Steven Hunley
08-24-2014, 01:38 AM
What I won’t do for Love
by
Steven Hunley
What I won’t do, for your love. I’ll try everything and I won’t give up.
I want the best for you, and so, for us. I want you to soar where before you’ve only flown.
Your destination is the heavens with me as your celestial companion.
What was it about you?
I could tell you it was the perfume, the delicious curves, or the sad marionette expression in your eyes and mouth. I might describe your perfect fit-me size and shape, wax Euclidian on your feminine geometry, speak of perfect proportions while comparing your beauty to Ode on a Grecian Urn.
Where is Keats when you need him?
I’d be describing you piece-meal, and doing you a disservice.
It was the total picture, and all the stuff that wasn’t seen, your magic stuff within. I could tell you it was your touch, or your ingénue intelligence, or the way you wear your clothes. But that’s not all of it either.
You’ve touched me in a special way that allows me to relax. You give me confidence when I despair. I trust you have my best interests in mind, even if I don’t recognize them myself.
You won’t allow me to waste my talent. God, Barbara, I love you for that. You actually see me. That’s another way I know you’re perceptive. Boy, don’t you feed my ego, or what?
You’re strong willed but fragile. I want to protect you. You’re so soft and pretty and need more care than you’re getting. I want to give you that, and my love. And it’s not because you’re lovable in general, because you are.
It’s because you’re MY lovable one. I want us to be together for the rest of our lives. I need you. You actually understand me. You’re kind and goodhearted, gentle, but will not take poo poo.
You understand the importance of pet names and baby talk. I always want to bite your butt but not leave marks, only fond memories. How close we are, how comfortable but at the same time turned on we feel, is extraordinary.
I’m incomplete without you,
A paltry inconsequential thing,
But with your simple glance or touch,
I find myself a king.
You spur me to write bad poetry. Steven Doggerel is my official title. I should do greeting cards.
Come on, Pirate Girl. You know you like it when I do voices just as much as I enjoy you tossing your head and turning away like you did when you were three and didn’t like the taste of something.
With me it’s: “Bond, James Bond.”
With you it’s: toss of dark curls, snap of chin, face averted. You'll have none of that!
And you admit there have been lots of instances of synchronicity.
Pyramids of Synchronicity. Archipelagos of Synchronicity. Mega-storms of Synchronicity.
I’m not going to mention all the examples but there was The Devil by Maupassant when your mom was dying, and her age being the same, 92, and Gary being the devil by twisting up his hair and making his face red. There was our shared history of darkness. Certainly we didn’t make up these incidences, and they demonstrate a divine hand in our meeting.
Kismet is Kismet and can’t be denied.
I never did a description of your eyes?
Just give me a chance. Looking into your eyes is like looking at one of the Marquesas from earth orbit. The centers are dark, volcanic, full of danger, seething with opportunities and innuendoes. Surrounding the coal-dark center, exquisite chocolate-brown lines burst violently outward into tranquil jade-green lagoons.
I’m so lost in your eyes I need a compass to find my way out. And I enjoy being lost!
“You’re an oldster,” you informed me once, when you were lying on the bed eating a pale green mint ice-cream sandwich with a black Oreo's crust and wearing pajamas. “That’s why you didn’t say GPS.”
I remember they weren’t your Pirate Girl pajamas, on accounta we tore them asunder in the heat of passion. Oh, what a night.
“Not me, screw GPS. Give me a compass or a Boy Scout anytime. Give me a moral compass too, one that you can use to find your way to heaven or hell depending on your ethics.”
Your eyes reveal a place I want to escape to, ready to face the harsh realities of life, and with your help, immerge triumphant. They reveal a trail I wander with you to explore the primitive, the raw, a place we discover passion, and renew it each day and every night without fail.
Your eyes reveal a place where I take shelter from life’s storms. The only place that matters, the tender safe harbor of your heart.
©Steven Hunley2014
http://youtu.be/NpDQA-6MTho What You Won’t do for Love- Go West
http://youtu.be/3nxG09xHhro Bond- James Bond
by
Steven Hunley
What I won’t do, for your love. I’ll try everything and I won’t give up.
I want the best for you, and so, for us. I want you to soar where before you’ve only flown.
Your destination is the heavens with me as your celestial companion.
What was it about you?
I could tell you it was the perfume, the delicious curves, or the sad marionette expression in your eyes and mouth. I might describe your perfect fit-me size and shape, wax Euclidian on your feminine geometry, speak of perfect proportions while comparing your beauty to Ode on a Grecian Urn.
Where is Keats when you need him?
I’d be describing you piece-meal, and doing you a disservice.
It was the total picture, and all the stuff that wasn’t seen, your magic stuff within. I could tell you it was your touch, or your ingénue intelligence, or the way you wear your clothes. But that’s not all of it either.
You’ve touched me in a special way that allows me to relax. You give me confidence when I despair. I trust you have my best interests in mind, even if I don’t recognize them myself.
You won’t allow me to waste my talent. God, Barbara, I love you for that. You actually see me. That’s another way I know you’re perceptive. Boy, don’t you feed my ego, or what?
You’re strong willed but fragile. I want to protect you. You’re so soft and pretty and need more care than you’re getting. I want to give you that, and my love. And it’s not because you’re lovable in general, because you are.
It’s because you’re MY lovable one. I want us to be together for the rest of our lives. I need you. You actually understand me. You’re kind and goodhearted, gentle, but will not take poo poo.
You understand the importance of pet names and baby talk. I always want to bite your butt but not leave marks, only fond memories. How close we are, how comfortable but at the same time turned on we feel, is extraordinary.
I’m incomplete without you,
A paltry inconsequential thing,
But with your simple glance or touch,
I find myself a king.
You spur me to write bad poetry. Steven Doggerel is my official title. I should do greeting cards.
Come on, Pirate Girl. You know you like it when I do voices just as much as I enjoy you tossing your head and turning away like you did when you were three and didn’t like the taste of something.
With me it’s: “Bond, James Bond.”
With you it’s: toss of dark curls, snap of chin, face averted. You'll have none of that!
And you admit there have been lots of instances of synchronicity.
Pyramids of Synchronicity. Archipelagos of Synchronicity. Mega-storms of Synchronicity.
I’m not going to mention all the examples but there was The Devil by Maupassant when your mom was dying, and her age being the same, 92, and Gary being the devil by twisting up his hair and making his face red. There was our shared history of darkness. Certainly we didn’t make up these incidences, and they demonstrate a divine hand in our meeting.
Kismet is Kismet and can’t be denied.
I never did a description of your eyes?
Just give me a chance. Looking into your eyes is like looking at one of the Marquesas from earth orbit. The centers are dark, volcanic, full of danger, seething with opportunities and innuendoes. Surrounding the coal-dark center, exquisite chocolate-brown lines burst violently outward into tranquil jade-green lagoons.
I’m so lost in your eyes I need a compass to find my way out. And I enjoy being lost!
“You’re an oldster,” you informed me once, when you were lying on the bed eating a pale green mint ice-cream sandwich with a black Oreo's crust and wearing pajamas. “That’s why you didn’t say GPS.”
I remember they weren’t your Pirate Girl pajamas, on accounta we tore them asunder in the heat of passion. Oh, what a night.
“Not me, screw GPS. Give me a compass or a Boy Scout anytime. Give me a moral compass too, one that you can use to find your way to heaven or hell depending on your ethics.”
Your eyes reveal a place I want to escape to, ready to face the harsh realities of life, and with your help, immerge triumphant. They reveal a trail I wander with you to explore the primitive, the raw, a place we discover passion, and renew it each day and every night without fail.
Your eyes reveal a place where I take shelter from life’s storms. The only place that matters, the tender safe harbor of your heart.
©Steven Hunley2014
http://youtu.be/NpDQA-6MTho What You Won’t do for Love- Go West
http://youtu.be/3nxG09xHhro Bond- James Bond