Tag Archives: romance

Candle burning



A match flares.

A hiss. A spark.

A candle flickers

The darkness is softened

I cup the light in my hands. The flame is like a tiny dancer. She bends and quivers in the cold wind. She twists and shivers and stoops low. She recoils from the snow. She flinches from the storm. She almost dies as the demons of the night blow hard and cruel. Without mercy.

Yet I protect her, defend her, nurture her, shield her.

I guard her, shelter her, screen her, secure her.

I hold her close to my chest, near to my heart. I whisper my own private prayers to her. I carry her home. I find her a safe haven away from harm.

I place her in the window so you can see her dancing.

A candle is burning.

She is burning for you.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

From three years ago. But there is sometimes a candle burning.

Art originally © Ameyama



Posted by on February 19, 2018 in Poetry, Still Life


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Act dangerously



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

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.

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.



© 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.


Posted by on February 12, 2018 in Still Life


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Smoke and Mirrors


Writing in the third person.
He does it to distance himself from himself.

As a child, on an English summer holiday drenched with rain by the sea, his desperate parents conjured up tickets to an end-of-the-pier show. From out of the shuffling holiday-maker-evening dark he stared in awe.

The magician towered resplendent in black tuxedo, blindingly brilliant white shirt, and silky crimson bow tie. His long fingers blurred and danced. They teased tiny-heart-beating doves to flutter from his upturned hat and open sleeves. They shuffled and cascaded cards.  They disappeared objects and recovered them from behind the ears of eager witnesses.  They summoned a long-limbed, jewelled princess from the curtained wings and folded her into a tiny box.  They thrust glittering, breath-takingly sharp swords into her confined space.

The boy watched her emerge unscathed, her pale skin still perfect under the bright lights and he longed to be the sorcerer, wished for his secrets, lusted for his power.

Mid way through the second half of the show something happened. A mistake.  Barely a heartbeat of a slip. A faltering.  A stumble. A momentary loss of concentration. An uncertainty.

Invisible perhaps to most.  But the boy saw it.

In an instant he divined the tremble in the hands, the forehead sweat bubbling through the make up, the age-shine on the suit, the panic in the eyes.  He heard a tremble in the voice.

He understood every trick.

He sensed the dusty backstage, the disappointed counting out of the shrinking fee, the cramped fetid rooms above the fish and chip shop, the acrimonious divorce, the lost children, the box of yellowing letters in an ancient shoe box.

The child saw through the illusion and, however hard he tried, and oh, how he tried, he could never summon it back

The boy himself is now a man, far from young.  He has become an illusionist, of sorts.  He knows that, for the show to have power, for it to be compelling, for it to captivate and to control, the audience must suspend belief.  They must give themselves up to the magic.  They must have faith in his fantasy.  They must belong to him.

He knows that it is such a fine balance, a precarious position, a delicate dynamic.  He knows he must negotiate the wire with absolute confidence, with strength, and with complete certainty.

He knows that, above all, he must never stop believing in himself.

Otherwise it is all just smoke and mirrors.



During these introspective days I have been re-reading my past writings. I first posted this piece in 2012 on this blog, but I had already posted it on an earlier blog – ‘Shadows and Dancers’ – prior to that. The story from my childhood is true – and perhaps the rest is also so.


© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photograph found on the internet. Original source unknown. If it belongs to you please advise and I will credit or remove.



Posted by on February 4, 2018 in Poetry, Still Life


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She lingers

in my words

sleek and smooth

silky and seductive

soft and sweet

a subtle, scented

sensual shadow

her sheer

sexual presence

sculpts and shapes

my every sentence.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I first wrote and posted this two years ago. There are always shadows.

Art by Edward B Gordon

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Posted by on December 27, 2017 in Poetry, Still Life


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The One



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.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this in December three of years ago, and repeated it last year at this time. I think I was perhaps feeling a little weary when I first penned it. Smiles.
It has a wintry feel, so I hope it goes well with the snowflakes falling on my blog.

Photo/Art borrowed from Helionn on DeviantArt


Posted by on December 23, 2017 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life


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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 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





© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Anne Magill

I wrote this almost exactly three years ago, and repeated the post two years ago and then a year ago. I am sure there were reasons for my writing the original. I am sure there must have been.
It captures the hopelessly 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.


Posted by on November 24, 2017 in Poetry, Still Life


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Harbour Lights



In a far off

warm, exotic place

where lights

along the old harbour

shine and shimmer

glisten and glimmer

dance and dissolve

into the green-black sea

your elegant hand

will find mine.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written a year ago. Sometimes those harbour lights call insistently.

Art by Dmitri Danish

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Posted by on November 20, 2017 in Poetry, Still Life


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