we - Love.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

After forever

2009-12-11T12:35:00.002-06:00

As I have loved you before –
I many forms, in many ways, in many lives.
Thus as you lie quietly with me even at this world’s end
we have no fear, or sorrow, or longing regret
for I will only love you more
- Tomorrow.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Invisible sun

2009-12-09T08:48:00.006-06:00

As I feel the warmth of your touch –

Fingers combing through my hair, caressing my face,
and the gentle heat of breath which slowly climbs my shoulder’s retreat
that my eyes flutter with the resurgence of well-being.
Yet I bask only in the arms of my memory
For you never could give me
- Your heart.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Frozen

2009-12-05T12:52:00.003-06:00

Consumed by vacancy –
As my last breath, suspended before me;
dissipates slowly into the shadows that its sentiment is lost.
And yet I must fathom to catch but one more –
Praying that it is sooner than these lungs are filled with ice
if I am to show you once again
how much I love you
- Still.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Half truths

2009-12-03T22:58:00.003-06:00

How pale is a lie –
When my lips are sweeter than words.
Laden with the confections of whispering conspiracy
my tongue pours promise into your ear
as I play upon your desire
- To hold me.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Implied consent

2009-12-01T18:51:00.010-06:00

Your eyes spoke softly to me –
Love at your will; with the love you impart
loving me still as I break your
- Heart.

Brushstokes

2009-11-27T09:23:00.002-06:00

Lead me into temptation –
and let there be no boundaries to your whisper
as I caress the longing of my inhibition.
It is not enough to love you that I embrace this desire
for my heart is swollen with aspiration.
Might I not be able to hold you within my arms
then I shall hold you in my
- Dreams.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Implicit

2009-11-21T09:33:00.012-06:00

As I reflect on paths not taken -
I stand remiss of the words I have left unspoken.
It is not that my heart ached more, or that my heart ached less
but that my heart aches now as I never imagined
how much my heart truly ached
- For you.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Sybilia

2009-11-17T11:00:00.006-06:00

Such is the study in your eyes –
That I am caught between a dream and a desire.
Have I waited too long to embrace you
even though every moment I ever wanted was to be with you.
Yet as my heart trembles in want of your whisper
you have made it a better place - To be.

The catharsis of love

2009-11-15T11:26:00.003-06:00

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
that the love we receive is no more than
- The love we deserve.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Within Temptation

2009-11-07T11:52:00.003-06:00

Thus I feel your eyes upon me -
Caressing me gently with the warmth of intent.
Yet even as you press the grape of my own desires inhibitions
I already drink from the beauty
- Of your cup.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Soliloquy for a Nightingale

2009-11-01T09:45:00.011-06:00

Fly away my fair evening grace, forsaken ‘gain forth of light,
by thy soul of thy song I swear I twas swain
nay now I hear thee not for thy love hast taken flight.
Yester- eve thou did sit ‘pon hearts purchase caressing mine ear with content,
yet twas it merely for the night as came the break of daylight
and my soul twas left to lament – fly, fly away my fair evening grace,
yet leave me not to the revelry of the lark,
I wilst forsake his happy tune for I wait on the moon
when thou returnest ‘gain with mine
- Heart.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Ashes

2009-10-17T10:18:00.009-05:00

There are no birds today –
And the clouds wither along the horizon.
In the distance I hear the delicate sound of thunder,
might it simply be the wings of angels having stole you away
or is it the torment which tears at my heart
knowing the world is too big
- Without you

© Charles Coakley Simpson 200

Eternally

2009-10-04T08:15:00.011-05:00

If only you believed in forever -

Even that forever is simply too good to be true.
For mine heart in its truth still waits
forever just to spend it with
- you.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Faith

2009-08-15T16:24:00.002-05:00

To follow your grace –
Is to know that you would not lead me upon paths
of which your love would not protect me.
That even surrounded by this darkness I do not despair
for it is your love which lights my way
as I am guided by its
- Promise.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Solitude

2009-08-13T06:05:00.004-05:00

Such is the comfort of silence –
Where upon I open my heart
that it might be filled with thoughts
- Of you.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Sensuality

2009-08-12T08:20:00.004-05:00

Such is the touch of intimacy –
As one would explore the nakedness of a butterfly
Therefore to place beneath her wings a kiss gentle of the wind
as to lift her to the heights of her trembling adore
encompassed by the residue of
- Passion.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Strength

2009-08-04T04:33:00.004-05:00

For what reasons have I written -
Except for all of those who have touched my heart.
The ones I loved. The ones I have lost. The ones I leave behind.
If I never told you that I loved you – I should have.
If I did – I can only hope it was
- Enough.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

The morning star

2009-08-01T08:35:00.002-05:00

Thus is the beauty of thy temptation –
Nestled deep within the bosom of the crescent moon
thy jewel entices me with the very grace from which it hast fallen.
Yet thou would only lead me to the edge of the world
until I tumble into the eternal despair
- Of thine arms.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Twilight

2009-07-29T09:41:00.001-05:00

As the bridge -
Between dusk and dawn
is but simply the distance breached
from my lips unto
- Yours.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2008

Checkers

2009-07-11T21:01:00.002-05:00

I believe it’s your move pumpkin.

Oh good Lord it is, isn’t it?
Ok then let’s see where was I…. Hmmmmmmmm?
Rook to king’s bishop takes knight’s pawn something or other whatever.
Yes. Oh my stars look at that. I say to you kind sir…
King me!

Muahahahahahah…. Checkmate.
…
Gimme the blouse.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2005

The turnstiles

2009-07-09T10:38:00.003-05:00

What is the price of absolution –
Except to endear what we endure as we suffer
Thus even as I bear my own weight unto eternity’s gate
I have found strength through my weaknesses
for as I have loved, I have learned
- To forgive.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Closure

2009-07-08T11:15:00.007-05:00

Grant me the strength –
Where I can drive in this final nail
Might there be worse things to die for than love
you are still all that I cannot leave
- Behind.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

The shape of a heart

2009-07-05T17:42:00.004-05:00

What then are the contours of love –
Except the reassuring circumference of your soft asylum.
Just as our embrace is like an ocean without shores
that we are two souls with one will
- To love.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Little wing

2009-06-29T13:27:00.003-05:00

Hold me in your heart –
And lift me unto the boughs of heaven.
Where I am embraced by the heights of compassion
as there is no place left for me to fall
but the refuge of your
- Arms.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

The man who would be king

2009-06-28T13:04:00.008-05:00

That they sing accolades before thy flesh is cold -
I mourn only the man thou could hath been, not the man thou were.
Find thy peace in the knowledge that all men are equal
in the eyes of God
for I call no man martyr whom hast not suffered
- For my soul.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Aphrodite

2009-06-24T01:39:00.002-05:00

You contemptuous -
Vain self-serving deceitfully decadent
two-faced cock teasing slut.
Who died and made you goddess?
I want my keys back
- Bitch.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2005

Reincarnate

2009-06-23T15:05:00.002-05:00

As I return to the womb –
Forged by suffering, tempered by humility
and so I seek the strength of compassion in your love.
Would you to hold me as I dream of death
might I be born again in
- Your arms.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Love’s condition

2009-06-21T08:58:00.002-05:00

As we love most what we fear to lose -
Thus love is for the moment and that is all it knows.
Love is not material. Love is not conditional. Love cannot exist
where fear does not thrive, even more so to realize
that what once we had loved the most
- Loves us no more.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Conclusions

2009-06-20T09:19:00.003-05:00

Could that I only have known -
I would have held you longer, loved you stronger
might then that you would not have slipped from my embrace.
Thus may our last kiss be as long as the goodbye
for it shall never be over until
- I'm over you.

Salvation

2009-06-17T17:15:00.005-05:00

As you did pray for me –
Then so I have been absolved by your blessings
Even said, my sins are not all omittable
for I have always only been an imperfect servant
Yet my soul is revitalized by the trust
in the truth you believed
- In me.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Hope

2009-06-15T08:58:00.001-05:00

Deceitful expectation –
Have that you betrayed my faith by manipulating my trust
all while you prolong the torment of my heart.
I simply sought to find love through truth, live through integrity
and accept loss with a grace of humility.
What now is my reward except that the only promise
which lies within probability
- Is death.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Late for the sky

2009-06-13T07:16:00.003-05:00

As I never intended to be -
Yet as I was born I shall die - Awakened unto conscious.
And there will be no fear, nor pain, nor suffering
nor the loneliness that resides in my heart.
Thus I cross into Elysium’s fields for I am without regret
for I know there could never be enough heaven
to hold all the love I left
- Behind.

Incubus

2009-06-11T01:10:00.000-05:00

Such are the remains of her day
that she sits before her vanity contemplating reflection;
for the mirror is the conjecture of her life.
Yet as her mind is filled with the warmth of wine and ambiguity;
dare she assume the responsibility
- Of her regrets.

Her eyes glisten with candle light
imagining a lover’s fingers combing through her hair;
that she lays her cheek lovingly against the illusion of its warmth.
Not yet the rose withered might she still be plucked,
the wine casts its spell over the weather
- Of her age.

Closing the doors of her reality
she throws open the windows of imagination.
Thus playing out the possibilities of passion in her mind
that she mimic’s intimate conversation with her erroneous company.
When a voice gently touches her shoulder bare
- “My precious.”

….

Might it be the evening’s breeze
that it gently parts the length of her hair soft.
Falling so tenderly down the nakedness of her back smoothly,
maneuvering beneath the undercarriage of her ribs
and yet not before cupping the firmness of her breast’s arousal
- To rest upon hip.

Her nipples purl with awakening
as her heart skips with a kind regard to the sensual sensation.
That it is merely the leniency of her anticipation
inciting her to lay her head back in self sacrificing vulnerability.
If only to rest her cheek against what may be
- An evening’s breeze.

Bearing no more of this fantasy
she pirouettes anxiously upon cushion with an exalted expectation
only to address the dancing remorse of her own shadow.
White silken lace dances and spins wildly about an opened window.
She sulks to the sill and closes the sash harshly
- Desire turns to despair.

…

So is her bed cold comfort
yet she sinks into its soft asylum as the candlelight flickers and fails.
Moonlight fills the room with its gentle ambiance
as she lets the wine warm her heart with the illusion of its intimacy;
reminiscing to her self “I will always love you.”
- As if she mattered.

The twilight her carousel
that she pulls the satin of her sheets up around her shoulders
and watches her dreams spin upon the ceiling
That clinging tightly to the faithfulness of her pillow
she presses her cheek delicately into the familiarity of its coolness
- Seeking security.

Shadows gather quietly
as the hot wax drowns out the last of her candles flame.
Thus she slips across the threshold of sleeps dark and silent gate;
yet conscious of another presence in the darkness,
she waves it off as the whispering vanity of loneliness in her ear
- “My precious.”

…

The fickleness of dreams -
surrealistic stepping stones of our most vaunted desires
might we become kings or queens or lay with unrequitable lovers.
An ability to unravel the mysteries of our deepest secrets
as well as keys that unlock the doors of our
- Darkest fears.

Such is her hearts intent
that she surrenders to the pleasures of her own self appreciation
and succumbs to the warmth of an imaginary lover.
The impassioned heat of his whisper moving along her shoulder
carelessly confiding wanton secrets unto her ear
- Susceptible.

She writhes in delusion
as hands gently defy the sanctity of her sheets.
Exploring the naked continent of her porcelain flesh excitable,
she shivers with the fever of her anticipation
as the whisper discovers the scent and secret of her garden
- “My precious…”

…

Tending her own garden
she parts thighs reverently and opens the petals of her flower
a like any blossom which would wish to be plucked,
allowing the whisper to browse the benevolence of its bouquet
as she mouths the words silently to her self
- “My precious.”

Whisper becomes wind
stirring wild the waves upon her shore
that her orchid glistens with the dew of stimulation,
as her leniency of his illicit touch warms a sensual apprehension.
An elation of paroxysmal exhilaration unfelt in years.
- She raises her chalice.

“Drink of me” she insists
as she tosses her cautionary inhibitions to the wind.
and wrapping her thighs firmly around the shadowy lover
she graciously presses the wine of her fruit generously into his cup.
Her needs being more important than her demands
- She persists “Take me.”

…

Passion is fueled by fire
commencing with the selfless spark of an intimacy’s touch
and then fanning that flame into a bonfire of vanity.
Thus the price of passion is found in the recklessness of rapture,
yet favoring the cost of its consequence that we
- Worthy the pain.

Song becomes symphony
then so does symphony become cacophony
as she feels the full weight of his body upon her now.
The inflexibility of excitement pressing against her inner thigh
she throws open the flood gates of heaven
- Inviting the deluge.

The wind turns tempest.
She lifts her hips to greet his unbridled thrusts;
bodies lathering of sweet scented sweat and sexual insatiability
she is at the precipice of her sexualities closure.
Yet teetering on brink of ecstasy, she knows not whether
- To jump or fall.

…

The event of her horizon.
She desperately tries to hold on to the sensation
forbidding this precious moment of bliss to slip through her fingers.
Yet with every breath she takes, each beat of her heart
she cannot help but submit to the delicacy
- Of disaster

Eyes roll with possession.
Trembling with the adrenaline rushing through her veins
She burrows her face deep into the shadow of his shoulder hard.
Thus biting sharply into the apparition’s flesh
seeking atonement for the release of her sensualistic sin.
- “Hold me” she cries.

Locking legs around him
she rakes her fingernails down his back and provocatively digs in
preparing her self for his full and final mount.
Resulting in the heat of his eruption deep within her womb;
her eyes well with tears as there is nothing left to be had except
- Death and distance.

…

Collapsing into faithless arms
a shadow scurries wickedly along the wallboard avoiding the light.
“Stay.” She pleads. "Was our passion not in vain?”
The impish silhouette scampers past the moonlit window;
then mischievously making its way alongside the length of her bed
peers inquisitively at her from its distance
- “My precious?”

“Your precious.” She submits.
The gnomish figure scales the footboard of the bed
where it sits curiously studying the afterglow in her porcelain cheeks.
She reaches out to the shadowy figure and softly implores,
“Come to me, nay that I know the compassion of your arms again.”
- Eyes blink in response.

“Kiss me.” She murmurs.
It cocks its head hungrily it feeds on her desperation
then moves skillfully towards her, transcending her trembling thighs.
Perching itself competently on her still heaving breast,
and as a cat would steal ones breath, he would steal her last kiss.
As within the light of his face, she sees the death
- Of her loneliness.

…

Silken drapes glow of sunrise
as the mounting light caresses the contours of her face.
Does she sleep so soundly as the dead,
or is it that porcelain skin has turned to alabaster?
As upon her nightstand sits a stemmed glass spent of wine
and a scripted vial spent
- Of her soul.

Then so does her beauty sleep.
That what were once the whispers of love in the dark
were merely her unheard screams in the night.
Yet will there be anyone who will remember her name?
Therefore we must take a care of what it is we would dream for
as there is a little hell to be had
- In us all.

Thus are the perils of heart.
As Cleopatra seduced her asp; Ophelia was seduced by the river
then so did Juliet became her dagger’s own sheath.
What for is this madness which is wrought by loneliness
when all we ever wanted to be
- Was loved.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2002

Lipstick traces

2009-06-09T02:54:00.001-05:00

As I remember my first kiss -
I remember my second and all the kisses I never had.
If I never said the words – I meant to.
If I did - I never said them enough, forgive me.
It was all the time I had to say
- “I love you.”

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Dawn

2009-06-07T03:20:00.006-05:00

As her kiss is instilled –

Within the gentleness of a shard of light.
Intangible is the caress which is warm of revelation
my faith restored by tender illumination
that embraced is the hope
- Of today.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Requiem for a dream

2009-06-06T01:27:00.005-05:00

I miss the small horned bird –
Once perched outside my window at dusk,
head cocked slightly in anticipation and courting expectation
would flutter his tiny stature as if to clear his throat.
Leaves move with the wind yet the trees speak not this night
as the song at my sill is sullen and soulless
and I think of all he intended
- To be.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

The owl's song

2009-06-02T20:24:00.000-05:00

The caress of solitude –

Is the gentle call of night and its serenade
Be it a cry haunting of melancholy
twilight is only as lonely as the accompany of our
- Hearts.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009

Thrasher

2009-06-01T06:22:00.001-05:00

What reckless hearts were we –

That we lay hidden in these fields of gold.
Exchanging laughter and smiles that innocence tempted
and as the dusk descended then so did our desires.
Eyes blue within blue as her hair fell darkly around me
and I was blessed with her memory’s kiss
that stirs a storm in my heart
- Even now.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009