MensjeDeZeemeermin

A dragon should be calm and grave. He knows how not to misbehave: Avoids faux pas, and quite sedate He leaves SOME cookies on the plate. He never gives friends cause to fear Not even at THIS time of year When Christmas makes him strain to heed Good manners, which are hard on greed. He sees the presents piled high And tries so hard NOT to espy If his name might be on the label. He won’t shake boxes, if he’s able. He won’t engulf the Christmas ham, He’ll calmly share a rack of lamb. Some of the fudge plate must remain! He will not show the growing strain! Close your eyes, try to believe To give means more than to receive! Do not snarl, growl or pout When you hand THEIR presents out! No flights at night or end of day, To intercept dear Santa’s sleigh, Delicious reindeer must be spared! Candy canes must all be shared. No claims of lineage, that is boasting. If there is need, help with the roasting. Proper manners all decree: LEAVE THE SHINIES ON THE TREE! Let someone else hand out

I long, I weep, long hours go by,I keep so silent when I cry.One loved is dead, yet I live on.Warm tears are shed because she’s gone. To bear grief proudly is my task.Not to mourn loudly’s lots to ask.The years pass on, I still remain.The one thing that’s not lost is pain. At rest my torment’s marks appear.My lips turn down, sad lines are clear.Hopeless longing is not wise.I’ve seen the laughter leave my eyes. Anger grows where love once flowered.Glad thoughts perish, soon devouredBy the emptiness and woe.Those are left when loved ones go. Within my breast some withered partOf my mourning and battered heartFor reasons wisdom can’t explain,Tells me that I could love again. Attempts to reach out soon collapse,Wracked by false steps, dire mishaps,For what could someone ever seeIn what my grief has made of me? And should I love, indeed, what then?Would that grim hourglass turn again?Would misery beyond beliefBeset me left with renewed grief? I look on with my famished gazeAs life’s

At night these silent killers leave their roosts And through the eerie shadows seek their prey. They drop into the air, no need for boosts, And on spread leathern wings make stealthy way. The noctivagant moth becomes a feast With only severed wings to mark his fall, Sounds far too shrill to hear bounce back, released, And draw the dread assassin to their call. The midge out in the mirk dies with a snap And thousands of her sisters share her fate. The insect out too late faces mishap, For there’s unending appetite to sate. Not mice, nor monsters, much less flying rats-- I often pause to cheer our faithful bats.