I have watched
the light fade
and velvet night fall
blurring edges
erasing lines
stealing shapes
swallowing the day.
It is a safe cloak
in which to hope
to wish
to sleep
to dream
of you
lying warm
and naked
beneath.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
A cloak beneath which to dream of you
Art by Dmitry Kotchetkov
The ripples
from the pebble
of an idea
he threw
have widened
and deepened
and broken
into sensual waves
caressing
her imagination
and her skin
with delicious
dangerous
desire.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Not new, but the ripples are deep
Photographic Art by A K Nicholas
Beauty
can be so bland
plastic and obvious
universal and dull
without flaws.
I prefer yours
rare and special
exquisite and striking
utterly adored
by this true
connoisseur.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by William Oxer
A pale, fading
April evening
folding in
playing old vinyl
burning patchouli
writing dark poetry
needing your beauty
wanting your body
and feeling like
seventeen
all over again.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Not new, but true.
Art by William Oxer
I am not a holy man.
But I will touch your brow
as you kneel before me.
I will whisper a prayer
to your beauty
and your body.
I am not a holy man.
But I will hear your confession
in the sacred darkness.
I will sing a hymn
to your sweet heart
and submissive soul.
I am not a holy man.
But I will place my hands upon you
and anoint you with oil.
I will bless the moment
of your conversion
that carried you
here to me.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Steve Hanks
This piece is perhaps half a dozen years old – I am still not a holy man
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
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 couple of years ago. Still true. Except for the countless times when it is not just poetry.
Art by Victor Bauer
My doctor has examined me
He is man of great learning and deep understanding.
He is old and wise, and certificates on his wall attest to his vast and eclectic knowledge. Anatomy, psychiatry, psychology, neurology. Surgery, geometry, chemistry, philately, campanology.
He took deep soundings from my pulse. He listened carefully to my heart. He examined my body with clever hands, the strength of my muscles, the structure of my bones, the conductivity of my nerves, the light in my eyes. He considered tendons, ligaments, cartilage.
He had me listen to indistinct sounds. He made me recall half-forgotten scents. He insisted I recite my darkest poetry.
He made my reflexes dance
He asked me questions, recovered my dreams, investigated my hopes, pondered over my expectations. Asked pointedly about my exercise. And my patterns of sleep.
He explored my diet, my sexual inclinations, my sensual desires. My abuse of tea. And alcohol.
When he was done he sat me down and faced me. His brow was furrowed, his mouth severe. His chin was set firm. He was serious in his approach. He was careful in his diagnosis.
He shook his head sorrowfully, and with his fat fountain pen wrote slowly upon his pad. He solemnly handed me the page.
My doctor has examined me
He is a man of considerable reputation. I trust him completely.
My doctor has examined me.
My doctor knows what ails me. He knows what has laid me low.
He is certain of the only thing that can make me well. His recommendation is precise and unequivocal.
My doctor has prescribed me you.
It is a repeat prescription.
Of unlimited dose
To be taken as often
as I require.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
I wrote this five years ago. But It made me chuckle so much as I penned it back then, I have decided to post again now.
Art by Fabian Perez
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
You have touched me
without touching me.
You have made me
feel you
beneath my skin.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Not new, but you have touched me.
Art by William Oxer
