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I never look back

 

I never look back

over my shoulder

at what is lost

or is history.

 

I never look ahead

at what may

or may not

ever be.

 

I live

for the moment

with the beauty

that touches me.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fulvio De Marinis

 
12 Comments

Posted by on August 2, 2020 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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But will you?

 

I have been as guilty of it as anyone.

But much less so these days.  Now the shadows are lengthening.

Because there is but one life.  There is no heaven in which to smugly contemplate relentless eternity. There is no hell to somehow face greater suffering. There are no seventy two virgins with legs spread wide. There is no reincarnation as a deer, or a fox, or someone somehow better.

There is only now.

The years which seemed to stretch out endlessly when we are soft and still to be moulded, constantly gather momentum. Like water rushing out of the basin. Like sand escaping the narrowing hourglass.  Life is so short. Time is so precious.

And yet we waste it.  We procrastinate.  We dither. We make excuses. We pretend to be something we are not rather than act upon who we are. We pretend we are looking for perfection as if it really exists. We fear to make mistakes and instead we do nothing.  We hold ourselves back, saving our hearts, bodies and souls for someday, some person, some event that may never be. Our days pass by with nothing to mark them but the calendar. We always think that there is still tomorrow …

I know I will eventually end my days regretting the women, the times, the joys (and even the sorrows) I did not have far more than I will regret those I had*.

I once told Beauty that Life is not a Rehearsal.

She did not listen.

But will you?

.

.

* I am certain this thought is stolen from elsewhere, so please do forgive the plagiarism

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Another unearthing from my archive. Always relevant.

Art by William Oxer

 
8 Comments

Posted by on June 30, 2020 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Aroma

.

There are fragrances I adore

Red wine and the earthy aroma of a mature Rioja. Pepper, smoke, leather, pencil lead, tobacco and oak.

The pungent, salty, briny, fishy, seaweed, damp sand, ozone smell of a small working harbour when the boats have returned with their silver, flapping catch.

Patchouli, and musk and sandalwood, and the magical promise of marijuana, reminding me of stoned nights lost in music and poetry.

A garden awash with flowers, wisteria, alyssum, gardenia, magnolia, sweet pea, jasmine and glorious rose.

The smells redolent of summer and my childhood – new-mown hay, cotton candy, melting tar, honey, horses, chlorine, cinnamon, chocolate, the drifting smoke of a barbecue.

And others too – coffee beans roasting, peaty Irish whiskey, wild garlic, the evening after the rain and storm, and the familiar breath of home when I open the door.

The rich leather of cuffs, collar and blindfold, whips and flogger

And most of all, woman.

A thousand fragrances, every body different. Her fresh washed hair, her make up creams and oils. Her sweet perspiration. Her soft breath. Her purchased perfume made unique when it meets the personal aroma of her warm skin

And that heady, wondrous, eloquent, wild, delicate scent

of pure arousal

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

For compilation reasons, I am still delving amongst some of my past and almost forgotten writings. This one is still so very true.
 
Art by Fabian Perez

 

 
4 Comments

Posted by on June 28, 2020 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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You think I am romantic

 

You think I am romantic.

You read my words and you read ‘love’ into them.

But I hardly ever use the word.

It is too big and too small. Too specific and too universal.

It has been idolised, eulogised, exalted, celebrated, hymned and acclaimed.

It has been hijacked, railroaded, politicised, kidnapped, blackmailed, broken, ruined and whored.

It has been given and taken, lost and found, borrowed and stolen.

It has been used as a reason for everything, an answer for everything, an excuse for everything.

It has been devalued by so many wanting it, by so many selling it.

So I hardly ever use the word ‘love’.

I write of lust, desire, longing, and yearning. Of sensuality, sex and eroticism. Of arousal and excitement. Of seduction and initiation. Of pleasure and pain. Of Domination and submission. Of attraction and infatuation. Of caring. Of nurture. Of adoration. And yes, of romance too.

Because I know exactly what those words mean.

And if I ever write of love – and I sometimes do

I make sure I know exactly

what

and who

I mean.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by William Oxer

 

 

 
6 Comments

Posted by on June 22, 2020 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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I will not miss you

Altar of Worship

I will not miss you

I will not miss you when winter darkens the sky and snowflakes kiss my skin. When the fire burns bright in the hearth and the candles flicker their yearning ghosts upon the wall.

I will not miss you when spring breaks the soil with green, and silently buds the shivering trees. When pale hearts are made bold by the rising sap and cupid’s sweet festival.

I will not miss you when summer spreads itself before me in wild and glorious heat. When my skin feels the sun caressing it like a lover, like an angel, like a pretty girl.

I will not miss you when autumn reminds me of solemn promise stolen by sad circumstance. When the rain trickles down my cheeks and beneath my collar and hides my stupid tears.

I will not miss you

I will not miss you

I will not miss you

.

,

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this ages ago and had forgotten it, but it turned up this morning when I was looking for something else. On a grey and miserable day I thought it deserved a fresh airing.

Art by Jack Vettriano

 
10 Comments

Posted by on June 18, 2020 in Lovers Past, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Reading Shakespeare

 

I approach life

and love

as if reading

Shakespeare,

becoming lost

in the Tragedies,

laughing

with the Comedies,

and ignoring

the Histories.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written a few years ago but always true.

Art – Poster from the film Shakespeare in Love © Universal Pictures 1998

 
5 Comments

Posted by on May 15, 2020 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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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

 
15 Comments

Posted by on May 3, 2020 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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Attraction is a mystery

 

Attraction is a mystery

What is it that captures, captivates and compels?

What is it that draws us, like iron to magnet, bee to honey, moth to light? What is it that makes us warm to another, need to make contact, need to be in their presence, or simply make us catch our breath when they come close?

Is it in their eyes, or their mouth? Is it the arc of their smile? Is it in their height, their weight, their curves and lines? Is it in the colour of their skin or their hair? Is it in their laughter, or their voice, or their words, or the intelligent mind within?

Is it in their honesty, their truth, their empathy, their kindness, their compassion, their hope?

Is it in their movement, their balance, the way their body moves when they walk? Is it in the clothes they wear?

Is it in what they do, what they like, what they believe?

Is it in their beauty, and the beauty they see around them?

Is it in how good they make us feel?

Is it something we instantly see deep in their soul, something we recognise and know? Something that touches our own?

Is it that we sense they will complete us?

 

Attraction is a mystery.

Even after all these years I cannot explain it.

But I do know

I am deeply attracted to you

by all of the above.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written a few years ago. I still don’t know the answer, and probably never will. But I do know what attracts me …

Art by Hamish Blakely

 
15 Comments

Posted by on March 29, 2020 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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Just poetry

 

Sometimes

my poetry

is just poetry.

 

It is not

a song

from my soul.

 

It is not

a yearning

cry for help.

 

It is not

the burning

of desire.

 

It is not

a statement

of intent.

 

It is not

secretly

about you.

 

It is not

how I feel

right now.

 

Sometimes

my poetry

is just poetry.

 

A jumble

of words

I strung

untidily

together.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written a year ago. Still true. Except for the many times when it is not just poetry.

Art by Victor Bauer

 
12 Comments

Posted by on March 26, 2020 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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I am not a hunter

fabian-perez-fabian-and-monica-18912

I am not a hunter

I am not, in this digital world of ghosts and shadows, friends and fakes, dreamers and poets, seeking to find a lover. To have my words read is a compelling enough motive. It is my primary goal.

And yet it is hard not to cross paths with the beautiful and bright, the innocent and intelligent, the creative and clever, the sexy and submissive, the shy and serious. It is hard not to attract and be attracted. It is the joy of this vast global crowd that we can meet so many kindred spirits.

And I would be lying if I said I had not touched and been touched by such special women.

Across the miles and by skin.

Yet I am not a hunter.

Except when it comes

to you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

I found this piece while looking for something else this morning. I wrote it five years ago. It is still true, although I have become a little more jaded, lazy and cynical over the years – so the last sentence may be redundant.

 
3 Comments

Posted by on February 29, 2020 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life

 

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