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Act dangerously

the-red-umbrella

 

Romantic that I am, I have a softish spot for Valentine’s Day.

(Although the Dominant in me objects strongly).

Not so much for the exchange of cards, gifts and supper between those who are already lovers.  I can see the romance, the affirmation, the enchantment and the intimacy – I have fallen under its amorous spell often enough. Yet one can also almost smell the commercial cynicism at this time of the year. It sucks.

No, I think what really makes February the fourteenth special is that it provides almost-strangers the perfect excuse and the ideal opportunity to flirt outrageously.

And to act dangerously.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Loui Jover

This is not a new post, but it has become almost a Valentine’s Day tradition for me to repost it around this time of year, to remind readers to be bold and to have fun.

 
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Posted by on February 13, 2019 in Still Life, Uncategorized

 

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Running away from me

 

Here

in this ancient hamlet

in this ancient house

in this ancient room

of oak beams

and leaded windows

evening falls early

in Winter.

 

No one is forgotten

nothing is lost.

Laughter

tears

family

lovers

friends

strangers.

Everyone is remembered

everything is saved.

 

It is only time

that runs so quickly

so easily

so cruelly

away from me.

.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written a year ago. It is still running away from me.

Art : despite my best efforts I could not find for certain the name of the artist. If this is yours please let me know and I will credit you or remove.

 
3 Comments

Posted by on January 19, 2019 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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The wonder

 

In every day

there is something new

something unexpected

something different.

I remain wide-eyed

like a child

at the wonder of it.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I have posted this before, but I have not changed

Art by Erik Johansson

 

 
8 Comments

Posted by on January 7, 2019 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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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.

.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Dan Witz

 

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

 

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The One

 

Heaven__s_a_lie____by_helionn

He knows no other way

It is simply who he is. The way he has always been.

His earliest erotic fantasies were of control. And of damsels in distress.

And yet also of goddesses and worship.

He loves women. With respect. With admiration. With a deep and endless desire.

He needs to adore and to be adored.

Over the years has taught himself to be a Master of exquisite pleasure and delicious pain. He has known beauty, sensuality and submission beyond words.

But now winter tugs at his coat. He has become lined and grizzled, etched and silver.

The night is long. And his fire burns low.

Yet there is a light. Innocent, pure and holy.

Could she be the one

the one

the one.

.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this in December a few years ago, and have repeated it before at this time of year. I think I was perhaps feeling a little weary/melancholy when I first penned it. Smiles.

Photo/Art by Helionn on DeviantArt

 
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Posted by on December 31, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Winter Solstice

 

He thinks about her.

He is sipping red wine. It fills his mouth with grape and his heart with hope.  Outside it is still raining.

Earlier he had walked the hounds in a brief respite from the deluge.  There had been a delayed monsoon waiting in the dying-leaved trees.

A hidden sun had set invisibly over his grey, sodden, dripping village before four o’clock. The afternoon had been swallowed up by night without a whimper

It is the shortest day.

He lives by the seasons and can already feel the change. The days will lengthen from now. It is a clean, beckoning, hungry new page.

He will write her name on it.

He does not know who she is. And yet he already senses her presence in his life.

He cannot be sure if they have yet made contact, chased shadows, crossed borders, traded smiles, touched hands, exchanged truths, offered up words, or painted pictures on a blank canvas.

He is unable to tell if they are already gently familiar or are completely unconnected strangers.

Yet he is certain, at this change of the solstice, that she is there.  For him.

So he takes another sip and leans back into the soft, comfortable leather of his chair.

He can almost smell her scent on his fingers.

.

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I was certain I had posted a short piece some time ago inspired by the winter solstice which, in the northern hemisphere, is today. I eventually found it under the title ‘Her scent’. I had actually written it in 2012. Time flies.

Much has changed since then. Sadly both of the hounds mentioned in the piece have died. The village has been swapped for an even smaller one. And I have left behind a business life in order to write and do other things.

But it seems to capture the day and the time. So last year I posted it again, with a new title to celebrate the day. But with the same art. I think it meant something to me at the time. Perhaps posting it will be a Winter Solstice tradition.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Painting by Thomas Saliot

 
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Posted by on December 21, 2018 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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… even the Wolf

art-by-ryan-pancoast

 

In this season of fairytale and legend he paints himself as almost a hero.

He imagines himself snatching the poisoned apple from the rose-red lips of the raven haired princess with the snow-white skin and replacing it with an urgent kiss from his own hungry mouth.

He dreams of braving the vicious thorns of imprisoning briar to lift the unmoving but gorgeous living body of the sleeping beauty from out of her silent coffin.  To carry her to some safe and secret place and wake her with the heat of his breath upon her barely-pulsing, newly-naked throat.

He sees himself placing the glass shoe on the delicate foot of the young. innocent, badly treated servant girl and claiming her wide-eyed perfection, pulchritude, purity and submission for always.

Yet the girl he really wants – the angel in the red hooded cloak –  knows him as the dangerous creature of which her mother has warned.  He is the restless stranger with poetry in his notebook, desire in his heart, and a world of darkness in his soul.

It is true that his teeth and claws can be sharp and he has such a decadent yet eloquent hunger.

But now, in these fading days and threadbare nights, even the wolf yearns only to be loved.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Ryan Pancoast

It has now become a tradition for me to re-post this on Halloween. It does not fit with either the pagan origins or the current commercial frenzy for this ancient festival, but it is probably about as fairytale as I get. Although I do have a fondness for Sleeping Beauty which I shall also post today.

 
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Posted by on October 31, 2018 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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