Magical

She is more magical

than a sticky-winged butterfly

unfolding from its hard shell,

the vivid arc of a bright rainbow

after the storm,

the muscular power of a thoroughbred

thundering across a field,

a full silver moon sailing

across a velvet night sky,

a virgin fall of powdery snow

awaiting my skis,

the scent of freshly cut grass

at the end of a summer’s day,

a glass of brunello di montalcino

sipped by the fire,

the staccato gunfire of high heels

crossing a marble floor,

a newly emerged desert flower

ephemeral in the sand.

.

She is more magical

than fervent wishes

unexpectedly coming true.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

This is not new, but I am posting again because I like it.

Art by Gianni Strino

 

Not poetry

I have reluctantly realized

thinking of you

and writing your name

in midnight blue ink

on parchment paper

over and over

and over and over

while I whisper

each syllable

does not count

as poetry

though it feels like it

to me.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by Gianni Strino

 

Magical

She is more magical

than a sticky-winged butterfly

unfolding from its hard shell,

the vivid arc of a bright rainbow

after the storm,

the muscular power of a thoroughbred

thundering across a field,

a full silver moon sailing

across a velvet night sky,

a virgin fall of powdery snow

awaiting my skis,

the scent of freshly cut grass

at the end of a summer’s day,

a glass of brunello di montalcino

sipped by the fire,

the staccato gunfire of high heels

crossing a marble floor,

a newly emerged desert flower

ephemeral in the sand.

.

She is more magical

than fervent wishes

unexpectedly coming true.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by Gianni Strino

 

Not poetry

I have reluctantly realized

thinking of you

and writing your name

in midnight blue ink

on parchment paper

over and over

and over and over

while I whisper

each syllable

does not count

as poetry

though it feels like it

to me.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not new, and still not poetry

Art by Gianni Strino

 

Magical

 

She is more magical

than a sticky-winged butterfly

unfolding from its hard shell,

the vivid arc of a bright rainbow

after the storm,

the muscular power of a thoroughbred

thundering across a field,

a full silver moon sailing

across a velvet night sky,

a virgin fall of powdery snow

awaiting my skis,

the scent of freshly cut grass

at the end of a summer’s day,

a glass of brunello di montalcino

sipped by the fire,

the staccato gunfire of high heels

crossing a marble floor,

a newly emerged desert flower

ephemeral in the sand.

 

She is more magical

than fervent wishes

unexpectedly coming true.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not a new post. But sometimes there is magic.

Art by Gianni Strino

 

Not poetry

 

I have reluctantly realized

thinking of you

and writing your name

in midnight blue ink

on parchment paper

over and over

and over and over

while I whisper

each syllable

does not count

as poetry

though it feels like it

to me.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not new, and still not poetry

Art by Gianni Strino

 

Magical

 

She is more magical

than a sticky-winged butterfly

unfolding from its hard shell,

the vivid arc of a bright rainbow

after the storm,

the muscular power of a thoroughbred

thundering across a field,

a full silver moon sailing

across a velvet night sky,

a virgin fall of powdery snow

awaiting my skis,

the scent of freshly cut grass

at the end of a summer’s day,

a glass of brunello di montalcino

sipped by the fire,

the staccato gunfire of high heels

crossing a marble floor,

a newly emerged desert flower

ephemeral in the sand.

 

She is more magical

than fervent wishes

unexpectedly coming true.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not a new post. But sometimes there is magic.

Art by Gianni Strino

 

Not poetry

 

I have reluctantly realized

thinking of you

and writing your name

in midnight blue ink

on parchment paper

over and over

and over and over

while I whisper

each syllable

does not count

as poetry

though it feels like it

to me.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not new, and still not poetry

Art by Gianni Strino

 

 

Magical

 

She is more magical

than a sticky-winged butterfly

unfolding from its hard shell,

the vivid arc of a bright rainbow

after the storm,

the muscular power of a thoroughbred

thundering across a field,

a full silver moon sailing

across a velvet night sky,

a virgin fall of powdery snow

awaiting my skis,

the scent of freshly cut grass

at the end of a summer’s day,

a glass of brunello di montalcino

sipped by the fire,

the staccato gunfire of high heels

crossing a marble floor,

a newly emerged desert flower

ephemeral in the sand.

 

She is more magical

than fervent wishes

unexpectedly coming true.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not a new post. But sometimes there is magic.

Art by Gianni Strino

 

Destination

 

She does not know

if he is leading her astray

or guiding her home

and which she wants most

and if they are the same.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Gianni Strino