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Category Archives: Lovers Past

Thursday’s Child

 

Thursday’s Child

.

Well, I hear that you have been travelling

with a friend in an open-topped car,

and you revealed to him all your secrets

and you showed him your operation scar.

You painted his name on your mirror

with a lipstick glossy and red,

and you posed for imaginary photos

in the warm nest of your unmade bed..

.

He sent you a handful of spidery poems

that you captured with pins on your wall,

I read them when you were sleeping

and they seemed to make no sense at all.

Yet you recite them when you are bathing,

trailing your sharp nails over your thighs,

and you emerge mysterious and glowing

with a wild, vacant look in your eyes.

.

There is more to this than just attraction

or some strange late night trick of the light,

and you shouldn’t be reading his memoirs

in a dress that is so transparent and white.

And I fear that you’ve sensed a religion

in the casual, brave cut of his coat,

as you kneel so sublime at his alter

clasping tight all the letters he wrote.

.

Now I hear you’ve constructed a bonfire

from the things your sweet mother knew best,

and that you comfort his wide-eyed supporters

who sleep with their hands on your breasts.

But you never once give them the shelter

they crave when the light has grown dim,

and while you suffer the press of their bodies

you save all your mystery for him.

.

I miss you when the round moon is sailing,

I feel your caress in the turn of the tide.

it is as constant as the ache in my shoulders,

It is the sharp stabbing pain of your knife.

And oh, how I hunger for you to be near me,

your peeled clothes like a sea at your feet,

your pale skin tasting of salt and seaweed.

I’m a slave to your scent and your heat.

.

But if I plead with him to release you,

with just a snap of his finger and thumb

will you forget his smooth benediction,

or the velvet magic of his silver tongue?

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photography by Ines Rehberg.   Model is Megan Szczypka. I chose this photo because she is not unlike the female subject of the poem

This is one of favourite my ‘performance’ poems. In fact it might even be one of the poems I am most proud of having written. It started out as a song but I struggled to write a chorus.  I have posted it a number of times before when this blog was even less popular than it is now.  It tells a story that was inspired by (my) real life events.  Because it is penned in the first person, the reader/listener tends to think that the narrator is myself. Actually I was the writer of the ‘handful of spidery poems’.  

Do listen to the audio – it was a poem that was meant to be read.

 

 
20 Comments

Posted by on March 13, 2017 in Lovers Past, Poetry

 

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Stable (One more time)

naked girl on horse

 

Stable

.

We shall meet

in the close, cramped,

tack-room dark where,

for almost an hour

I have shared the tight space

with saddles and hats,

bridles & bits.

.

The pungent odour

of horse and leather

and something sweeter

has made me heady,

has made me dizzy,

has made me hard

and tight in my jeans.

Waiting for you.

.

I can hear the horse

in the next stall

noisily shifting

his fifteen hands

on thin, muscular legs.

Hooves striking concrete

through soft smelling straw.

.

Your favourite mount

is soft mouthed

and compliant,

alert and responsive

to your hand on his flanks,

and your weight on his back,

your legs astride,

your legs open wide,

open so wide,

forgive me,

so wide.

.

I am leaning against

a smooth wooden table.

In the musty dark

my fingers have found

a dozen deep carvings

of passion and lust,

scratched in the wood,

ingrained with dust.

Names and arrows

and irregular hearts.

I cannot find ours.

Why can’t I find ours?

.

The surface is full

of today’s coats and tack,

still damp from the hack

still fresh from your back.

My throat tightens

as I breath in your smell

and the muscles of my stomach

dance beneath my skin.

I want to begin.

I can’t wait to begin.

.

I have your crop

clutched firmly

in my hand.

It swishes and cuts

through the silence.

Tested on my thighs

its unexpected bite

makes me cry out aloud

With my eyes tight shut

I brush my face

with the whip,

with the loop at the tip.

I imagine its hiss,

its hot stinging kiss

its fierce burning kiss.

Just a flick of my wrist.

.

A rhythmic swishing

through the razor edged grass

signals your arrival.

Whinnying horses

confirm your presence.

And now, at this moment

my shirt feels clammy,

my breathing is unsteady.

My heart beat deafens.

I clutch at my chest

Be quiet.

Be quiet.

You must not hear me,

until I am ready.

Until I am ready.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I’m not sure where I found the photograph years ago, but to whomever, my apologies. I will remove it or credit it if you contact me.

Stable was inspired by my antique riding crop that I must admit in recent years has seen more action on delicious, submissive female behinds than on the flanks of equine mounts. My then lover was a keen rider and I remember waiting for her one early evening in that leather-rich tack room dark ….

Stable is one of my favourite ‘performance’ poems – by which I mean it was written to be spoken aloud rather than just read. Old blog friends will know this poem far too well but hopefully will allow me the indulgence of re-posting it once again. If it is the first time you have read/listened, then I hope you enjoy.

 
8 Comments

Posted by on March 3, 2017 in D/s, Erotica, Lovers Past, Poetry

 

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Conversation

 

Art by Jack Vettriano

 

She cupped his face in her hands

and sighed.

‘I love your eyes,’ she whispered.

‘Why?’ he asked softly.

She smiled

‘Because they see me as beautiful.’

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not new but I like it so I will inflict it upon the reader again.

Art by Jack Vettriano

 
12 Comments

Posted by on February 27, 2017 in Lovers Past, Still Life

 

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Imagine a girl

art-by-mark-spain

 

Imagine a girl.

She is young. Yet still a woman.

Imagine a girl

She is dancing.

Her hair is a dark storm cascading over her shoulders and down her back. It is wild and wayward. It frames her lovely face with waves and curls. Her expression is serious as she concentrates on the music.

Yet when she smiles it ignites the room.

Imagine a girl.

She is dancing.

Her body is a paradise of lines and curves. Her shape is slender but not thin. She is exquisitely proportioned, poised and peachy perfect. Her movements are sensual, sexy, and subtle.

She knows how to move. But shedding her clothes is new.

Imagine a girl

She is dancing

She is dancing to Lana Del Rey ….

I do not have to imagine her.

She is dancing for me.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art stolen by Mark Spain

I wrote this almost exactly two years ago. So here it is again.

 
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Posted by on January 30, 2017 in D/s, Lovers Past, Poetry

 

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I remember a girl

Art by Louis Jover

I remember a girl

She was beautiful.

She had that look I wanted to capture somewhere in my memory and keep safe. To bring to mind when the world is dark and against me. When I need to believe in something wonderful and pure.

I remember a girl

She was beautiful

She had eyes to become lost in, cheekbones like sculpture, and a mouth that would be beyond paradise to kiss. Her hair shone lustrous and liquid. When she threw it back over her elegant, naked shoulders I caught my breath.

I remember a girl

She was beautiful

She smiled at me as she danced. She was sensual and sexy, yet shy and uncertain. She moved with untutored natural grace, her body riding the rhythm. A paradise of curve and line.

I remember a girl

She was beautiful

But nowhere near

as lovely

as you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote and posted this a year ago. I like it, so I have bored you with it again. Smiles.

Art by Loui Jover

 
4 Comments

Posted by on December 31, 2016 in Lovers Past, Still Life

 

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Another Moment

 

art-by-fabian-perez

There are moments.

Points along the paths of completely separate lives. Conjunctions. Synchronicities. Meetings of circumstances, of situations, of desires.

Unexpected connections that cannot be explained or analysed. A union of minds. A merging of longing. A combination. A bond. An affinity.

Sometimes they reach across a dance floor, an office, a crowded street, a bar, a cafe, the last train home.

Sometimes they cross oceans, cultures, generations and continents.

There are moments.

They may mean everything. Or nothing. Or some unfathomable space in between.

But if we do not grasp them, they are gone.

Forever.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

Posted almost exactly three years ago, and annually since. Usually appropriate.

 
14 Comments

Posted by on November 8, 2016 in Lovers Past, Still Life

 

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Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye

Art by Fabian Perez

Time has become liquid

There is seven of them. They have escaped work, the conference, the day. Comfortable in each other’s company. safe in the velvet night that hovers beyond the candle light, romantic at an outside table beneath the awning sky of a restaurant just off La Rambla. The evening is drenched in intimacy and alcohol. They are gently, sometimes noisily, submerged in a warm sea of easy acquaintance which sees them laugh, and chatter, and tell stories, and become friends.

It is getting late. It will be an early start for all of them to travel home to their various countries. Yet clocks mean nothing. They want the time to stretch and yawn, but not show its hands.

But they must go.

He starts to sing. An ancient Leonard Cohen song of leaving that he has known forever from someone else’s life. His voice is hesitant at first, but deep, rich and dark. The others are quiet. Perhaps they do not know the words, or are happy for him to touch the night with the poetry they feel. There is sorrow in the song, but gratitude for what has been shared.

Her voice joins his on the ‘many’ in the fifth line. It is pure and innocent and holy. It lilts and drifts above his own.  It harmonises and caresses and then soars and swoops. It glides and caresses, softens and lifts. It thrills the air, and him. She is an angel from a heavenly choir.

As she sings with him he watches her. Her green eyes stay on him, her brave, almost slavic features are heroic and lovely, bathed in the flickering light. A mane of thick blonde hair cascades over her shoulders as she tilts her head towards him.

They reach the close and improvise an ending which dances, then tumbles, falls, and finally soothes like a lullaby, achingly into silence.

It is a rare moment. There is a hushed, almost electric pause before the others applaud and nod appreciative heads. He smiles at her, and she smiles back.

They have become connected, combined, kindred, allied, confederate.

Bound.

 

I will always remember the beauty of your voice, the magic of that moment, and the joy of our union that night.

And the memory

of ‘your hair upon the pillow, like a sleepy golden storm’.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

I first wrote and posted this two years ago. It recalls a true event that happened in my past. This song always reminds me of that night. I hope you enjoy it again. And this early recording of the song itself.

 
9 Comments

Posted by on August 23, 2016 in Lovers Past, Music, Still Life

 

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