A collection of poems
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Ralph Dobis, father of 3 and Zeke Anderson father of 2 here. Hope you're doin great. We sure are! We've been writin' so much that, heck, we thought it might be a grand idea to publish these darn things in a book! Guess Ralph's wife was right, for once! So Ralph's daughter Samantha got us on this dang Internet over here and that's where we are now. And heck, they come with pretty pictures our buddy Drew took of us with his brand new Kodak.
Imagine sittin' on your leather recliner, golf channel on, Karen's brewin' fresh Folgers, and in your hand is a handsome 75 page 8"x10" soft cover full-color coffee table masterpiece. You crack 'er open like an egg on a pan to discover it's chock-full of full-page photos of fine lookin' Dads paired with hilarious, heart-felt poems written by those very same Dads. I'm not talkin' about Karen's goal of touchin' her toes by I'm talkin' if we make a certain amount of cash, everybody who donates benefits.
The numbers we're dealing with are estimates from our printing company, Blurb. Hopefully they won't rip us off- I got a lemon from the Kia dealership and Lord knows I won't let that happen to me again. Shipping costs might also present an issue- we're hoping to keep these as low as possible but realistically it depends on where ya live! We'll do everything we can to absorb these costs but we might have to pass some of that cost onto you-. Other than that I suppose it might take us a little bit of time to make sure the darn thing looks okay.
We're hoping to have the books out by April, but things come up- Karen always seems to get pregnant in the Spring, and the annual John Deere expo pulls Zeke and I away for some time every March. I think the greatest risk of all is sharing our personal work with the world. But gosh darnit we're ready to do it. An electronic version of the book, or "eBook. Compatible with Kindle, iPhone, iPad, etc! You get the book! An 8x10 full color 75 page softcover masterpiece of Hilarious Dad poems accompanied with pictures of the Dads who wrote them.
BOOK - Trading Sunshine For Shadows - A Collection Of Poems / Orchard City Books & Noise
A true masterpiece. You get 2 copies of the book and a special mention on the inside cover of the book! If you have 2 Dads this is the perfect gift for Father's Day! At times it whispers in my ears fame is a vigilant sentinel that keeps standing at the crossroads of life, death, the past and the future.
My dew-drenched dreams are all scattered like withered flowers. Today I wonder why I hold some of them in the palm of my hand. A begging bowl in hand, he gropes for me in agony. I thought it would rain, but it didn't. Everywhere it is silent and still, without a breath of wind. Tired and sulking, the trees appear to break the silence, but refrain from speaking.
In the glass of the floating cloud I gaze at the images of hundreds of my cavalrymen dying from hunger and with cold.
My eyes are wet with warm tears, as they had been once when the widowed women of the soldiers broke down and wept bitterly. Helena tortures me as if I were her stepchild, but how dearly I love her! Yesterday, when the sun called on me through the window I woke up and stirred in her lap: the thirsty sea was gazing at the sun with tearful eyes. I did not know how long the cruel sun had been over my head and the sea weeping there.
My rebellious mind would not listen to the voice of reason. Here all are heartless, cruel and selfish, so I went back and began dictating a letter. Emperor Napoleon died on the ——-, after a long and painful illness. I have the honour to inform you the fact… Please let me know what arrangements your government has made for the conveyance of his body to Europe, and also in respect of the members of his suit.
It started raining and the cry of the sea was heard no more. But whose love it it that feeds the fire of my life? Who have I been exiled here for? No, St. Helena doesn't love me. She is merely on the watch for Death's arrival, Perhaps waiting to prevent him from opening the gate of my life too soon.
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With the garland of my pains worn around her neck, she keeps smiling like a minister on a dais. Here the wind only loves me, its whispers stir my quiet heart. Like a traveller by night walking along a serpentine street looking for his friend's place, I, too, am unable to spot mine. Here stands the tree of my future, all sere and bare.
The tides on the heart's sea, ebbing away. My past calls me, like a lighthouse calling the pathlost mariner. Your eyes, tremulous with love, spoke of pain in silence. Your red lips, already pale and dry from which the wind of misfortune had blown the flowers of kisses. The moon of your love was marred by the black marks of widowhood.
Soon after I saw you I painted my mind with new dreams. And from this time I will go on collecting the withered flowers of kisses to adorn the altar of your love. I will remove the black smudge of widowhood, and build with my own hands the edifice of your fate.
Sweet, incomparable Josephine, What have you done to my heart? Are you angry with me? Do you look sad? Are you ill at ease? But I find calm when I give myself up to my passion, that on your lips, at your heart, I may fan the flames which burn me. How plain it was to me last night that your picture can never replace the real you. At noon you will start; in three hours I shall see you; till then, mio dolce amor, a thousand kisses! But you must not give me kisses, for they burn my blood! I spend my whole time thinking of your kisses, your tears, your bewitching jealousy.
The charm of the incomparable Josephine is perpetually rekindling the flames of my heart and my senses. A million kisses, even for your horrid fortune.
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For fifteen years I remained lsot in the enchantment of that song, but alas! The day I deserted you I remember you looking at my face like a helpless child. I know you fainted many a time in mental pain. Suddenly at the dead of night you came and stood near my bed like the last wish of a man going to be hanged. But no words escaped from my lips. As my hands got wet with the blood of love, the rainbow disappeared from the sky.
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In forlorn hope the dancing peacock stopped spreading out its tail feathers and left for the forest. I left the palace for Trianon and there I sat for three days all alone. Not a word did I write to anyone. In my loneliness I saw the opulence of your love everywhere. But you would sit mutely. Take good care of your health, which is so dear to me. If you love me, then show me how strong and happy you can be.
You cannot doubt my fondness, or all the tenderness I feel for you. You cannot believe that I shall ever be happy if you are unhappy. I kept looking at the garden. The full blown roses murmured something and nodded their heads. Drops of tear fell from their eyes. How can I reveal my heart? What my hands painted for you is still green in my memory. And yet that house has been the witness of our happiness, and our feelings for one another.
These feelings must never change; nor can they, at least as far as I am concerned. I should so much like to pay a visit; but first I must know if you are a valiant woman or a weakling. I am rather weak myself, and I am suffering greatly. Farewell, Josephine. Good night. I did not know it would take ages to clear the debt of your love. I dreamt you would spend your life in plenty that I brought for you. Then you can judge for yourself which of us two is more friendly —— You or I. I drove you away from my heart, and today I am a long way away from France.
Even since the moon of your face went behind the black clouds of your mind, the wind of misfortune started levelling the sandcastles I had built on the beach of life. You became one with the earth, the mother of patience and calm; but the cry of your pure sould reverberates through the caves of my ears and heart.
The smoke of my life is unwillingly fading with a prayer to visit all cruel hearts before the morning. But I am silent as ever. For I know the smoke will melt in millions of loving eyes to get me wet. No, you hadn't; for the tears running from the eyes of the ghost take wings, and in the shape of suicide look for nests in the troubled mind. I know this body is mine, but I have not built it. I see a shape of pain which turns my stomach. I have begun to be friends with sorrow, who seems love my company. I have become a prisoner of my own fate that has bound my hands with the chain of time.
Let fate imprison my life, but I myself wouldn't take a day out of it.
Born of my mind, millions of soldiers keep watch in the empty sky not to let time come up to me. Afraid of none, he advances towards me to elicit informations from me as though I were someone standing in the witness box. I am worn and worried, my body soaked in blood; I have ears and I hear not, I have eyes and I see not. Closing my eyes I see Josephine sitting alone, her face wrinkled and her body, mere skin and bone. But her eyes seem to burn and from her dishevelled hair blood rushes towards me as though a river of blood were going to again wash me away.
I am dancing to the tune of my own sighs as a dancer does being whipped before a king drowsy under the influence of drugs. My parched heart is in search of an oasis crying for a drop of water. How high is her love! The earth plays the role of woman, and the sky, that of man: she clasps him to her dark bosom. Waves of emotion waken the dormant desire for creation and life springs in varied hues.
She feeds them all as a mother feeds her children on her milk. She bears the heat of the midday sun, storms and cyclones, but never banishes from her mind the memories of the sky. If today I fashioned an image with what I have been left with — love, kindness and patience it would be a woman, motherly tears streaming down her cheeks and cloud of grief floating about a girl's looks.
In the noisy battleground rise the piercing cries of pain, Life and death balancing each other. When the battle is over silence reigns.
diepodtatho.ml And then I feel like sitting there alone. I conquered half the world and then lost it. History will tell who I am and what has become of me. Kind-hearted one is not the epithet for me. It makes me an object of ridicule. Nobody has dared to speak to my face like you have done. But come now, cut me up with your sharp weapons.
I'm not going to say anything. My love for you has never diminished. I forgive you like Jesus did, similarly. The wind of pride and violence drives us into it, and we are reduced to ashes. War is a poisonous flower in a dense forest.
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It attracts the travellers only to kill them. War is a mirage we keep chasing for the waters of peace. We are like deer thirsty in the sun. Peace is nowhere. The anxious mother looks around to take him up in her arms. Between them, the wall, in which rises the stream of warm blood. The bird of peace circles in the morning sky.
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The total solar eclipse drove it to its nest. Peace trembles on the lotus leaf of life, unable to toss itself in the endless waters of love. It is for peace the soul takes a body and comes to this beautiful earth time and again. If flowers do not bloom filling the garden with their perfume, will the black bee of peace ever visit it? The gardener feels bloated with pride at the sight of tall trees in the garden. But no flowers do ever bloom.
Days roll away, and the gardener looks on. The lotus of my fate has bloomed in the pond whose banks are birth and death. Often have I seen it in bloom at the dawn of life. I have observed this flower in the gloom of my life keeping quiet after closing its petals.