Biography of Cody Simpson
I'd like to think I've been a poet for a long time, although that's debatable. At any rate, I'm a writer of many things: fiction, essays, philosophy, and obviously poetry. I hail from southeastern Missouri, a section of the world that not suprisingly doesn't produce many poets. I'd like to think that my work is fairly mature for a twenty-two year old, but I guess time will tell on that matter. I hope you enjoy my poetry.
Cody Simpson's Works:
None so far (besides the e-book on here) . I'm currently working on a book that I hope to have finished in the next year.
Cody Simpson Poems
(to Be Read While Listening To Beethoven...
Blue and empty, The night devoid of you. I speak to other worlds In my walks beside the lake.
The Waxwing Slain
The unseeing waxwing which once was slain By the false azure of the windowpane Has picked up his shadow and carried on Past the wilderness of that crystal lawn.
I often wonder what is beyond life. Is there no hope beyond this deadly strife? Must our death come bearing its arctic knife? Does that icy fist make your trembling rife?
In the heat of summer, As the warmth makes me sweat, I think of our winters And the clouds greyly set.
In Remembrance Of Columbia
The faces passing me in the night, All these streaks of white Turning pink with the cold, As I struggle to the bus stop
The Drunken Wood
On we rode through winters long, snows knee-deep, Lands unknown and uncharted-the clouds cried, Grey and dull. Lost in trees and limbs that weep, We roamed fields in circles where black roses died.
Our Good King
We gave him a crown, And with nary a frown, He took up the golden sceptre. His robe was tattered,
Apology For Past Loves
All my years I regret The women I cannot forget, The words from ones never known, And those I wounded to the bone.
O, wonderful spirit! Have you come to inspire me? Or have you come for my soul? I bow in thine presence,
The Sea Captain's Log
Setting forth on a rugged journey, Feelings bottled in my chest like Lost treasures of forgotten cultures, I look deep within and find no
The Darkened Prism
I travel ever more into an endless world of abyss, Seeking to find any color, Or simply seeking to fathom the darkness, To cut apart its dark logic
I often wonder what is beyond life.
Is there no hope beyond this deadly strife?
Must our death come bearing its arctic knife?
Does that icy fist make your trembling rife?
What have all those who have gone before found?
Is there no secret that goes in the ground?
Do you find silence or just walls of sound?
Must we be to cruel mortality bound?