Monkee Love

He wrote it for you

Mike always had his heart set on country music. Most of it was about crying, heartbreak, that other song about a father out-of-wedlock and others. For him to write a ballad is one thing, but for him to put a song together about something happy was difficult. Sadness came more easily to the genre because of it's slow tempo, dragging words that seesawed over the notes in moans and drawls. I guess you can't blame him for it. Few people in the world, such as you, could tell exactly what each skeptical glance meant underneath his chiseled lips. The finer lines made the difference between being "just okay" as opposed to somewhat excited. By now, you knew your man like a book. One part of Mike that was never such a mystery, was the way he wrote songs. Hours could be spent holding his pen past the point of cramping. Eventually, he'd come out for a meal or if nature called, but all of his shut away work always evolved into a masterpiece. Hark! Your beloved cowboy bellows for your presence. You find him holding his guitar, with his red leather notebook on the cherry wood table, and his fountain pen tucked behind his right ear. You float into the den across the mismatched carpet. "I'm figuring out a new rhythm to compliment the song I'm working out in my head. I need your help." "What can I do?" "I need you to listen, and tell me what you think of these few lines. I'll play it out. Just listen." His right hand comes down loose and free to shake hands greeting the sound. Your foot starts tapping along with the beat. Slowly,you start to sway. Mike breaks his downward solitary flatness to look up at you as you listen. His eyebrows curl. His brown teacup eyes wince the more you move. As much as you hate to disobey, you can't help but dance. The music and your body have become one. Who needs words when such a sound is swelling around you. It swirls around your feet, tips at your toes, and flows up through your wrists. At once, he stands up continuing to strum. He bows his knees to you. Once you catch each others' eyes, you kiss briefly yet slow. The music stops. Your eyes blink back to the den. A thought has come from the back of your mind. "I'm sorry. I know you wanted me to just listen. I'm sorry. Let's try it again." He grabs your shoulder. "No, no. That's just what I wanted." "What?" "I knew you would feel the urge to dance and that you would inspire me in return to write you a song." "What? You wrote that for me?" "Yes. The best way I could think of to write about you was to see you be nothing else but yourself." You collapse into his embrace sweating through your hair. Only a trickster like Mike would know how to persuade you to being his love-struck muse.  

Peter has always had a knack for writing poetry. He could turn a shopping list into a soliloquy. The funny thing is, he always liked to slip it into your pocket whenever you were about to leave. This time, you were shuffling for that last dime at the check-out counter at the grocery store, when your hand grabs onto a piece of paper. It's folded differently than your shopping list, so it must have been from him. What does it say? It's a concrete poem. He not only took the time to dribble ink and passion onto a note, but he put it to the image of your face. Your eyes are outlined, "How they sparkled bright as the mountain snow on Christmas day." The eyebrows were "etched in bird feathers imitating Athena". He drew your nose. "The perfumes she bears as silky as her skin, my flowered one." All around your face, he follows how he sees you, word for word. "Her hair waves softly to me, hello, and goodbye." "She not only hears through delicate ears, but beats it's drum to the music within us." Even the lines on your forehead, "Her mind is always open, attempting to break through so she may share a piece of what she knows, how she thinks. Her thoughts as deep." He sees your imperfections so lightly, even those so slightly, all with his eyes which feel them through his heart. His brain recalls it belongs to you and works his pen like magic. You could have been born as anything and he'd still love you the same. You finish checking out the groceries and run to the craft shop for a picture frame. It is after all, your best portrait.

Davy may just about be the most passionate man in the world. His writing seems more like a conversation than the note you found on your nightstand. It's actually very common to find him at his desk on a rainy day scribbling down in his slanting characters what has been juggling around in his head. This time, he wrote a little story to read at night before you go to sleep, just in case he can't call you and profess his love and secrets to you over the telephone. "Once upon a time, (as all the classics began and will continue to do so) a little boy grew up poor along the railways of Manchester England. It was always on the cold side and it rained so much, there were rumors that the birds all had webbed feet. After yet another game of cricket with his mates, a fish sandwich and a bath, the little boy would look out his small window and wish on the stars. Only one wish ever came true. It wasn't that his mother be well enough to play with him. (She had been sick for months) It wasn't that his sisters got stuck in the trees. (As funny as he imagined them hanging upside-down by their dresses) It was how one day, he would meet someone who loved him for who he was. He pictured her with hair as soft as a baby's blanket, that she would kiss him whenever he was lonely and she would never cry too much if they ever had to leave one another. It was always a lovely wish to make to dream of a lady so kind, caring and could laugh the day away. As the boy became a man, he forgot about this wish he made, along with all the others. Then one day, he went on a hunch to an awkward dim-lit restaurant. He met a young lady with hair that seemed to float behind her head. She laughed at all his stories and never ever stopped smiling. They soon became in love, with what seemed to be the world at their feet. Nothing ever stopped them from seeing each other daily. They were each other's medicine, always there to make the pain disappear, cover up the wounds and feel so relieved after all they had each been through. But when it was time for them to separate again, it always ended in the same way. When it was time for them to die, it ended this same way too. 'I'll love you while you're gone.'" You slump down into your pillow with one hand at the lamp tucking yourself into the sheets. Gravelly and groggy, the words drip down. "I'll love you, while you're gone". 

Micky  writes being inspired by life and what comes into his head. Anything and everything can happen at any time in the process. You've seen him with a pen and a quick-draw of the notebook faster than Jesse James. Sometimes,there is no process, only writing like mad with his tongue hanging out, humming nonsense until it's clear to him what just happened. The sudden cry of "Brilliance!" normally signalling his latest creation's completion. This time however, he was taken by you.  You wake up after a cat-nap to the mailman knocking at your door.  He hands you an envelope with your name on it. You open up the flap in shreds and read its contents. You don't even notice that he left."Curly are my french fries. Brown is my hair. I can't imagine myself alone anywhere. The seas of Atlantis may rise and then fall. You would be my mermaid out of them all. Boy would I look ridiculous in a sailor's suit! The desert may be only sand, scales and green, but I hope I'd see you instead of a soda machine. Through the forest I'd save you from any old big-bad, then dress up like your granny, who's cooking wasn't half bad. I'd climb every mountain, through the highest altitude. I made you a frame for this poem and my fingers got glued. You can know wherever I go, I will always call home. When you gave me a chance, I was tethered everywhere I roam. I know you don't wait, so I'll never be late. Is dinner almost ready? Either way, you sure smell great.  Love, Micky." You grab a drink of water to soothe your throat from laughing. The door knock sounds again. It's Micky. "I surely hope you received your mail today. The postman said it would take a couple of days..Oh, you got my letter! How on Earth did that get here so fast?" You wrap an arm around him with a "Thank you". You walk together into the kitchen. He turns to you. "Are you cooking something? I'm starved." Oh, Micky.