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Connections

 

There are meetings

connections

and conversations

that seem full of portent

full of promise

full of premonition

unusual and special

from their very first breath.

 

Yet there are others

that appear innocent

with no significance

or implication

or intuition

until much later

when hindsight shows us

how momentous

those inauspicious

innocuous moments

really were.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Dan Witz

 

 
1 Comment

Posted by on January 3, 2019 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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Shut

Art by Anne Magill

 

I am a sensitive soul.

Perhaps too much for a man.

I sigh at beauty. I am enchanted by charm. I can get lost in a look.

I cry at sad movies, often glad of the dark.

I am a romantic, Sad songs in my ear buds. Black and white films in the winter. Meetings in steamy-window bookshop cafes. Walks by the swan-gliding river. Dinner in the flickering light of whispering candles.

A message on my phone that ends in a kiss.

I am a dreamer. A poet. Someone who will never forget the press of her lips.

And sometimes, only sometimes,  I am a fool.

Yet for all that, if I am hurt, I can become as hard and as cold as a Siberian frost.

And the doors to my heart

Slam

Shut.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Anne Magill

I wrote this almost exactly two years ago, and repeated the post a year ago. I am sure there were reasons for my writing the original.
It reflects the romantic poet in me – and yet also the steel. A coldness, a stubbornness, a determination, an unbending will. I will never change. It is simply the way I am.
I hope it stands another repost.

 
21 Comments

Posted by on November 20, 2016 in Still Life

 

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Jude

loui-jover-woman-eyes-closed

 

You would be forgiven for thinking most of what I write is short, semi-erotic and D/s flavoured. It is far from the truth. This is the beginning of an unpublished story I wrote a while ago about Jude….

 

They sat indoors in the dark on the window seat, held hands, and watched the storm. The lightning flashed blue grey, illuminating the gardens in monochrome and turning the heavy rain into shining silver rods. The thunder rolled and rumbled, heavy with threat, building into sudden, angry cracks and crashes that made Jude jump nervously. Tom squeezed her fingers reassuringly and told her in a low whisper the storm was a couple of miles away at least. He had silently counted the seconds between sudden flare and resultant boom with childish disappointment. Jude nodded her head slightly, and continued to stare out of the leaded casement, her view distorted by imperfections in the glass, and the water, streaming down. She sat with her back straight, her head erect and her chin raised; brave, earnest and attentive, as if she expected to learn something, or gain some new understanding.

After half an hour the rain ceased and the final reverberations of thunder faded beyond their hearing. From the garden there was the fat sound of huge drops falling from the gutters, and rustling thickly through the tall, leafy trees surrounding the house. Still they sat, neither wanting to disturb the haven the theatre of the elements had created. They were in a safe, timeless place which neither of them could bear to leave. They dreaded switching on a light, knowing everything would become flat, and ordinary, and bleak.

Jude shivered and rubbed her arms, bare in her favourite blue summer frock. She broke the silence. “It’s cold.” And then sadly, “I know it’s only July, but it feels like the end of summer”

I’m going to miss you.” Tom blurted out. His voice had a whining quality he hadn’t intended, and the words had tumbled out in a meaningless cliché. Jude put her fingers to his lips. Her smooth skin felt cool and smelt scented. “Don’t say anything, please,” she whispered.

He shrugged and turned away from her, and massaged his temples with his palms. He too shivered.

When does Stuart’s flight get in,” he asked, trying to make his voice, which seemed to be rebelling against him, sound more conversational.

Tomorrow morning. He’ll be here by mid-day.” She reached for Tom’s hands in the darkness, and raised them up towards her face. She turned her head, laying her cheek on them. It was moist with tears. “I am sorry,” she said.

For what?” he asked gently.

For crying. For us. For Stuart.” She sniffed. “God knows what I shall say to him.”

You don’t have to tell him anything.”

No, no, I wouldn’t.” He felt her shudder. “I couldn’t. But then what do I say? How can I talk about anything? How will I be normal?”

Tom couldn’t see her face, but could imagine it. Pale, slightly elfin, wide green eyes, small pointed nose, delicate chin, full lips, fringe of straight brown hair, worn shoulder length. He could imagine the misery in it, and with a groan he reached for her, pressing her to his chest, feeling the warmth of her face through his shirt. He kissed her head and breathed in the soapy fragrance of her hair. She clung to him, rocking gently and rubbing herself against him.

Oh, Jude.” he murmured. “Dear, sweet Jude.”

The phone rang. They both jumped.

Leave it,” he pleaded quietly.

She stood. “I can’t. It might be…” Her voice tailed off. The phone was in the hall. She opened the door and the ringing became louder. Somewhere she flicked a switch and a rectangle of yellow streamed into the sitting room, destroying the haven as if it had never existed.

Tom heard her say “Hello”, and from her first few words he knew it was Stuart. He also knew he didn’t want to hear the conversation. No, it was stronger than that. He couldn’t bear to hear it. With a sudden decisive movement he stood up and reached for his jacket, which was draped over the sofa. He slipped it on as he stepped out into the hall. Trying not to look at Jude, but failing, he opened the door and quickly left the house. He hurried up the dark drive and out of the open gate. The air was clear and clean. He could smell honeysuckle and roses.

It’s over. Just like that, he thought. It’s over.

The last image Tom had of Jude was her face, contorted with misery, desperately and silently begging him not to go, while at the same time trying to tell Stuart how much she was looking forward to seeing him, her voice uneven with emotion. It was a picture he couldn’t get out of his mind.

He didn’t know if he would ever see her again.

.

.

© the author writing here under the name Romantic Dominant

Art by Loui Jover

 
30 Comments

Posted by on June 14, 2015 in Lovers Past

 

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This instinct

Fabian-Perez-painting

I cannot explain it.

This instinct.

It triggers itself on the flimsiest of evidence.

A handshake. Eyes meeting, Movements observed. The timbre of a voice. A fragment of conversation. The way she wears her clothes.

And sometimes on even thinner, more distant grounds.

A name. A photograph.  A word on a blog. A comment. Something made favourite.

I can be certain based seemingly on nothing.

I cannot explain it.

This instinct.

I simply know.

I sense a submissive soul.

Sometimes even before she is aware of it herself.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

Written a year ago. But the instinct is as sharp as ever. 

 
15 Comments

Posted by on April 16, 2015 in D/s, Still Life

 

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Before the years

 

untittled-ii-fabian-perez

I wish you had known me then.

Before the years.

Before the suit, the mortgage, the business, the money.

Before the wife, the children, the pets, the friends.

Before the affairs, the half-truths, the lies, the compromise.

Before the lines, the shadows, the hollows, the grey.

Before the words came so much harder to write.

I wish you had known me then

Before the years

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez (which replaced a photograph of me)

 

 

 
31 Comments

Posted by on February 23, 2015 in Still Life

 

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Stolen Afternoon

lovers_by_spokojnysen

 

Stolen Afternoon

 

I should not be here

with you

in the holy heaven

of this stolen afternoon.

 

I should not be held

by you

in the pure paradise

of these perfect hours.

 

I should not be loved

by you

in this sacred shelter

from separate lives.

.

.

© the author writing a Romantic Dominant

Written and recorded today

Photo stolen from spokojnysen

 
10 Comments

Posted by on February 17, 2015 in Poetry

 

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Back

Loui Jover _artodyssey (19)

It has taken me at least a hundred lifetimes to get you out of my system.

I have known you forever. Adored you forever. Wanted you forever.

Different names. Different places. Different times.

A dozen centuries or more. Always you.

Your beauty, your body, your soul,

Winning you, Owning you,

Then losing you.

And now

you are

back.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Loui Jover

 
13 Comments

Posted by on January 31, 2015 in Lovers Past, Still Life

 

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Holding On

Desire__by_ShanaArielle

The days slide away.

They hold on

They hang on to each other as best they can. They clutch at hope like shipwrecked sailors cling to familiar fragments of their broken ship. They imagine land as paradise as every wave rises and falls.

They whisper promises. They paint possibilities. Yet they try to be gentle in their expectations.

They hold back their desire in dams of denial. They numb their needs. They leash their longing. They suppress their sexual sighs in sad silence.

They want it so badly.

But the uncertain days, the empty nights, the fading light, and the hole in the middle of everything, is weakening their grip.

They know that, at any moment, one of them might give up,

And let go.

They know it will hurt. but they don’t know how much.

The days slide past

They hold on.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photograph stolen from ShanaArielle

 
28 Comments

Posted by on January 30, 2015 in Still Life

 

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Keeping secrets

jack_vettriano-wallpaper-011-1024

We all think we can keep a secret

I know I have never revealed anything told to me, or sent to me, or given to me. I have never passed on gossip, idle chat, or cruel rumour. And I have never uttered the name of a lover. or a past lover, or longed for lover, to anyone.

We all know we can keep secret

But when the secret is a betrayal of the one who knows us best, then the secret itself refuses to be kept.

It whispers itself in every word, every half truth, in every lie, in every nuance, in every falsehood we speak. It sends hints in every look, in every gesture, in every glance, in every lowered pair of eyes. It mutters in every evasion, every digression, every fabrication, every prevarication.

It half shows itself when we hungrily check our phone for expected messages. Though we try so hard to remain unnoticed.

It never gives itself away completely.

But it says enough.

Never believe you can keep a secret.

Not from one who loves you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

 

 
24 Comments

Posted by on November 16, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Solstice

lust_by_xxxshugalxxx-d3hrlnw

I am almost always in control.

Of another, of course, but particularly of myself.

But tonight with the summer solstice girdling the evening with magic, and with a wild, apocalyptic moon building herself in the heavens, I am partially undone.

I pace the humid, velvet, fantasy-rich night with light, hungry, tireless footsteps.

Prowling. Circling. Rattling this invisible chain that tethers me.

I am taut, stretched, urgent. I am savage, romantic, decadent. I am poetic, dangerous, sensual.

I close my eyes and allow the rush of her body to sweep over me, exciting my imagination. Her hips, her thighs, her belly, her breasts. The sweet hollow of her throat. The sacred mound of her sex.

The delicate silk of her hair trailing against my skin. The feel of her gorgeous curves beneath my fingers, against my lips, beneath my tongue.

Her scent filling my mouth.

The certainty of leather restraints upon her elegant ankles and wrists. The circle of a collar about her neck.

I am almost always in control.

But tonight I could roar with this aching, yearning, delicious desire.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from xXxShuGalxXx

 

 
40 Comments

Posted by on June 21, 2013 in D/s, Erotica

 

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