08 Jan



He knows her eyes from her photographs.

He is lost in them.

In a number of the treasured images they are open and smiling. In others they are mysterious and brooding. Sometimes they smoulder. In one or two they are soft and vulnerable. These touch him deeply.
He has no vocabulary to describe the colour – and besides – it is not constant. They are molasses, and coffee, and cinnamon and toasted biscuits and burnt caramel and dark, amber honey.
They remind him of newly born, shining chestnuts, freshly emerged from their creamy skins.
Her eyes make him think of gorgeous, golden, gleaming antique wood, of raw opium, and of rich, crafted, leather.
And of looking deep into her soul while he slowly, tenderly, expertly caresses her perfect body with long, elegant, sensitive fingers.
I do not discriminate between colour of skin, of hair, or of eyes, and have no preferences. This just happens to be a tribute to brown eyes. It was written at the turn of the year 2013 and has been shyly and patiently waiting behind sweetly lowered lids to be posted once again this year.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Godfrey Yarek

Posted by on January 8, 2019 in Poetry, Still Life


Tags: , , , , , ,

11 responses to “Eyes

  1. patti o'malley (@OzoneparkPatti)

    January 8, 2019 at 11:53 pm blue eyes:)

    Liked by 1 person

  2. thereluctantpoet

    January 10, 2019 at 1:51 am

    A master painting with words of “Her Eyes”. Beautifully penned!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. patti o'malley (@OzoneparkPatti)

    January 10, 2019 at 8:29 am


    Liked by 1 person

  4. Charity L.

    January 14, 2019 at 7:02 pm

    Superbly put, though I must admit to my more-than–partial bias.
    I often wonder if those with deeper eye coloring see everything differently than those of lighter hues…

    Liked by 1 person


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