ZANTHON - MY FRIEND

ZANTHON -MY FRIEND

 

I, knight-at-arms, in my own forest lost!
Count of the empire, heir to crags and caves,
And brother to the eagle and the fox!
The music of the thunder, and the wind
Among the arches of the oaks, may choir
A requiem for my passing soul. But hist!
A footstep in the leaves -- some poaching hind
Or gypsy trapping game -- Holà! holà!
Perhaps the kobolds are abroad to-night.
Zanthon knows well these mountain-folk entice.
The woods divide, dawn breaks, I see the verge;
Bathony's stronghold on the Polish plains
Should top the wilderness: were Zanthon here,
To boast his prowess in our hunting bouts,
I would not cuff nor flout him, could we sight
In the old way, with fanfaron, the boars
On the old battlements, our ancient badge.

That lie to Zanthon on the Volga's banks,
When Amine sent the wild rose by his hand,
Was Satan's wile. I played the Cossack well.
With shame my mustache bristled when I said,
Troopers must forage where the grain is grown:
I share my kopecks with the village priest
Who winnows peccadillos by the sheaf.

Then Zanthon, laughing in his foxy beard:
When Amine meets me in the plane-tree walk
(Where pairing little finches seek to build,
We saw the cuckoo thieve their nests when boys),
Shall I then tell her, in my peasant way,
Your broken promise, and her troth denied?
And he was gone -- gone, with the stud he bought
From Schamyl's son, up by Caucasus way,

Leaving me solitude to reason with.
Around me, then, an odor swept -- the rose!
It plagued my nostrils day and night, in gusts
It blew, but one way only -- towards Amine.
At cards it smote me, in the saddle puffed,
Through my tent walls at night its withered blast
Pierced, and changed me in my wavering dreams.
What spell was this, by love or friendship sent?
Across the steppes I followed Zanthon, close, --
He might have heard the whinny of my mare;
Verst after verst, the measure of her hoofs
Beat out a rhythm, like a cackling laugh.
But on the frontier my poor Sesma fell:
I heard the ravens croaking from the hills.

The sun has burned away the valley's mist.
And in the silent, tranquil morning air
A mirage rises of my ruined walls
Gold-colored, crystal-edged, the banners flash.
The rooks are stringing for the old beech copse.
This gully crossed, the bridge that spans the stream --
But halte-lâ, my heart crowds up my breast,
For this is Poland, Mother of my Soul!

Quoth Zanthon, watching in the plane-tree walk,
My fine Bathony comes to join the feast,
And raise the conopeum for my bride.
I pay the kopecks to the priest to-day,
But Amine in his sheaf will not be bound

 

 This poem was written by  Elizabeth Stoddard

 

The Germanic root of frēond and frēon is *frī-, which meant "to like, love, be friendly to." Closely linked to these concepts is that of "peace," and in fact Germanic made a noun from this root, *frithu-, meaning exactly that.

 True friends honour your boundaries, opinions, and decisions, even in disagreement. They hold your autonomy in high regard and abstain from manipulation or control for personal gain. While differences can enrich friendships, shared values often deepen them.

 Moreover, Good friends are not judgmental, and they keep private information confidential. Maintain respect and respectful boundaries. If you are friends with someone for long enough, there are sure to be issues that arise. Perhaps you will do or say something that will upset your friend.

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YAKING CO WORKER

 

 

YAKING COWORKER

You are on a little roll today

I have no idea what he is speaking of

 But I know one thing

 He is always speaking

 Yak Yak Yak

 Yuk Yuk Yuk

Yak Yak Yak

 Chat Chat Chat

 Blab Blab Blab

 Gossip Gossip Gossip

 Constant blubbering and blathering

 

 You are a wild woman he says

 I ignore him

 Not wanting to encourage

 any more words to come out of his mouth

This poem was written by Caren Krutsinger 

Yaking is to talk, especially uninterruptedly and idly; gab; chatter. ​to talk continuously about things that are not very serious or important.

Yak is general used as thus:

A small population lived chiefly off yak herding and barley growing, leaving fields fallow for long periods to prevent leaching and erosion. The proposals are in danger of alienating law-abiding young people from doing what young people like to do, which is sitting around talking and having a yak.

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X-MAS GIFT

X-MAS GIFT

Your words are like the desert sand
Always shifting
Dry and arid, no life grows there
Play your games, the truth incinerates like volcanic flames

But I must concede that you are right
Who am I to try to hold you tight?
Me trying to dim your lights before they shine bright

Walking the same roads
Misinterpreting each other's codes
No deposit into spiritual abodes

One moving fast the other really slow
Not quite able to find the right flow
No way to let this love seed grow

Thee is no blame
And there is no shame
Putting an end to this futile game

Be young so long
This is my Xmas gift to you
No more ME to pester you.

 

This poem was written by Monciana Edmondson

 

We often give gifts to re-confirm or establish our connection with others, which means that they're a reflection of both the giver and the receiver, as well as their unique relationship. Giving a gift to someone we care about allows us to communicate our feelings and appreciation for them.

 Around 336 CE, the date December 25 appears to have become established as the day of Jesus's birth, and the tradition of gift-giving was tied to the story of the Biblical Magi giving gifts to baby Jesus.

 The 4 gift rule is very simple: you get each of your children something they want, something they need, something to wear, and something to read. Depending on your kid's age, you might ask for their input on some or all of these gifts, or you might choose them all yourself.

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WHEN I WAS YOUNG

WHEN I WAS YOUNG

  

When I was young

Love was everywhere.

Songs of love filled the air,

From birds singing to radios playing.

 

We danced to our favourite songs

We loved to sing along.

 

Where have all the time and years gone?

It truly was only yesterday.

 

Is it the last call for lonely hearts?

We say, not for us.

 

Our hearts are forever young,

Dancing and singing forever to love songs.

 

This poem was written by Paula Goldsmith

 

Young at heart is a phrase that describes a person as having traits associated with young people, such as hopefulness, optimism, energy, or enthusiasm.

 Being young at heart can surely be a coveted quality to some grown-ups who despite being old still feel that a lot of life still remains in them.

 Older adults who feel young at heart may not only live longer but may also have more life satisfaction, lower dementia risk, reduced depression symptoms, and better health in the future. Interestingly, how people feel about their age has been changing over time.

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VILLAGE ON THE RHONE

 

VILLAGE ON THE RHONE

Beside the placid waters of the Rhone

A classical village rises to meet the sky,

The magnificent steeple an inverted cone

Hoists a Saint Anthony’s cross to passersby.

 

The placid waters of the Rhone reflect

Tightly crowded flats along the banks

While gondola-like barges quietly bisect,

Creep behind a steamer in solemn ranks.

 

Beyond the placid waters of Rhone

Behind where the hamlet cannot expand

Where artist has never dimensionally gone

Are meadows and fertile stretches of land.

 

Above the placid waters of the Rhone

And the village so central to this scene

A cerulean sky lends a peaceful overtone

With wispy clouds, a sight not often seen.

 

 

This poem was written by L Milton Hankins

 

 A village is a small settlement usually found in a rural setting. It is generally larger than a "hamlet" but smaller than a "town." Some geographers specifically define a village as having between 500 and 2,500 inhabitants. In most parts of the world, villages are settlements of people clustered around a central point.

 Villages are mostly situated far from the hustle and bustle of urban civilization. The beauty of nature can be experienced in a village as it is surrounded by trees, flowers, mountains, streams, and farmlands. There is no pollution in the village and one can feel the freshness in the breeze.

 Villages are known for their beautiful natural surroundings. They remain unperturbed even today when there is so much of chaos and competition around. People in villages lead a simple life and are content with whatever little they have.

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UNDER THE VIOLETS

 

 UNDER THE VIOLETS

Her hands are cold; her face is white;
No more her pulses come and go;
Her eyes are shut to life and light; --
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow,
And lay her where the violets blow.

But not beneath a graven stone,
To plead for tears with alien eyes;
A slender cross of wood alone
Shall say, that here a maiden lies
In peace beneath the peaceful skies.

 

And gray old trees of hugest limb

Shall wheel their circling shadows round

To make the scorching sunlight dim

That drinks the greenness from the ground,

And drop their dead leaves on her mound.

 

When o'er their boughs the squirrels run,

And through their leaves the robins call,

And, ripening in the autumn sun,

The acorns and the chestnuts fall,

Doubt not that she will heed them all.

 

For her the morning choir shall sing

Its matins from the branches high,

And every minstrel-voice of Spring,

That trills beneath the April sky,

Shall greet her with its earliest cry.

 

When, turning round their dial-track,

Eastward the lengthening shadows pass,

Her little mourners, clad in black,

The crickets, sliding through the grass,

Shall pipe for her an evening mass.

At last the rootlets of the trees

Shall find the prison where she lies,

And bear the buried dust they seize

In leaves and blossoms to the skies.

So may the soul that warmed it rise!

 

If any, born of kindlier blood,

Should ask, What maiden lies below?

Say only this: A tender bud,

That tried to blossom in the snow,

Lies withered where the violets blow.

 

 This poem was written by Oliver Wendell Holmes

 

 "Under the Violets" is a deeply moving poem that explores a range of themes, from death and memory to friendship and the cycle of life. It's a testament to Holmes' skill as a poet that he is able to convey such complex ideas with such elegance and simplicity.  The poem "Under the Violets" remains a powerful reminder of the beauty and fragility of life.

 Written in 1868 "Under the Violets" is a beautiful and poignant elegy for the poet's friend, Caroline. The poem opens with the line, "Her hands are cold; her face is white; / No more her pulses come and go," setting the mournful tone right from the start. Throughout the poem, the speaker mourns Caroline's passing, eventually concluding that she now lies "under the violets."

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TWO ORDINARY PEOPLE

     

TWO ORDINARY PEOPLE

You were no Cinderella at the ball,

But, then, I was no prince charming, I recall

Just two ordinary people

Who fate and chance had brought together,

But by the time the dance was through,

We’d found romance, and we both knew

That for two ordinary people

It was like a fairy tale was coming true.

 

Ensuing years have proved that life is not a dream.

And all that glitters is not gold as it once seemed.

But when two ordinary people

Vow to join their lives together,

Then all the ordeals they’ll withstand

If they face them hand in hand

That’s how two ordinary people

Make the magic work without a magic wand.

I’m not a prince and you are not my princess bride

And I couldn’t  slay a dragon if I tried

We’re just two ordinary people

Who kept a vow and stayed together,

But when it’s blessed by true love’s kiss

Ordinary can be bliss,

And when I think of me and you

I know some fairy tales come true

And even ordinary people

Can have a happily ever after ending, too.

 

This poem was written by Jim Slaughter

 

 

Happily ever after - a situation in which someone is happy and satisfied for the rest of their life, especially in a romantic relationship.  This means maybe you are destined to settle down in your comfortable nest, happy ever after.

 

Spend the rest of one's life in happiness, as in romantic novels, the hero and heroine end up marrying and then live happily ever after. This hyperbolic phrase ends many fairy tales.

 

Happily Ever After  - This cliché ending line to countless fairy tales originated with The Decameron, penned by Italian writer Giovanni Boccaccio in the fourteenth century. A translation of the work from the 1700s gave us the line, “so they lived very lovingly, and happily, ever after” in regard to marriage.

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