The Fantasy of You, by Gilbert Huntley [*POEM*]


The touch and feel of you, my love,
Is not yet real for me.
I wonder where you are, my love,
And will you come to be?

Where are you in this world, my love—
Do we see the same sunrise?
Will I know you when I gaze into
The light within your eyes?

Will I sense it in your kiss, my love,
Will I scent it in your hair?
Will your touch and feel to us reveal
An age long past we shared?

Until the time we meet, my love
(Let’s hope one day we do)
My fondest reverie will be
This fantasy of you.

21 thoughts to “The Fantasy of You, by Gilbert Huntley [*POEM*]”

  1. Intriguing isn’t it, Gilbert? The dream of the beloved other?

    Who is the she to you, the he to her? Must not it be a love so powerful as to be proved worthy with our complete and utterly trusting surrender to it? Perhaps the spark which ignites the true Creation itself? Does it exist in its highest realization as that which reaches beyond a gender orientation as say, an ‘interrelation of countering energies’?

    Questions. Always the questions.

  2. Who’s the lucky lady, Gilbert? Anyone particular in mind? Or is it just some phantom of your imagination?

  3. Beautiful pic, by the way. The perfect illustration for this romantic and deeply felt poem. Gilbert pines for mystery lady in mask.

    Who IS she? That’s what I want to know. A lost love? A hallucinatory dream figure?

    I’ll tell you something, Gilbert. A couple of weeks ago I had a dream of this lady. She seemed so utterly real. All day, after I woke up, I was haunted by her face.

    I’m not very good at visualizing under ordinary circumstances. I have no artistic powers of visualizing. But this dream lady I could visualize and can still visualize two weeks later. Funny thing is, she wasn’t spectacularly beautiful. And she wore glasses, which is damn odd, because gals in glasses don’t usually feature among my fantasy female figures.

    She was exquisitely feminine with dinky little gold-rimmed glasses perced on the edge of her tiptilted nose. A quiet dignity. A scholarly type, always reading, sitting propped up in bed with papers and sucking a pen. A wistful smile, a ghost of a smile you could call it.

    I’ve never in all my life met anyone like this, but I know damn sure that according to the law of averages that there must be someone like her living in the world right now. A spitting image of her, somewhere. Roughy 5’7″, slim, shapely legs, breasts firm and round like small apples. She never spoke in the dream. Not once. Just that ironical smile, vaguely puzzled and sphinxlike.

    I think to myself: this chick is gonna be my wife in my next incarnation.

    1. suggest you count your present blessings sard, not the future ones.

      imagine all the flies and dung beetles daydreaming and praying for abundance of favorite substance in future life.

      quien sabe?

    2. (smile). Sardo, I think we should do as lobro suggests…. Wiser. My dream girl (as it was pointed out to me, on good authority) might be from Planet of The Apes, for all I know. Women ARE deceiving, as I’m sure you’ve learned. BUT, it does the soul good to pretend, every now and then, that a masterpiece exists somewhere! I have my ideas….

      1. Sorry, Gilbert, you’ve lost me . . . how can your “dream girl” be from “Planet of the Apes”? What are you getting at?

        1. Hey. Back on, and just having read Ms. Fudd’s offer has me discombobulated thinking about my very own ‘Natasha’! WOW!!!! Think I’ll borrow the Cessna and fly on down to Slidell, La. to a little airfield I know, and get in contact with her! (TSA can’t grope us thru a commercial entry that way.). I’ll bet she’s HOT! (I might have to ditch my little quadroon babe I keep in an apartment in a nearby city…. But maybe I can keep her, too! Whaddaya think??)

          About the Planet girl: I’m fond of young Yentas (like a younger Sarah Silverman), but they can be such ANIMALS, sometimes, that one might accuse them of being from Planet of The Apes. Maybe Elma can find me a crossed-up Yenta/Cajun/high-yellow! The accent and dialect would be unique! (Yes, Brownhawk, it IS ‘intriguing’, sir!)

          Write me, Elma. Let me know if you find anything worthwhile. I’m going to do like crazy Joe suggests, and find a job at Hallmark, so I will be gainfully employed, and able to keep her in chitterlings and collards and catfish and cornbread. She’ll be very happy!

          1. @ Gilbert Huntly

            Honey, believe me, there ain’t nuthin’ happenin’ down here in the Louisiana swamps except jack daniels and meth, baby, and first cousins going-at-it. Sometimes even brothers and sisters goin-at-it. It’s the way of the swamps.

            Now that you’re a tough rough ‘n ready Cattle Man Buck Out-West, you need one these to keep you happy. Can you handle it honey? She ain’t meant for no wimpy poet, no sirre, she needs a Real Broncing-Bucking Man.

            Plus the jew-mormons in Utah will love ya’ more better if ya’ got one of these baby. I heard all the jews and/or mormons and their various admixtures in Utah and all around the West got at least one, most have a whole shitload from what I heard , in their family trees.

            It’s what they say, OH, how do they say it in French? I always get my Cajun and my proper French all mixed up. We’re all mixed up down here down in the Louisiana swamps honey. No point comin’ down here baby. This place will chew you up and destroy you quicker than a coon hound on a steak bone baby. Ain’t any thing goin’ on down here, or I’d been married decades ago and I’m an old maid now, a real old maid, believe me baby. Nothin goin on here, Buck. Oh yeah, it’s “de rigueur” to have one of these Out West, Broncing Buck Cattle-Man:


          2. gilbert,
            “her” full name is elma-joe
            (check out joe’s diction and compare to “hers”)

            so, unless your version of heaven agrees with that of flies, best to give that one a pass.

          3. I don’t know much about Cajuns or high-yellows, but I do know those yentas can be big trouble & downright dangerous.

            Even the snakes are afraid of yentas, so be careful Gilbert. If you find the yenta of your dreams, don’t get too overly excited and remember NOT to bite down on it too hard. It could lead to your untimely demise and a painful end :


      1. dang it homer but that makes you a … redneck!

        because according to fashion dictates, only the small apples are edible.
        your metrosexual credentials are hereby ree-voked!

  4. I’m glad you put ” [ *POEM*] ” as part of the headline. Otherwise one would think Huntly [deleted] … Is it really a poem? Or, a collection of trite and contrived sayings from various Hallmark greeting cards Huntly decided to string together to make himself sound “romantic”, and perhaps everyone will think Huntly is an important poetic/literary figure?

    Sounds like Huntly is dreaming about a ju-habiru belly-dancer from Istanbul. Ruddy Valentino goes to Istanbul. It’s played out. Maybe it was sensational in the 1920’s. It’s way played out by now. yawn….

    Maybe Huntly and [DELETED] could start dating one another. The pic looks like [DELETED] dressed up for a Saturday night belly dance show. [DELETED] is yet another ju-habiru-donmeh-ju : Huntly’s favorite type, donmeh ju gurlzz posing as “truthtellers”, but are really “controlled-opposition” ju-gurlzz in service to the jew New World Order Communist-Zionist agenda. We call Jew Talmudic Communism “Zionism” now.

    Does [DELETED] do Saturday night belly dance shows for her fellow Google/NSA operatives. Her IP emanates from Google corporate headquarters itself in Mountain View, CA, just a bit north up the road from the US military installation of Moffett Field, Mountain View, CA.. The US base where the NSA/US military/US “intelligence” runs it’s Civilian Psyops Division. At least one of the major bases for civilian psyops. Provo and Sao Tome/Principe are two other psyop bases.

    ” [ *POEM*] ” doesn’t surprise me. One can smell the awful stink of donmeh-israeli-ju shit emanating from Sao Tome/Principe, one gets a whiff of it even here in California.

  5. I know just what Huntly needs. He needs a Natasha. A Natasha is what Hunter is dreaming of, though he may not know it. I know that’s true ’cause I’m a woman so ipso-facto I have a lot of female intuition, that’s what makes us women so smart, but everybody knows that already. My Elmer calls me his “Natasha”. I do belly dances for my Elmer on moonless nights down here in Louisiana , just like the snake goddess lilith dances on moonless nights ; Just like the order of phosphorous gurlzz on Bourbon Street do belly dances every Saturday night for all the drunks, heroin addicts, meth heads, and our Southern freemasons. The phosphorous gurlzz always have the best float on Mardi Gras, even better than the order of comus and the order of momus put together, yes sirre bob.

  6. Huntly sounds like he needs one of our liliths. He is yearning to dance with one of our chosen liliths under the darkness of a moonless night — the type of night us hebes luv The Best, when there’s no moon, no moonlight, when it’s the safest time for us kikes to crawl out from under all the rocks and all of our snake dens undetected :

  7. I know just the type of gal Huntly is yearning for. I know all about match-making. I hooked-up my brother Elmer and his beloved Martha, so I know everything there is to know about Amore-Mio. They’ve been married for OH, about 58 years now, down in the hollow in their love-nest shack by the lower 40 acres of cotton. I happen to know Huntly is a genteel Southern gentleman of letters, butt he also has a tough side to him. I know that’s true because he’s a Cattle Man. So ipso-facto I know he’s yearning and dreaming for a tough backwoods type girl who can handle the tough life of a tough, rough ‘n ready rancher’s wife :

    1. Huntly wants a Nori Juif beauty, as per Gilbert. Only G-d and Huntly know why, but that’s what the Cattle Man/Poet/Southern Gentleman wants. There’s no accounting for taste. We’re non-judgemental. We got Exactly what The Poet is looking for.

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