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there was a vase.
it was nothing special.
not very pretty
to look at.
it sat on a shelf
in a window.
it was behind
another vase, though.
the vase in front was
dustless and beautiful.
the vase in front had
flowers in it.

the ugly vase
sat for years
behind the lovely
vase.
the lovely vase had
everything and more.
elegant curves,
tasteful colors.
it was so beautiful
no one looked at
the curveless,
off white vase
behind it.

one day a child
ran through the
store.
the table by the window
was bumped
and the ugly vase
fell.
it shattered into
needle thin shards
and eventually swept
away.
the lovely vase
was bought that
day.
life is hard. people don't usually fill ugly vases with confetti so that when they shatter they'll also explode into a second long memory of "remember that ugly vase that was actually more exciting than the beautiful one?"
Nyssa Jacobsen Nov 2012
I have a flower, in a vase, sitting on my window sill
There are no other flowers on my window sill
        Just a rose.
This rose is special,
It hasn't died since I picked it.

The life of this rose depends on me.
No other flowers can exist on my window sill,
No other flowers can fit in the vase.
Just that flower, in that vase, on my window sill.

Walking through a garden, I see another flower.
Better than the rose in some ways,
but not in others.
      This flower is a lily.
My heart immediatly begins to tear in two.

So now I face a dilema.
Pick the lily, or let it die.
Keep the rose, or let it die.
Either way, one must die.
And I am stuck between two beauties.
I need a flower, in a vase, on my window sill.

So I delve deep.
I think broadly.
I remember something.
My favorite flower is an orchid.
I have a feeling my orchid is in a distant garden,
waiting to be picked --
       by me.
This orchid will be
My flower, in my vase, on my window sill.

And so I can live with the outcome of the lily
      or the rose
And I just hope they don't die
that someone else's favorite flower
     is a lily
     or a rose.
Because I know that something is going to happen
that will bring me closer to my favorite flower.
So I must be patient.
And just wait for
My perfect flower, in my perfect vase, on my window sill
SweetCindy Jul 2012
Man                                           Woman
He Smiles Curiously                        She Blushes Coyly
He Approaches      Asks her name      She shares it     Asks the Same
Mr Right                              Love at First Sight                    Her Smile is a Delight
"Meet for Drinks?"                            hmmmmmm                      ­        "Pick me up at 8?"
He knocks - 1 rose.                                vase, water                        Her perfume - sweeter.
Politely, opens car door for her                                The night keeps getting better
At the restaurant                                                      S­he sips her red wine
Conversation so easy                    She feels she's known him forever
"Would you like to dance?                "I don't dance very well."
"Indulge me, just want u in my arms."    ~Just a smile~
One hand at her waist, one on her back.
They become one, all others disappear.
Peering into each other's eyes.
No words are needed.
Their bodies
say
it.


© 2012
Sarah Spang Jun 2015
He told her she was pottery; a vase with grooves and cracks.
The patterns of the history she hid behind her back.

Within his words he layered in- like thread upon a loom-
The sweetest undercurrent to illuminate that gloom.

In certain cultures, he decreed, when pottery is cracked
They aggrandize them with gleaming gold to bring their splendor back

For they believe, with certainty, once damage has been wrought
Those tiny cracks, now filled with light, hold truths that can't be taught.
There once was a man whom the gods didn't love,
And a disagreeable man was he.
He loathed his neighbours, and his neighbours hated him,
And he cursed eternally.

He ****** the sun, and he ****** the stars,
And he blasted the winds in the sky.
He sent to Hell every green, growing thing,
And he raved at the birds as they fly.

His oaths were many, and his range was wide,
He swore in fancy ways;
But his meaning was plain: that no created thing
Was other than a hurt to his gaze.

He dwelt all alone, underneath a leaning hill,
And windows toward the hill there were none,
And on the other side they were white-washed thick,
To keep out every spark of the sun.

When he went to market he walked all the way
Blaspheming at the path he trod.
He cursed at those he bought of, and swore at those he sold to,
By all the names he knew of God.

For his heart was soured in his weary old hide,
And his hopes had curdled in his breast.
His friend had been untrue, and his love had thrown him over
For the chinking money-bags she liked best.

The rats had devoured the contents of his grain-bin,
The deer had trampled on his corn,
His brook had shrivelled in a summer drought,
And his sheep had died unshorn.

His hens wouldn't lay, and his cow broke loose,
And his old horse perished of a colic.
In the loft his wheat-bags were nibbled into holes
By little, glutton mice on a frolic.

So he slowly lost all he ever had,
And the blood in his body dried.
Shrunken and mean he still lived on,
And cursed that future which had lied.

One day he was digging, a ***** or two,
As his aching back could lift,
When he saw something glisten at the bottom of the trench,
And to get it out he made great shift.

So he dug, and he delved, with care and pain,
And the veins in his forehead stood taut.
At the end of an hour, when every bone cracked,
He gathered up what he had sought.

A dim old vase of crusted glass,
Prismed while it lay buried deep.
Shifting reds and greens, like a pigeon's neck,
At the touch of the sun began to leap.

It was dull in the tree-shade, but glowing in the light;
Flashing like an opal-stone,
Carved into a flagon; and the colours glanced and ran,
Where at first there had seemed to be none.

It had handles on each side to bear it up,
And a belly for the gurgling wine.
Its neck was slender, and its mouth was wide,
And its lip was curled and fine.

The old man saw it in the sun's bright stare
And the colours started up through the crust,
And he who had cursed at the yellow sun
Held the flask to it and wiped away the dust.

And he bore the flask to the brightest spot,
Where the shadow of the hill fell clear;
And he turned the flask, and he looked at the flask,
And the sun shone without his sneer.

Then he carried it home, and put it on a shelf,
But it was only grey in the gloom.
So he fetched a pail, and a bit of cloth,
And he went outside with a broom.

And he washed his windows just to let the sun
Lie upon his new-found vase;
And when evening came, he moved it down
And put it on a table near the place

Where a candle fluttered in a draught from the door.
The old man forgot to swear,
Watching its shadow grown a mammoth size,
Dancing in the kitchen there.

He forgot to revile the sun next morning
When he found his vase afire in its light.
And he carried it out of the house that day,
And kept it close beside him until night.

And so it happened from day to day.
The old man fed his life
On the beauty of his vase, on its perfect shape.
And his soul forgot its former strife.

And the village-folk came and begged to see
The flagon which was dug from the ground.
And the old man never thought of an oath, in his joy
At showing what he had found.

One day the master of the village school
Passed him as he stooped at toil,
Hoeing for a bean-row, and at his side
Was the vase, on the turned-up soil.

'My friend,' said the schoolmaster, pompous and kind,
'That's a valuable thing you have there,
But it might get broken out of doors,
It should meet with the utmost care.

What are you doing with it out here?'
'Why, Sir,' said the poor old man,
'I like to have it about, do you see?
To be with it all I can.'

'You will smash it,' said the schoolmaster, sternly right,
'Mark my words and see!'
And he walked away, while the old man looked
At his treasure despondingly.

Then he smiled to himself, for it was his!
He had toiled for it, and now he cared.
Yes! loved its shape, and its subtle, swift hues,
Which his own hard work had bared.

He would carry it round with him everywhere,
As it gave him joy to do.
A fragile vase should not stand in a bean-row!
Who would dare to say so? Who?

Then his heart was rested, and his fears gave way,
And he bent to his *** again. . . .
A clod rolled down, and his foot slipped back,
And he lurched with a cry of pain.

For the blade of the *** crashed into glass,
And the vase fell to iridescent sherds.
The old man's body heaved with slow, dry sobs.
He did not curse, he had no words.

He gathered the fragments, one by one,
And his fingers were cut and torn.
Then he made a hole in the very place
Whence the beautiful vase had been borne.

He covered the hole, and he patted it down,
Then he hobbled to his house and shut the door.
He tore up his coat and nailed it at the windows
That no beam of light should cross the floor.

He sat down in front of the empty hearth,
And he neither ate nor drank.
In three days they found him, dead and cold,
And they said: 'What a queer old crank!'
Angela Alegna Oct 2012
One broke her,
Into thin fibers of glass disarranging a once whole vase
A beautiful vase, multifaceted and covered in ornate beauty
Intricate, delicate, carefully carved
A whole vase, filled to the brim with life and love
But what does love look like? She knows not anymore.

Two found the vase in ruins,
picked up her pieces, mended her and held on to her afraid she would break once more
Carefully, protectively she now lived.
Given everything, someone who had mended her.
Yet she still felt a sense of a missing piece
A gap, a hole, a missing fragile piece, unfilled but by One who had broken her

Why does she love One who hurt her, who broke her who left her unfilled?
Two many times has he mended her back together
Yet One is still the missing piece, the gap, the hole, the Vase
RIJUL CHAUHAN  Sep 2014
Night Sky
RIJUL CHAUHAN Sep 2014
I laid on a dune, I looked at the sky.
And saw the clouds passing by.

The Moon was peeping through the clouds.
To me it seemed so fake; like a plastic in a vase !

But if I had a mind,
I could write about Pluto, Jupiter and Mars.

I could folio on a rainbow from Venus,
and have breakfast with stars.

Or I could spin the galaxies,
And play pinball with them.

But, I felt so helpless and small;
'Immense', that is what I could say in all !
Delia Darling Sep 2018
As I stand here, outside my work building
stealing a smoke break
I wonder about God and the universe
and how much happier it makes me feel
to believe in other things

That the sun was a running man
chasing the stars in that endless black
run man
run fast
run free
but freedom only gets you
slipping and sliding in circular leaps
around our earth, almost like
a clumsy mouse in a stationary wheel
and these sneaky stars
always one step ahead at sunrise
or at his heels in sunset

My mom’s a Catholic woman
she won’t believe in the running man
her stars are not stars, no
her stars are rosaries in purses and
priest’s words
taught words
holy words
but holy words are also
human words, are they not?
It never made sense to me
that a person could live their whole life
repenting it

But then again,
my dad used to have me work in our yard,
picking the weeds outside
and he let me treasure them in a vase
he never called them weeds,
they were always
dandy-flowers
wishing flowers
wildflowers
but wild only gets you
believing in the sun and
keeping shrubs in vases
All of which suit me, because

In the lonely nights of endless black,
I have the company of my own stars
and when holy words of weeds fall back
I remember that—
wild humans are only wildflowers
Just some random thoughts induced by an insignificant smoke break
Ridz  Oct 2015
Vase
Ridz Oct 2015
it was my
fault

i moved the
table

because of me, the vase is now on the
ground

broken
shattered

oh, what have I
done?

i've made a
mess

i need to get it back to what it
was

it's not just a vase to
me

oh my god, i can't do
this

it's not getting *******
fixed

the shards stab my
hands

funny, the thing i love most
hates me now

my fingers
bleed

my heart's beating
fast

i can't bear to part with this
vase

sitting in the corner crying, i'm
dying

i need that
vase

it's very dear to
me

you won't understand, you
see?

the water's spilled
everywhere

mixing with my
tears

the flowers look at me
accusingly

i can't do
this

the vase will never be the same
again

i cry and
cry

until i finally
decide

that it's time to throw the shards
away

it's time to

L
    E
T

G
    O
Sylvia Plath  Jun 2009
In Plaster
I shall never get out of this!  There are two of me now:
This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one,
And the white person is certainly the superior one.
She doesn't need food, she is one of the real saints.
At the beginning I hated her, she had no personality --
She lay in bed with me like a dead body
And I was scared, because she was shaped just the way I was

Only much whiter and unbreakable and with no complaints.
I couldn't sleep for a week, she was so cold.
I blamed her for everything, but she didn't answer.
I couldn't understand her stupid behavior!
When I hit her she held still, like a true pacifist.
Then I realized what she wanted was for me to love her:
She began to warm up, and I saw her advantages.

Without me, she wouldn't exist, so of course she was grateful.
I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose
Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain,
And it was I who attracted everybody's attention,
Not her whiteness and beauty, as I had at first supposed.
I patronized her a little, and she lapped it up --
You could tell almost at once she had a slave mentality.

I didn't mind her waiting on me, and she adored it.
In the morning she woke me early, reflecting the sun
From her amazingly white torso, and I couldn't help but notice
Her tidiness and her calmness and her patience:
She humored my weakness like the best of nurses,
Holding my bones in place so they would mend properly.
In time our relationship grew more intense.

She stopped fitting me so closely and seemed offish.
I felt her criticizing me in spite of herself,
As if my habits offended her in some way.
She let in the drafts and became more and more absent-minded.
And my skin itched and flaked away in soft pieces
Simply because she looked after me so badly.
Then I saw what the trouble was:  she thought she was immortal.

She wanted to leave me, she thought she was superior,
And I'd been keeping her in the dark, and she was resentful --
Wasting her days waiting on a half-corpse!
And secretly she began to hope I'd die.
Then she could cover my mouth and eyes, cover me entirely,
And wear my painted face the way a mummy-case
Wears the face of a pharaoh, though it's made of mud and water.

I wasn't in any position to get rid of her.
She'd supported me for so long I was quite limp --
I had forgotten how to walk or sit,
So I was careful not to upset her in any way
Or brag ahead of time how I'd avenge myself.
Living with her was like living with my own coffin:
Yet I still depended on her, though I did it regretfully.

I used to think we might make a go of it together --
After all, it was a kind of marriage, being so close.
Now I see it must be one or the other of us.
She may be a saint, and I may be ugly and hairy,
But she'll soon find out that that doesn't matter a bit.
I'm collecting my strength; one day I shall manage without her,
And she'll perish with emptiness then, and begin to miss me.
Jason McGill Jul 2013
A vase collects dust until there is the perfect flower,
It is more than just a vase then.
It is a life preserver, without the vase the flower would not survive.
A flower is just a flower until it finds the perfect vase.
It is more than just a flower then.
It is the meaning of life, without the flower the vase would only collect dust.
*I'll hold the water you need to survive, you'll be my reason to live.
Amitav Radiance Aug 2014
Shards of broken glasses
Strewn all over the floor
Shattered dreams all over
Jagged edges of regret
Once held with affection
Held the fragrant flowers
Special Cymbidium Orchids
It’s pristine presence felt
Adorned the corsage
Now, lay shattered
No place for the Orchids
Wailing of broken dreams
Now, memories linger
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