The Man In The Glass

To Purchase The Man In The Glass Photo Click Here



 Have you ever read the poem The Man In The Glass?

by an Unknown Author

It goes like this:



When you get what you want in 
  your struggle for self
And the world makes you king
  for a day,
Just go to the mirror and look at
  Yourself
And see what THAT man has to say.

For it isn’t your father or
  Mother or wife
Whose judgement upon you must
  Pass,
The fellow whose verdict
  Counts most in your life
Is the one staring back from the
  Glass.

Some people might think you’r
  A straight-shootin chum
And call you a wonderful guy
But the man in the glass says
  You’re only a bum
If you can’t look him straight in
  The eye.

He’s the fellow to please, never
  Mind all the rest
For he’s with you clear to the
  End,
And you’ve passed your most
  Dangerous test
If the guy in the glass is your friend

You may fool the whole world down
  The pathway of years
And get pats on the back as you pass,
But your final reward will be
  Heartache and tears
IF YOU’VE CHEATED THE MAN IN THE GLASS
 

My Winter Wonderland

What a magnificent piece of art; if only this were art, I'd hang you on my wall. 

And transparent…soothing…ah yes…despite the cold. Cold... no, as a matter of fact I don’t feel the cold.

The streets are emanating up a slope and going in many directions. It’s peaceful down here in the valley, in the village far away from home.

Bright and lively, the soft white snowflakes cascading down to the ground like little puffs of clouds emerging from the skies and layering the town. How gratifying it is to be emerged in such beauty as the nature of a flake, a simple, light, cool piece of nature.

To the left fork there is a small pond or pool centered in a concrete slab in front of a gazebo. You can still smell the aroma of what was…….

Each street that you look up is a piece of heaven…a serene calming beauty about it. If only the shops were open, I’d find myself with a cup of latte or such, expounding in a conversation with an intelligent lot of sorts. Recounting the endless possibilities we might emerge in next.

Maybe I’ll come here often, now that I’ve found a place to hide, and maybe I’ll invite a guest at times of need.

Or maybe it is a place meant only for me.

Copyright (c) 2000 Liane M. Klampfl, All Rights Reserved