Santa’s village was on the edge of reconstruction and renovation.
the elves were excited, they held a parade and massive celebration.
Electronics, cell phones and I-pads are sought by children of today.
The workshop was full of antiquated equipment to toss away.
No one wanted wooden blocks or dolls that talk or wiggle.
They still had a filing cabinet of Barbie dolls that had a giggle.
Super hero items are now the absolute must-have rage.
They needed to delete obsolete toys that never reached a finished stage.
Santa’s reindeers were dancing around all joyful too.
They were on permanent break, for deliveries now came through Lou.
Lou was the head elf, and a big proponent of Amazon Prime.
So the reindeers could lay around and dine, all of the time.
Upon green hills where gentle breezes play,
A village wakes to greet the golden light.
No city horns disturb the break of day,
Just birds that sing and skies serenely bright.
The air is crisp, each breath a gift so pure,
With streams that babble secrets as they run.
Life moves in rhythms peaceful and demure,
Unhurried hours beneath the warming sun.
Fields stretch in green, and laughter fills the air,
Neighbors share stories by the fireside’s glow.
No restless race, no burdens hard to bear,
Just simple joys that only dreamers know.
Far, far away from crowds that rush and strive,
Here, hearts find peace and truly learn to thrive.
© 2025 Pastor Emmanuel Serto
Picture a dusty village road
Where two stubborn goats
One older full of pride
Another younger and very agile
Face each other on a narrow bridge
Neither want to back down
They lock horns in front of the whole village
Each claiming the right of way
On the edges, villager elders watched on
Placing bets on who fights better
Turning merchants for their goods
Whilst the drums of propaganda beats on.
But the bridge
thin and weary from the weight
begins to crack beneath their show down
and when it breaks won’t the whole village bleed from the fall?
The world is a small rural village.
Each nation is a household
Sometimes one runs out of salt
but never worries for a neighbour will offer
expecting nothing in return.
Communal hands
Clear each other's farms.
When pests strike one, the rest respond
because no rain ever falls on just one roof.
Children are raised by the village
whether born of wealth or want.
Every father is a father to many
every mother is a mother to all.
Lessons are not chalked on blackboards
but told around fires, where wisdom glows with every flame.
The world is a small village
my grandfather once said
where kindness is currency
and no one eats alone.
A village in the sun
There is a small village with a few streets that have no name and houses have no number twelve I bought a small home that had stood empty for years when not used as a stable for the unique Algarvian white long-eared donkey
Retired workers in the village up the road where the shop was located next door to a café where they sat enjoying their beer fixed my house and soon I with my dogs everyone in the Algarve has a dog and I could spend my time writing poetry or walking in the wood
This Idyll was too perfect to last, one day a group of English tourists came to my village, and I, the only one who spoke English sealed the village's fate by telling them what a wonderful this place was and that there were several empty houses for sale the homes were snapped up and before you could say, Adam, the village became English
Cans of beer in the ditches, late-night parties scantily dressed women craving sex and sun the idyll was over it was time to leave my refuge from a noisy place filled with people who said how much they loved Portugal
In verdant valleys, where wildflowers sway,
A tranquil village, where my heart stays,
A place of serenity, where love abounds,
Where laughter echoes, and memories resound.
The thatched roofs, the rustic doors,
The gentle streams, that forever roar,
The scent of earth, the warmth of sun,
A sense of belonging, forever begun.
In this haven, I took my first stride,
Where innocence bloomed, and dreams reside,
The village elders, with wisdom so bright,
Guided me through life, with love and gentle might.
As I wander through, the familiar lanes,
Memories of childhood, forever remain,
The joy of simplicity, the peace of mind,
A sense of connection, forever intertwined.
This pristine village, where I was born to dwell,
Remains forever, a part of me to tell,
A place of solace, where my heart finds rest,
A haven of love, where I am forever blessed.
Though life's worries pull us apart,
Through summer’s heat and winter’s heart,
A drop of my blood once fell here,
And I can’t pass this village, dear.
At first, we came with hesitation,
But soon adapted with dedication.
In ten years, it shaped who we are,
This modest school that seemed so far.
My homeland blessed me with its grace,
Its image forever in my heart's space.
It gave me all its sacred charms,
And kept a corner of my heart warm.
No kin of mine remains in this place,
No treasure I hid in its embrace.
Yet it pulls me like a magnet's might,
Even if I hold the world outright!
Each one’s a giant, a tale to unfold,
A living treasure, richer than gold.
With hearts so vast, like the steppe they roam,
The boys of our village, as strong as stone.
Their eyes ablaze like springtime skies,
Pride unyielding, they’ll brook no lies.
Though fiery at times, they heed what’s right,
The boys of our village, steadfast in might.
They walk upright, heads held high,
Unbowed by rank, wealth, or lie.
Though passion burns, respect they show,
To elders they honor, wherever they go.
These boys I see in a shining light,
This is the truth, my judgment’s right.
And if you ask, “Where’s this place you call?”
It’s the Kazakh land—that’s our village, that’s all!
Here we are, our falsehoods are now through,
Did you claim your share from life’s clear view?
Erasing one name from this fragile world,
A name that history forever unfurled.
We left the village just the other day,
Yet for its warmth, we always long and pray.
Enjoying life in our own fleeting ways,
We’re all just bellies hauling earth’s clays.
In youth, we burned as flames in the night,
We bowed to no one, fought with all our might.
Self-centered, stubborn, and deaf to advice,
We plunged into troubles more than twice.
Now, youth and pride have both faded away,
Tamed, we follow life’s humbler way.
Like a flickering lamp that’s lost its glow,
Our fame has dimmed, nowhere left to go.
Gingerbread village is my go-to Christmas place
Red and white stripes give it a festive look.
Strings of blinking lights uplift me in a December way.
Gingerbread houses loaded with gumdrops are smiling.
In the sky are a dove, an angel, and a magic hot air balloon.
Magic oozes into my pores, as I parade down Gingerbread Lane.
Nothing has ever made me feel more alive or child-like than this.
I am a beacon of light for my homeland. My quaint village, serene yet vibrant, is a haven of peace. The youth, with their carefree spirit, fill the air with laughter and song, unbothered by the world beyond. Even the birds know to respect the tranquility of our lives.
From the winding road that leads to the bustling city, the countryside remains unchanged. I love to gaze out and let my thoughts wander as I speed by in the fast-moving vans. My people, ever resilient, continue to drink from the well of life and mind their own business.
Today marks what would have been my late mother's 94th birthday. She was one of my favorite people, a true embodiment of our country's spirit. Rest in peace, dear mother.
With Christmas just twelve days away, I look forward to blending once again with my countrymen, like a well-orchestrated steel band. From New York to the Caribbean shores, no holiday celebration is complete without the melodious sound of the steel pan in Queen Park.
Whether we cry in a storm or dance in the rain, this time of year celebrates life and honors those we've lost. I am a ray of sunshine for my country's people. Merry Christmas, my beloved homeland.
O Lord,
'Tis a decade gone
Since thy curse fell upon us.
The malnourished children are no more,
The poor soil lieth barren.
Lord, what hast thou wrought upon our village?
Mine only companions be the flies and the toads.
Thy shadow resteth beside mine empty grave.
I am not wroth with thee,
Yet surely have I all the right to be so.
Sleepy village
The white village has a small church
also white and wonderful
only open for mass, weddings
and funerals
Post-card pretty set in a landscape
by a Van Gogh
Poppies and olive trees shimmer above
ground, in the afternoon heat
I saw the priest drink whisky and lit
a cigarette while leafing through
a two-month-old Vatican circular
People live long here, when they die
do so in groups of five or six
going on a long journey together
They lived too long for any tears to fall
Every day in this village has a golden
sense of yesterday
ogling the green man - triangle between his nose and the dairy goat
scytheman spoils - dreamy village, ‘cept for the upside-down violinist
green man wears cap and St. Andrew’s cross -
tree of life pinched between fingers
cubist colors - emotive impact, up and down, side to side, frenzy
Autumn in the Village, 1939-45 by Marc Chagall
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Away from muse - past sins nuzzle a D-minor heart in life's autumn
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