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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?"
A blue vase sits on a table.
I study it's color whenever I'm able.
It was made with hands,
Seen with eyes,
And it's full of stories.
The vase has fought in vietnam,
The vase has scaled everest,
The vase has tipped cows,
The vase has made love under a sycamore tree,
The vase has seen hard times,
The vase has seen good times,
The vase is made of clay,
And now on my table it will stay
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
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
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
Harmony Sep 2014
written June 25, 2013

"The Helpless

She is a broken vase that was knocked over and dusted aside for no one to see
Pieces shattered and left to slowly gather dust year after year
She is the piece of glass that he would step on occasionally, a reminder of his mistakes and how he just brushed her aside like it didnt happen
And that pain he felt  in his foot he also feel deep in his heart as he reminisces that feeling of love he once felt
He  used to hold that vase so dearly, and delicately never wanting to let it break
But - it did

And as soon as it broke he made her believe like she was worthless
That truth emerged when months later she was replaced by a mug much more antique which lasted about a year

And the day finally came when she was thrown away
And the vase was happy once again
Until...

She is a brand new wine glass,
Beautiful and young
In bewilderment on how this all came to be
The broken  watches daily, as he loves this glass  just the way he used to love her

And she sits there, helpless for there's nothing she's can do about it

She's just an old forgotten broken vase
Dusted aside to make room for something better

The Powerful

She was a great and beautiful vase
That held the flowers I meant to give to her
But we couldn't be together, and that tore me apart
As the flowers withered, my love only grew stronger
Upset, I threw the vase on the floor
And cried as I brushed away the evidence

A few months later, school was starting up and it was time to move on with my life
I still think about her time to time, as I step on that broken glass piece that I must have missed..it really reminds me of how much I loved her

Now addicted to caffeine, I bought a cheap antique mug
It's beautiful and presses so gently to my lips every morning and night

It's been a year, and the mug didn't seem to capture my attention the way it used to so I threw it away
I will miss it, but I'm not much for coffee after all

Today I brought home a brand new wine glass
It's tall and beautiful and is anything an alcoholic could ever ask for
It feels right in my hand and helps so dearly with the lonely nights
When I am thinking of the past
And glance over at the broken glass
From the vase I once loved
That is now dusted aside for no one to see"
OK this one has a huge back story. So I dated a guy a long time ago who I didn't get over for like 3 years so a lot of my older poems are probably about him. In this poem, The Helpless is supposed to be from my point of view, and The Powerful is from his point of view. I tend to make scenarios in my head to help cheer myself up so I made up a point of view for him in the sense that he was missing the "Vase" (me). The coffee mug was his next girlfriend who he dated right after me and the wine glass  is the girl following that.
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.
Aubrey Valdez Jun 2015
Worn glass vase on window sill
Thin yet steady
Tall and still
Empty, no substance within its seams
I wonder dear vase, does the emptiness make you scream?
Does it bother you, vase, that you have nothing inside?
No emotion, no flowers, with nothing to be eyed?
I understand dear vase, you have been through much
Through firey kilns and rugged hands touch
Perhaps if I had been through that, it would be my preference too
It is easier, vase, to remain empty and untrue
Swiluun Dec 2012
Something round - something metallic
sat on the shelf - with a story to tell
metal vase - filled with something grey
I remember - back when the vase could say
but it's voice - was once rather kind
it's voice does slip - from the depths of my mind.

On the vase - it's etched with three leaves
if leaves mean life - this is quite ironic
yes it's true - its story is sad
under it's lid - it weeps in its regret
once was glad - now feels empty
it was selfish - to act before he thought.

Yes it's true - it's a grey story
i sometimes cry - at something not present
he left us - in a selfish way
indeed it's true - the vase is a coffin
for a man - i call my brother
all i can do - is try to forgive him.
I never meant to hurt you
Just to make you mad
But it’s not so much fun
Now that’s its all bad
I do this day to day
Lowering you self esteem
With every word I say
The holes you can not seam
And the pain is here to stay
Our love I must redeem
I like to see your anger
Until it puts our love in danger
It makes me feel a mix of things
That’s why it feels so stranger
Our relationships a fragile vase
That used to sit in just one place
But I liked the way my heart did race
When I placed
That vase
Upon the ledge
But I fear I set it too close this time
It fell off the edge
The vase is broken now
And lays upon the floor
In shock I peer down
This girl I did adore
All is silent
It destroyed my world
When it hit the ground
Because I fell in love with a girl
This I just now found
Now I’m the sorry one
I didn’t have one ounce of fun
I can’t go back on what I’ve done
I wish I would have kept that vase
Sitting in that one safe place
Because I miss the grace
Of your kiss upon my face
Your love I’m keeping
But I can only have it
While I’m sleeping
The mist is dead silent
Except the echoes of my weeping
Anthony J. Alexander 2006
1st verse:

I know what it's like
To be completely
Incomplete

But I don't completely
Know what it's like
To be with me

But I know it's hard
And you do it well

Yeah I know it's hard
And you do it well

Chorus:

And I can't stop
The tears
From rolling
Down
Your face

But I can
Catch
Them all
Inside
Our Teardrop
Vase

And when the
Tears have
Finally
Stopped

We won't
Have to
Pull out
The mop

We'll just
Go to
Our special place
And see the flowers
In our
Teardrop
Vase

Our
Tear
Drop
Vase

2nd verse (her):

I know that it's harder
Than its ever been
before

I knew it when I saw
You lying curled up
On the floor

And though it's hard
What I've learned

Yeah though it's hard
What I've learned

Chorus
1st verse and 2nd verse
Old song of mine
Feeling relevant
...
Mindy Gledhill
I came to the place
you were last known to be

On the anniversary of the date
you were last seen

I bring offerings
of long stemmed
dried flowers
accented with
baby breath and
a clay fired cross
tinkling and jouncing
in a clear concave
glass vase

Gathered from the
floral arrangements
of memorial services
for dearly beloved
kindred and friends

My oblation,
aged, simmered,
distilled with the
resonance of tears
and cured by
ruminative airs, now
fully curated with
the balm of time

On this solitary
Monmouth beach
the March Lion
roars snow squalls
intermittently blowing
away the cold sunshine
from the Saturday sand

Sounding a
somber reminder
of the rise and fall
of life's tempests

We hope for beach days of
Sun kissed faces and
warm limbered bones
reposed in blessed rest
upon blankets and chairs

Yet today the sun can’t
temper the numbed
fingered wind chill,
placidity escapes
into the sonic rush
of skirling gusts
lifting, splashing,
cracking crescendos
of building waves

Inert gulls flock
near a black jetty
their feathers
a taught plumage
trimmed to deflect
natures howling whirl
their silent shrieks
swallowed by
the days bluster

Crossing the beach
I cradled the vase
in the crux of my arms

My shoes taking
on sand, the cross
clanking a toll
against the thin glass
as the dry blooms
whisper winded secrets

As I approached
the ebb of the sea
a furious gust of wind
splintered some of the flowers
into a flurry of  swirling petals
while lifting two long stemmed
yellow roses that land
intact near the ocean's edge

Like frenetic sparrows
the liberated petals
flew into the ocean
settling into a
contented pool
anointing the water
by softly grazing on
supple undulations

Lifting a yellow rose
from the vase...
I touched the thorn
but it had lost its sting

Setting the rose aloft on
the wings of an
insistent onshore wind
it took flight toward the sea

Landing on a placid pool
gently rising and falling
on the relaxed roll of the water

It mounted each gentle curl
moving with an easy buoyancy
over each rippling crest

Navigating the friendly sea
with the skill of a
seasoned mariner
plying forward
eager to meet
the next tender roll

It is thought by some
that my daughter
walked into the sea
on a lonely
March night
at this very spot

Yet the two
long stem roses
that leapt from the vase
still gently lay
at the water line
as if placed on a table
by lovers during
an intimate dinner

Despite a stiff
onshore wind
the waves do not
swallow the flowers
but ease them back
toward the vase
planted on the shore

I gathered stones
and shells to fill the
emptying vase,
as I grabbed a handful
at the wash line
my foot was subsumed
by a wave

I was startled
by the bite of the
frigid water,
shaking my
reverie
arousing an
affirmation of
disbelief that
Meggie surrendered
her soul to the sea

On this cold
windswept shore
a Nor’easter
creeps its way
up our fragile coast
begging an uncertain
malevolence

I stand in your
footsteps

Uncertain
of what I should do

Unable to pray
the words bespoken
In my heart

I am here, frozen,
frail, frigid, flummoxed

My aching fingers
beg me to go
I release a final
white carnation

It springs to the sea
I pick up my vase half
full of shells and stones

I commend the two
long stemmed
yellow roses
marking the
advancing
waterline

I resolve to return
some sun kissed day
with blanket and chair
in the company of
friends, brothers,
sons and daughter

Music: Fleet Foxes, Grown Ocean

Meaghan Elizabeth McCallum
was last seen on video at
Pier Village Long Branch NJ
on March 11, 2015
#FINDMEG

Long Branch
3/11/17
jbm
Meaghan Elizabeth McCallum
was last seen on video at
Pier Village Long Branch NJ
on March 11, 2015
#FINDMEG
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
A P Taylor Jan 2015
A broken vase, angles jagged
With sharp protrusions, fingers
Barely holding, splinters
Unglued, finely balanced

Pieces lying one on another
Holds shape together, barely
Slightest tremor, injury
It all threatens to shatter

Vessel has its supports gone
The structure has no resilience
Absent lustre or brilliance
Shards in spotlight glisten

Why not glue the vase back?
Why leave dangerous pieces?
Painful protruding edges
Waiting to shatter or crack?

Fixing glass means danger
Can create injuries and worse
Injure self, injure others
And vase can break further

So, hold collective breath
And leave the shards askew
Meanwhile, dangers rue
Resolved only upon death
Updated upon suggestions
blankpoems Jun 2013
there comes a time in your life when you will stop pretending
you will stop seeing the world as a glass vase holding your favorite flower
you will smash the vase, and let the flower out
and you know it will die because now it's out of it's cage
but it would have died either way because you forgot to water it in the first place
you were too busy admiring the caged thing to realize that it has other needs

us humans, we love to lock things up, you see
we lock up animals, so we can stare at them in seclusion
we lock up humans, for almost exactly the same reason
we lock up our feelings, our dreams
and we throw away the key

but maybe one day you will stop pretending
you will stop pretending that you're happy in that glass vase
and maybe you will smash it
because you see; flowers are much more beautiful in the ground.
Tatiana Feb 2013
Little glass vase,
rests quietly on the table,
sitting there,
it hasn't been used in years,
but yet it remains,
a center piece,
for an old little table.
Glass will always break,
it is far too delicate,
it will hit the floor,
and shatter,
and someone else will have to pick up,
the tiny sparkling pieces.
But no worries,
no one lives in that house,
it has been empty for years,
it used to hold,
a little family,
that loved that little vase,
the daughter would put,
many wildflowers inside,
creating a beautiful array,
of color.
The mother would organize them,
and add flowers of her own,
sometimes her and her daughter,
worked together,
carefully placing,
each little flower,
in the perfect little vase,
the father watched on,
with a gentle smile,
caressing his face,
as his wife placed,
a flower,
on his daughter's,
small nose.
It was a time,
where everything was perfect,
nothing was wrong,
it was beautiful,
but now the house is empty,
and no one knows why,
the shutters are closed,
and  no light shines through,
and that vase is alone,
with no flowers to be put inside,
and it sits there,
collecting dust,
of wasted time.
And that little vase,
it will never break,
unless some unseen force,
shatters it.
And then,
the earth rumbled beneath,
and the vase fell,
off the old table,
crashing in the dark house,
on the hard floor,
it should have shattered,
but it stayed there,
in one piece,
unbreakable.
Gabriel Gadfly Dec 2011
I broke your grandmother’s vase.
The blue one, patterned with lilacs,
liberated from a secondhand store
in Czechoslovakia in 1939.

Like your grandmother,
it came with stories:
she talked a German officer
into buying it for her
in exchange for a date
she never showed up for,
the year her brother
put her on a train with a trunk
full of dresses and a little sister,
a hundred korunas sewn
into her underwear, where she knew
no one would find them.

I broke your grandmother’s vase.
I knocked it off the shelf,
dove to catch it, missed,
and watched it shatter into
thirty-nine pieces, patterned with lilacs.
Thirty-nine, because I counted
every piece as I hid them
in a drawer in the shed behind
the house, beside the hammer
and wrench, where I knew
you would not find them.
This poem and many more can be read on the author's website, http://gabrielgadfly.com
Sara Jones Jul 2015
I once had a small purple vase.
It was almost a year old.
But I remembered how my ex and I blundered
And all of his things had to go.

I gave away his sweatshirt
His shorts and shirts got burned
And the teddy bear he gave me
Was torn apart by the people who mean most to me.

He gave me a purple vase.
It was wrapped pretty in a bow
Once it had living flowers
But now I had to let it go

I went outside with my true family
And recorded my final blow
Of shattering the vase
On the ground below

I felt the ricochet
Of a piece run astray
And my baby exclamed to me
That I cut myself indeed

And thats when I realized
How my last relationship was really through
Because if I cut my head with the other one
He wouldn't have held my hand to help me
He would have let me do it on my own
And not even checked on me
I know this for sure
Because it happened once before

I feel free now for sure
That all his things are out my home
And once I see my baby's things replace them
It becomes the final bow

For once I see no remnance of him
I think I'll truely feel clean
Once my forehead heals
And memories repress
I'll finally be able
To fully put him to rest
This is about healing from a broken relationship and truly burning the bridge to the guy that hurt me
david powell Nov 2011
Gathering up my thoughts like the Pieces of a broken vase smashed by a careless hand,
passed times  all over the floor the future not mapped out as before,
a vase no-longer holds flowers for me a life time on the floor for all to see
trying to step trough the broken shards and not cause more damage and Paine even if I could glue it back
Together it would never be the same, the cracks would show and the pattern not Mach so the broke vase will remans skated for all to see .
Was it her or was it me, was it never ment to be
it's  all smashed up for all to see Broken shards scattered pieces tell me it wasn't me
metaphora Jan 2018
Like flower in a vase,
a love that had stopped growing had stopped living
sustained as something to show for
until the water perish or the vase broken
or until it roots can’t take no more

Like flower in a vase,
sometimes love dies long before we realize
masqueraded for its beauty
put on a high shelf or to brighten a rainy day
for everyone —but mostly yourself to see
Metaphors of a Broken Love
Kay Jul 2014
have you ever broken something and tried to put it back together?

you usually can't find every single piece

but you glue the bigger pieces together

it's not perfect but it doesn't look half bad

most people won't notice it's broken unless they look hard enough

and that's kind of how it was after you left

I was like a broken vase that you dropped on purpose

it may have taken 6 months for me to put most of the pieces back together

and I'm still missing some

but only a couple people had to look hard enough to notice such sadness in my eyes

and everytime I see the half broken vase in my hallway I smile

because even though it's missing some pieces it still stands

it may not be perfect but it's fixable

And it gives me hope that maybe one day I'll be okay

without you,
the missing piece
I wrote this a while ago.
Sam G Lusk Mar 2013
A vase can be beautiful,
And can be filled with the ephemeral or the immortal.
If I think of you as a vase;
I think art nouveau,
Willowy, beautiful, in a languorous setting,
Among a cast of Greek characters
Staged around a classic reflecting pool,
It’s water stirred slightly by everlasting
Considerations of life.
The vase, tall, green, sinewy,
Can halt anarchy in nature,
As it sits resplendent, monarchical;

That may be enough.
But sleek ceramic fails to define.
Oh, filled with garden beauty, that vase
May win the contest of the day,
But nature vigorously corrodes
And the vase declines.

Yet it can become more radiant, as its soul,
Alive and growing, shows through.
May you, best philosopher for you,
Deny custom that leaves only emptiness.
Let muscle ache from the pull of the oar,
Feel the dog bite,
Taste the chocolate that tightens the throat.

Remember: the leaves of summer will be still;
The undulant song of the cicadas
Will rises and fall, rise and fall,
As swarms of blackbirds wheel to that sound.
These things, and the vase,
Are all we know of life, and are all of life.
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
Yoni Sav Apr 2014
I sealed myself inside a vase
to keep the world outside
to let me live my life
in happiness and peace
I cemented with my brain
this urn I built from all my pain
To keep my love form leaking out
I sealed in it my broken heart
but now I try to break the clay
show you myself as a whole
and as the pieces fall down
the pain shows back
and I'm afraid
that in the dust
I have lost your trust
when I needed it the most

Now the vase is gone
and I am left
alone
The shape just formed while I wtote it
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.
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
Kaavya Jul 2018
i’ll say it again. this is the only
time i write with music. listen now and i’ll spin
the wheel again, an ocean is no excuse for a tipped balance. trace
origins back to சாதம், வீடு, பறவை. tip-toe to reach the top half of the
stove, where the stories and the music are, but hand on head, not quite there yet. in the meantime, i hope my hands become as fire-glazed as yours one day. listen now and i’ll tell you how to live a life in compromises. here, come help me with my சாறி, no, i don’t have flowers for your hair, because there are are two different languages
in this house. inhale savory vowels and lives rolled into the sun, exhale தயிர் without salt, a theoretical childhood, heart with
half  the guilt. listen now for something i told my அம்மா:
travel eight thousand miles by foot and open one eye,
make a phone call and taste dew- glittering நெய்
தோசை. listen now for a final time. when
there are not enough unfurled petals of
this world, look up and find the
பௌர்ணமி in a hidden
corner of your heart.
blink once to skip time
zones, twice to remember the
promise of a thousand locusts and monsoon rain.
Glossary of தமிழ்/tamil words (in order of appearance)
சாதம்/saadham: cooked rice
வீடு/veedu: house
பறவை/paravai: bird
சாறி/saree: traditional clothing
தயிர்/thayir: yogurt, curd
அம்மா/amma: mom, mother
நெய் தோசை/ney dosai: rice pancake with ghee
பௌர்ணமி/pournami: full moon
Each time we were together,
a new piece was added to the
elaborate porcelain vase.

One day, we saw each other no more
and the vase was thrown to the floor.

Pieces scattered in a mushroom cloud
and flew up to mock me in the face.
Silence rained down.

I solemnly took a broom and swept
the pieces into a trash bin,
which I set gently in a seldom-visited corner
of my mind.

Every once-in-a-while,
the trash bin is kicked over
and several pieces skate across
the smooth linoleum.

I pick them up, turning them over in my palm,
examining the memories,
and toss them carelessly back
into the bin.
October 11, 1997
It's been so long.
My vase has been empty
for fear of selfish gardening.
I had almost given up completely.

My favourite flower was always an orchid.
I thought I had found it long ago,
but it seems my orchid is a rarer breed;
it takes much more care to sow.

I happened across it on a lively night
in a garden full of flowers.
My lily had just turned to poison;
it's amazing what lust devours.

My orchid had seen many vases,
some much nicer than mine
and yet it chose to flower then
and look entrancingly divine.

For a couple years I watered it
from far away, safe from my touch of war
I was afraid that I would squander it,
like I had so many times before.

But the orchid was just like me,
adventurous and curious.
Though we couldn't be together
we let each other be flirtatious.

And silently we grew together,
and my orchid came to me,
and my whole world came together
even if only very briefly.

Now I sit here writing this,
looking at my orchid, in my vase, on my window sill,
and I look back at myself and realize;
I'm HIS flower, in HIS vase, on HIS window sill.
RisingUp Nov 2015
If you look closely

You will see

The cracks and fault lines

That comprise me

From the outside, to the unattuned eye

I look like a normal vase,

For the glue is now dry.

Truth be told

I was smashed

Obliterated

Pieces essential to my core

Strewn haphazardly across the floor.

But thanks to those that saw me,

And a little internal conviction.

My pieces have been collected

My old form resurrected.

Thanks to a little glue

I appear to be almost brand new.

But don't be deceived

For what you perceive

Should not be completely believed.

For the vase is very fragile,

Not to be toyed with.

Not a player's game.

Please don't mishandle me,

And resurface days of misery.
Around the vase of Life at your slow pace
He has not crept, but turned it with his hands,
And all its sides already understands.
There, girt, one breathes alert for some great race;
Whose road runs far by sands and fruitful space;
Who laughs, yet through the jolly throng has pass’d;
Who weeps, nor stays for weeping; who at last,
A youth, stands somewhere crowned, with silent face.

And he has filled this vase with wine for blood,
With blood for tears, with spice for burning vow,
With watered flowers for buried love most fit;
And would have cast it shattered to the flood,
Yet in Fate’s name has kept it whole; which now
Stands empty till his ashes fall in it.
Kara MacLean Dec 2010
Here's to the women who have been let down;
touched or pushed too hard
broken lockets, broken hearts
the empty feeling of loneliness
as if we are an empty vase
we shine in the light
yet we are hollow with doubt
with past fears,
have you ever tried to break a vase with your hands?
fragile, yet sharp
eager to bear blood
not a lot, but just enough
but unlike a vase, we can be fixed
we can piece together our existence
like a puzzle
for the woman who cried herself to sleep
for the woman who was betrayed
for the woman who felt like a shattered vase
here's to you
here's to her.
By: Kara MacLean
aimee Jun 2019
I was once your heart’s centerpiece,
petaled in alluring scarlet,
your very darling little starlet,
skin the color of ivory,
with lips like blooming roses,
my love for you evergreen,
encased in a body like a vase.

I braid flowers into my hair,
Spray the room with gardenia perfume,
Clothe myself in red silk,
I cinch my waist,
try to recreate myself,
Try to become a bouquet.
in the body of a vase.

But you don’t care.
To all these things you’ve become immune.
And I wilt,
efforts gone to waste.
My sweet infidel,
you leave and isolate,
run away from me in all haste.

I’ve cut the heads of the roses.
Bended the stems until they were broken.
Shredded the petals until they were tatters.
Let myself bleed scarlet red,
pricked by your thorned bed.

The vase breaks and shatters.
from my upcoming book, "Echoes in an Empty Home." Out soon. © ghivashel.
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 !
Lea Rose Mar 2015
the daisy in the vase
sits by the window
with its feet dipped in water
its drooping head
drinking in sunshine

yet
it doesn’t stop
the blush pink from
littering the countertop
in hues of brown
leaves now,
shrivelled prunes
ripe of its
existence

love me
love me not

the daisy in the vase
remains only
a single stalk.

— The End —