Jacob

I: The Path

He, at such a tender age,
walked the path which paved the way
for many things;
Some great, some sad, some things for the best
and some for the worst.
Alas, his praises nobody sings.

He watched her every day in class,
frustrated and filled with desire,
His young heart knew not of what lay ahead,
His imminent baptism of fire.

A determined and strong young man was he,
Aware of his hopes and his fears,
as any gentleman should be.
He had knowledge beyond that of his years.

He knew of his main aim in life,
His career was perfectly mapped,
He would work hard, and he would strive
to keep his father's dream alive
and take over the family business.
However, at college, he felt he was trapped.
Trapped in a room, knee to knee with temptation,
Trapped in a room full of high expectation.
No, nobody sung his praises,
so he never thought he'd do any good,
not even she sung his praises,
but he still loved her as much as he could.

The path stretched out far ahead of him,
Stretched away to a life yet unknown,
And he walked on and on, right down it,
to his future - his hopes, his fears and his dreams.

II: The Struggle

That day started like any other - birds were singing high up in the trees,
The sun beat down warm on his shoulders, and his love was all he could see.
He knew not of just what lay ahead of him
that glorious, bright sunny day;
He knew not of the grief and despair lying dormant in his lecturer's chest,
Knew not of the things he would say
That would shake him, change his world forever.

He never expected that day to be taken aside,
His books and his dreams lying scattered as he cried
and learned of the terrible way his parents died.

A simple drive in the country had taken a turn for the worse,
and now all he could do on hearing the news was curse
everything he had,
all he knew,
what he wanted and loved.

Blinded by grief, he ran,
Knowing not just where he was bound,
Then by chance, on the first train he found
he jumped.
Whatever it was he was hoping to find
by boarding that train that day is unknown,
But it is certain he wanted to leave his old life behind,
and start anew in some fresh, green wondrous land.

He wasn't alone on the train that day;
Two other passengers kept him company
and finally told him just where he was headed -
The Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show On Earth
was to be his new home.
It was certain, then, that he would not be alone.
Perhaps the struggle to grasp his parents' death,
his thoughtless escape
had all been for the best - perhaps the circus would bring him new hope,
distract him enough, with its mirrors and smoke
for him to truly start again.
Perhaps, he thought, I'll fall under the circus's spell.
Perhaps, he thought, as the train came on home, only time will tell.

III: Destiny

The young man was shunned by the kinkers at first,
left by the wayside, thrown in with the worst of the lot -
but he knew, and Marlena did, too, that he was a good young man.

Marlena, the Ringmaster August's wife,
Her mature beauty, her zest for life
caught his attention and he fell in deep.
Forbidden love, he thought, is best,
Yet it is such a torment, he never could rest
for thinking about her.
But she was not his.
She could not be his.
She somehow would be his.

Once he had settled in, he met Rosie.
He fell in love, now two had his heart in their grasp.
She loved him so much that she obeyed him faithfully
as he stroked her side and made commands in Polish -
he never once felt silly, never once felt a fool
for loving this pachyderm,
nor for harbouring a love so cruel
for his fair, sweet and dear Marlena.
His Marlena who was not his at all.
This, he thought, would not stop the fall.
August, he knew, did not like him much,
He knew that August knew his every move,
His every thought and his longing to touch
His Marlena
Without a word ever having passed between them.
August was cold, he knew of the freedom
Jacob and Marlena could have if he surrendered her to him.
But he could not - he was too proud of her,
She was his trophy, along with the show,
All this gave him power and status - she could never go;
August had a life far too good to leave.
Marlena, however, vehemently disagreed.
August could see this too - her love for Jacob.
The connection between the two was magnetic,
Compared to her love for Jacob, what she felt for August was pathetic.

Overcome with rage and confusion, August fought Jacob,
threatened him with death,
but Jacob retaliated just as well - he well and truly put August through hell
by stealing his woman and charming her easily,
leaving August powerless.

Later, after Marlena took her leave,
The two shared a tender night in a hotel,
cementing their love and their extraordinary tale.
After that night, they agreed, they would run;
By morning they would have a new life in the sun
and the green of the quaint New York countryside.
So they ran, and they married, made many a child
and lived in their wonderful postcard bliss,
Not one hint of remorse in each loving kiss.

Now, old and frail, he should not have been
so mad as to run away again - he was sick of the way things were;
so plain, formulaic, so much time to spare
when he could be doing what he really loved.
Marlena had gone, his children had grown,
now, he thought, since I am so alone,
Ringling called to him - he was young again.
Defiant, he looked up at the tall circus tent
"Why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?!"
Doubt quickly came and went.
So he, now ninety - or ninety-three - once again joined the circus;
for one final time, he fulfilled his destiny.

The Voice

A voice can do many things, be many things.
But your voice is unique - when you speak, you don't talk -
you sing.

Yours is the voice that can move me to tears,
Yours is the voice that can bring to the surface
all of my fears
And then quell them again.

Yours is the voice that is gentle and kind,
Yours is the voice that plays on in my mind
like a stuck record which I don't want to stop.

Yours is the voice that alleviates pressure,
Yours is the voice that can make me feel special
Even though I know you aren't speaking to me.

That voice of yours can make my heart stop,
It flutters and leaps, when every word leaks
from your perfect mouth.

Your voice can soothe me in the dark of night,
Your voice turns my life's wrongs to rights,
With each silken syllable your perfect mouth frames,
I long to see, long to hear you speak my name.

Your voice, for me, is a shoulder to cry on,
Your voice is one which I can rely on.

To fall so in love with a voice seems insane,
With your face, I'm in love -
Your personality, too;
but neither of these are the same.
I could look on your face,
listen to your voice all day,
Your face shows the outward sign of beauty,
But your voice really proves that it is your duty
To be exactly the kind man you are;
You won't change for anyone,
and that, amongst many other things, I admire.

Maroon (A picture challenge poem)

On you we have seen many colours -
some traditional, black and midnight blue -
but this time, everything's different;
you've stepped out wearing maroon.

Something about this drives us wild,
perhaps because it is new?
Whatever it is, we don't really care,
in our heads, we're ripping it off you!

There may be two others beside you
as you walk the red carpet tonight,
But our tunnel-vision blocks them out,
we seek you out and watch you all night.

There's something about the maroon on you
that emphasises your eyes,
that makes your hair seem lighter;
we notice this and contentedly sigh.

Such minute details, like the colour of your shirt, suit and tie
are locked away in our brains
So that when you step out at another event,
we can share, compare and complain.

There's something different about you in maroon
that changes your face and your ways.
Perhaps it makes you bolder?
Your cheeky press answers stay with us for days!

One thing we do know of you and maroon;
the two go together well.
And no matter what colour your suit and tie,
you will always make our loving hearts swell!

An Ode to RAoR

Oh RAoR, you brighten up my life,
Oh, how you make me laugh
with each innuendo and euphemism
thrown out at the sight of each new photograph!

JAG runs the blog with such power and ease,
TessAnz, shares her poetry skills,
And let's not forget Liz, Deb, Scilla and Smitt
whose smutty wisdom always serves to please!

I believe that here on RAoR, my best days so far have been spent,
and I can tell you now with utmost confidence - each sin I've confessed?
I don't wish to repent!

Vana, you said you were "just Dutch and stupid!"
but we know that really, you're smart,
And RDM and our Jolori - each new edit you bring touches all of our hearts!

May these happy days continue;
Women brought together by love for one man,
As long as they do, I know I'll muddle through
whenever RL hits the fan!

And maybe some time in the future,
when our daughters and granddaughters are born,
We'll have started a new generation of H00rs and Angelz
searching for and borrowing RobPorn!

Louisiana

It is a quiet, cool evening in Louisiana.
Far away from the houses
full of families huddled round TV sets,
the loud click of a camera shutter
breaks the silence.

Each click pierces the air like a bullet.
Each movement of the photographer and her subject in the wind
happens just as swiftly.
Just because the photographer does not feel
what thousands of other women feel for her subject
does not mean she does not understand it,
know it,
see it;
It does not mean she cannot manipulate her subject
to shoot a thousand women's dreams in one double-page spread.
She can.

With the next click, she captures him - tall, windswept and handsome
in damnable tight black pants and an even tighter black shirt.
With this click, the sound is not the familiar mechanic clap -
It is a thousand sighs.
The wind rustling through his hair is a thousand hands
wishing to touch him.
The watchful eyes of his bodyguard are not just his own,
they are his fans - watching, waiting with baited breath,
ready to pounce, to save and protect.

The Louisiana air is cooler now, the sky beginning to pale,
but still the subject poses, calm and patient.
Somewhere on a blog, these scenes are posted.
Women gather on forums, guessing the temperature, time;
making cleverly disguised innuendoes
and trying to fathom whether or not
you can see his nipples through his shirt.
Each click and zoom of the photographer's lens
corresponds to a click and zoom of the photos on the blog.
The photos aren't even official, and already have caught so much attention.

Typical.

As the shoot draws to a close, and everyone heads for home,
the subject - now in a white shirt, black jacket and Ray-Bans,
looking good enough to trigger worldwide sin - is herded by his bodyguard to his car.
The driver begins to morph into each and every female entranced by him.
Their subconscious fools them,
satisfies them,
with the thought that they alone
are taking him home;
One photographer,
One man,
One day in Louisiana
was enough to launch a million fantasies.
With a smirk, the photographer leans back in her seat.
She knows what she has done.
"Just wait," she thinks as the car drives away "until the official photos are released."

Grace Under Pressure

You never ask too much, and you say not much is ever asked of you,
You find it completely remarkable that so many have interest in all you do.
The sea of screaming faces, set like a painting on the screen, with you standing before them,
Smiling, unnerved and serene,
is truly a sight to see.

Breathtaking, so painfully handsome - though you shake your head and deny
that any woman should justly lay her eye on you - one can understand just why
you require so much protection. Imagine the uproar if one should ever dent perfection!
These things do not bother you,
for you are selfless, pure and true, and though you'd plead this not the case,
to gaze upon your heaven-sculpted face conjures only maddening love.
To gaze upon your captured repose, and take in every feature up close
causes many a sleepless night.

Then, to hear that silken voice, examine every gesture,
To see how you think, feel and speak,
To feel as though you speak and look solely upon us,
provides a kind of unknown pleasure,
So we keep your face, your voice and gestures
locked within our minds like treasures
waiting to be found again, and used in hours of daily leisure,
when thinking of you is not forbidden, when thinking of you
makes us free.

It's times like this one wishes you could see
the love that is felt so endlessly by those whose lives you enrich.
The most remarkable thing of all about you is not what you do,
but who you are.
It doesn't matter what others see, what others try to make us read -
we know it is just like he said; we know that, by all means and measures,
you are the epitome of grace under pressure.

Reasons I Can't Stand You

I can't stand the sight of your handsome face.

I can't stand the way you fill up every space
in my mind.

I can't stand that fact that, time after time,
I have to come to terms with the fact you're not mine.

I can't stand the fact that when you're away,
I imagine your voice - all the things you would say.

I can't stand the fact I don't know you at all,
But I really can't stand that I love you, most of all.