The Truth About Santa -Roann Mendriq

T’was days before Christmas, the world was a mess; 

Children were doubting, (mine too, must confess!) 

They wanted to know now, how Santa could be; 

all over the world, in one night, you see? 
So, I sat mine down gently – it seemed the right time, 

to tell him the truth, with reason…and rhyme! 

Of course, Santa is real! He did live long ago, 

But not like you know him, to him there was more.. 
He was an old, holy priest, in a sleepy old town, 

Who smiled with his eyes, and never did frown; 

He was called Nicholas and was named a saint, 

because of his kindness, which had no restraint. 
He didn’t fly through the sky, wearing bright red, 

with black shiny boots, and a bell on his head! 

He didn’t have reindeer, pulling his sleigh, 

He carried his presents, the old fashioned way! 
Not as plump as a pudding, he was poor as could be; 

But he loved giving gifts, he gave them happily. 

He gave them in secret, not with a great noise; 

He gave them with care, to good girls and boys. 
Stockings and boots, were kept at the doors, 

Good Nicholas filled them, with God only knows! 

Coins for hot dinners, and cakes for the small ones, 

Warm dresses for daughters, warm cloaks for the sons!
Now, you tell me children, you make the choice, 

Who is Santa Claus? Tell me with one voice! 

Is it that plump, jolly fellow, who goes “HO, HO, HO! ” 

Who delivers x-boxes, right at the front door? 
Or is it that ancient old priest, who was holy and wise, 

Who helped all the poor, with love in his eyes? 

Who might’ve been thin, and wore tattered clothes, 

Who is the Saint here, whom do you suppose? 
And children know truth, when told from the heart, 

For they are truth-tellers, right from the start! 

They smiled with pure wonder, they laughed with pure bliss, 

They were right all along! Santa was St.Nicholas! 
He wasn’t a myth, a fable, a lie, 

A story that grown-ups, dislike to deny! 

He is as real as you, and as you! and as me! 

Celebrating the ChristChild for all eternity! 
For the true gifts of Christmas, don’t ever break, 

They never cause tears, nor any heartache; 

They are Good-will and Love, and true Peace and Joy 

St.Nicholas brings them, for the small Birthday-boy!

Anxiety Of A Young Lady To Get Married – Confucius

Ripe, the plums fall from the bough; 

Only seven-tenths left there now! 

Ye whose hearts on me are set, 

Now the time is fortunate! 
Ripe, the plums fall from the bough; 

Only three-tenths left there now! 

Ye who wish my love to gain, 

Will not now apply in vain! 
No more plums upon the bough! 

All are in my basket now! 

Ye who me with ardor seek, 

Need the word but freely speak!

Hospitality – Confucius

A few gourd leaves that waved about 

Cut down and boiled;–the feast how spare! 

But the good host his spirits takes, 

Pours out a cup, and proves them rare. 
A single rabbit on the mat, 

Or baked, or roast:–how small the feast! 

But the good host his spirits takes, 

And fills the cup of every guest. 
A single rabbit on the mat, 

Roasted or broiled:–how poor the meal! 

But the guests from the spirit vase 

Fill their host’s cup, and drink his weal. 
A single rabbit on the mat, 

Roasted or baked:–no feast we think! 

But from the spirit vase they take, 

Both host and guests, and joyous drink.

In Praise Of Some Lady – Confucius

There by his side in chariot rideth she, 

As lovely flower of the hibiscus tree, 

So fair her face; and when about they wheel, 

Her girdle gems of Ken themselves reveal. 

For beauty all the House of Keang have fame; 

Its eldest daughter–she beseems her name. 
There on the path, close by him, walketh she, 

Bright as the blossom of hibiscus tree, 

And fair her face; and when around they flit, 

Her girdle gems a tinkling sound emit. 

Among the Keang she has distinguished place, 

For virtuous fame renowned, and peerless grace.

A Wife Mourns For Her Husband – Confucius

The dolichos grows and covers the thorn, 

O’er the waste is the dragon-plant creeping. 

The man of my heart is away and I mourn– 

What home have I, lonely and weeping? 
Covering the jujubes the dolichos grows, 

The graves many dragon-plants cover; 

But where is the man on whose breast I’d repose? 

No home have I, having no lover! 
Fair to see was the pillow of horn, 

And fair the bed-chamber’s adorning; 

But the man of my heart is not here, and I mourn 

All alone, and wait for the morning. 
While the long days of summer pass over my head, 

And long winter nights leave their traces, 

I’m alone! Till a hundred of years shall have fled, 

And then I shall meet his embraces. 
Through the long winter nights I am burdened with fears, 

Through the long summer days I am lonely; 

But when time shall have counted its hundreds of years

I then shall be his–and his only!