She captures
her image
for me
on her phone
and cannot
help looking
like the cover
of Vogue.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Not brand new, but true
Art by Louis Treserras
Tag Archives: romance
Something for her
She wishes he would write something for her.
A fantasy of endless, velvet, star-filled skies.
Of a wild, round, luminous moon hanging like a silver lantern. Of a warm, perfumed breeze stroking her hair and tugging gently at her dress.
Of the distant strains of a yearning, lone violin fading and rising through the whispering trees.
Of his hands releasing the pale silk gown from her eloquent shoulders, and it running off her naked body like a caress and falling with a sigh at her feet.
Of her perfect, dangerous, wondrous curves laid out by him on a cool, crisp white linen sheet. Of her arms and legs stretched wide. Of his tongue, his lips, his fingers over every inch of her tingling skin, upon her sensual mouth, her exquisite breasts, and her urgent, swollen, fragrant sex.
Of him filling her with pleasure, with joy, and with himself.
In every way.
.
She wishes he would write something for her.
He just has.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Fabian Perez
I wrote and posted this seven years ago, and a few times since. Definitely the Romantic side of RD. I am rather fond of it. I hope regular readers do not mind the repeat
In my youth
A girl like you.
In my youth I would have fought other boys for the right to walk you home. Wearing the scars like a badge. Or I would have wandered backwards and forwards past your house, hoping to catch a glimpse of you at a window. Or long for you to see me, a shadowy figure beneath the street light, and think me romantic.
In my youth I would have carved presumptuous initials into innocent trees, into battered park benches, into tables, and desks, and the backs of chairs – not caring if I was caught. Or that you would disapprove if you knew.
In my youth I would have sought you out at dances, making a mess of my over-rehearsed lines. I would have asked a friend to give you messages – which you would probably receive with a frown.
In my youth I would have made up a hundred heroic stories in my head where I come to your rescue. Saving you from the clutches of the mob, the grip of an assailant, the jaws of death. Or perhaps just finding your lost dog.
In my youth I would have written you tortured poems, toiled over for hours, scrawled on stolen paper, that would never leave the pocket of my faded denim jeans.
In my youth I would have wished for the internet, if I could have seen into the future.
Yet here I am. Connection at my fingertips. Posting pointless poetry.
That you will probably never read
A girl like you.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Written some years ago, and I am still posting pointless poetry.
Art by Annick Bouvattier
Drifting
It is a soft, still afternoon.
It is slowly stirring from the morning’s drab dullness.
The light is becoming pale honey.
There is bird song floating in through the open window, bleating of sheep, a distant dog barking somewhere beyond the trees, horses hooves nearby.
I live in the country. Trees and hedges, narrow lanes, small ancient villages, a patchwork of fields that are home to sheep or cows or are yellow with rape, green with wheat or blue with flax.
Sometimes I feel far from the world.
It is easy to drift.
Like today.
I have practised Pilates, I have meditated, I have drunk tea, eaten lunch, and sighed at the world on the web.
I am now tapping out words which will somehow, magically, weave themselves into sentences, paragraphs, chapters, and then a book.
But still, it is easy to drift.
And to let myself think of you instead.
Wearing a simple summer dress that kisses your curves perfectly. Your hair is free, your smile warm, your eyes laughing. Your beauty makes me sigh. And smile.
My fingers leave the keyboard.
I close my eyes and breathe you in. Across the miles. You fill my mind.
Your presence inhabits me.
There is nothing here but you.
It is a soft, still afternoon.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Vladimir Volegov
Maybe somewhere
.
Maybe
you are out there
somewhere.
.
Maybe
somewhere close
beyond fields
and trees
roads and cities
valleys and streams.
.
Maybe
somewhere far
beyond borders
and flags
mountains and lakes
continents and seas.
.
Maybe
somewhere
beneath
different skies
in a different land
with a different tongue
and a different skin.
.
Maybe
you are out there
somewhere.
.
Maybe
you are out there
somewhere
waiting
for me.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Written a few years ago, but I like it.
Painting by Marc Figueras
More than your name
I whispered more
than your name
last night
before finally
I slept.
.
I whispered more
than your name
last night,
bravely
into the dark,
like a poem
like a prayer.
.
I whispered more
than your name
last night,
hoping the soft
seeking syllables,
the wishing
wanting words
would somehow
reach you
and touch you
deep.
.
I whispered more
than your name
last night.
Perhaps
you didn’t hear.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Not new, but I whispered your name.
Art by Amy Judd
A darker twist
She is naked.
She runs her fingertips along her cheeks and lightly over lips.
So gently that her skin tingles.
She closes her eyes and trails them over her chin, onto her neck and into the hollow of her throat.
They trace a line across her collar bones. She shivers. But she is not cold.
She is surprised to find her skin so sensitive to her own touch.
She parts her thighs. Wide. As wide as she can.
Breathing hard she allows her hands to slide down and cup her breasts.
She slowly circles her areolae with her thumbs, feeling the already erect nipples harden into tight buds.
She strokes herself, exquisite arcs of excitement. She almost becomes lost in the sensation.
She imagines her hands becoming his. She is under his instruction, under his control
She takes each nipple between thumb and forefinger.
She begins to squeeze. Hard.
In her mind she can hear his voice. Soft, deep, dark, commanding, certain.
‘Harder’
She tightens her grip and gasps at the pain. And yet also the pleasure.
She knows she is wet. Very.
His voice again.
‘Harder’
This time she is brutal with herself.
She cries out, yet maintains her vice-like grip.
It is like two electric shocks. Red hot wires running from breasts to belly to sex.
Urgent, sharp, shocking. intense.
Heavenly.
The deep pitch of her arousal takes her breath away.
She realizes her fantasies have suddenly taken a darker twist.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Not a new post – but oh, that darker twist
Art by Steve Hanks
Addiction
Addiction
.
The uncaring night will take me
And oppress me with its heat.
Leave me wide-eyed
and sleepless
In a tangle of tortured sheets.
.
Since you became my addiction
I have wanted no one else.
Only to see you dance before me
I have longed for nothing else.
.
The over-bright dawn will find me
And burden me with its hope.
Leave me confused and restless
Tied up tightly in my own rope.
.
Since you became my addiction
I have wanted no one else.
Only to see you dance before me
I have longed for nothing else.
.
The relentless day will trap me
And unsight me with its glare.
Leave me wandering and helpless
Your distance has stripped me bare.
.
Since you became my addiction
I have wanted no one else.
Only to see you dance before me
I have longed for nothing else.
.
© 2009 the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Past readers of this blog will recognise one of my favourite poems. I wrote it twelve years ago in strange circumstances.
Posted again because sometimes one becomes addicted …
Art by Rainer Auger
Afternoon
Horses hooves
in the lane
outside my window
sheep bleating
in the field
billowing clouds
white on blue.
.
I sit here
day dreaming
music playing
tea steaming
and a long list
of things to do.
.
And wanting
and wanting
and wanting
you.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Steve Hanks. She looks nothing like the wanted one, but it is a lovely painting.
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
