Print #45: Reflections Of Glory

The ripples of autumn dance in a silver-blue lake, reflecting the glory of a willow tree. It is sunset time, and nature is preparing for slumber.

Inspirational Poems

Reflections of a Kind

Ripples on a lake
Are like thoughts within our minds
Events upon the surface
Life's images unwind

But beneath is the reality
Hid in silence far below
In deep shadow, on the lake bed
In our minds, we need to go

For the peace that we are after
Is something never to be found
In the objects that life lends us
Scattered all around

Those gadgets of obsession
Possessions that are bound
For the trash bins of the future
There discarded, as unsound

Surface waters are distractions
Reflections of a kind
Where float mirages of matter
Mingling chaos with mankind

But peace, if we would seek it
Is a truth we may still find
Found hidden in the deepness
Of that lake, which is our mind

Egal Bohen

River Walk Reflections

I strolled along the river bank
to see what I could see.
As I gazed into the water,
my reflection appeared to me.
I marveled at the beauty of
each movement I made.
As I danced upon the water
what a magnificent charade.
I pretended to be an erotic
dancer.
And waltzed around and
around
Finally from exhaustion
I fell upon the ground.
My fantasy was over
I was back to the real me.
As I strolled along the river
to see what I could see.

Jo Traxinger

At Midnight Lake

Glistening in the light of the moon
The surface a silky black
Not a sound is heard
The trees sit still
And motionless
At Midnight Lake
Full of wonder
What lies beneath the surface?
No one knows
No one dares to disturb the water
At Midnight Lake
Even at day
It still looks as erie as night
Not one soul swims there
That has lived to tell the tale
At Midnight Lake...

Tamara Moir

A Lake Memory

THE LAKE comes throbbing in with voice of pain
Across these flats, athwart the sunset’s glow,
I see her face, I know her voice again,
Her lips, her breath, O God, as long ago.

To live the sweet past over I would fain,
As lives the day in the red sunset’s fire,
That all these wild, wan marshlands now would stain,
With the dawn’s memories, loves and flushed desire.

I call her back across the vanished years,
Nor vain—a white-armed phantom fills her place;
Its eyes the wind-blown sunset fires, its tears
This rain of spray that blows about my face.

William Wilfred Campbell (1861–1918)