The Vase
the vase where
your flower is put
is filled with
mosquitoes
do you still want to
put it there?
in this lousy metaphor
my body is the vase.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Heart Is A Vase
A heart is a vase
Love is a flower we put in the vase
Passion is the water for the flower
But romance, respect, trust, and commitment
Is the sunshine that makes the flower bloom
(2011)
poem by Michael Ernst
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Zen and the art of plastic flower maintenance
From time to time, when
I’ve been meditating, and
these things matter, I pick respectfully
the plastic flowers from their vase,
wash the vase, wipe the dust
off the leaves with a moist cloth,
dip the flower-heads in water
as one would give someone
a holy bath
and then replace them in
a slightly new position in the vase,
a slightly new position on the table.
absurdity and
something beautiful
have met and got along together rather well.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Flowers In A Vase
A bunch of flowers
Sat in a vase
Colourful and lonely
A mind looks at them
Wondering
What is it they have to say
Are they a thank you
Or a gift of love
Are they an apology
Or given in remorse
Perhaps they are for nothing
Given to bring a smile
The mind looks on
Wondering for a while
The flowers sit in their vase
Unmoved by thought
Or the reason given to them
A little water at their base
To keep them fresh for a while
They are the end of the day
Just flowers in a vase
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Consuming jealousy
I am jealous of the air you breathe,
of the soap that cleanses your body,
I am jealous of the rain that pours on
your face, and the sun that warms your
winter days, I am jealous of the way
you love the flowers and the vase they
wear, I am jealous of the sheets your
bed wears, that can touch every part
of your body, I am jealous of the mirror
that sees your face every morning day
and night. I am jealous yes I am, even
when you let my winds fly free and they
traveled to many seas, I am still there
facing my awe, consuming my flesh,
and my body speaking a language I can't
even comprehend, like a dark rose, that
lies on an empty vase, what do you do?
when the live you had, is gone and the
one you were living for, what is
there left? where do you go, what
doctor can cure the injured heart, doctor
love is just a tale, there's no cure for
the injured heart, nor there is for an
empty vase.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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Blue Vase
Sit my love on this cliff
Shall we watch the ships sail
They sail like stars in the vast night
Flux of change like a shimmering sea
We meet in the hungry wind
Fragrance of peonies and bluebills
Now the west wind blows
Will you follow your heart?
Am I a secret constellation?
Are we driftwood going back to sea?
Harmonize with a vase of sorrow
A blue vase filled with lovers never to be
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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A Vase Built With Love
For Melvina Germain
Who suggested I write something about a simple vase.
A vase stood on the mantle piece
and two red roses within it stood
one for each heart for whom the vase belonged.
A century before on a potter’s wheel
the vase was carefully crafted by two loving hands
then fired in an oven to keep the love within.
It was then decorated with the same loving care.
The images on it told a story
of two lovers parted by a war.
It told how they had met down a leafy lane
and how their love had grown.
Then came the thunder of an approaching war.
It recorded their last kiss together
before the war tore them apart.
It also told of the years of agony
of waiting for his return,
then of the joys of reuniting,
and how after so long
their love began again to burn.
All this lovingly painted
so everyone could learn
that love never diminishes
even when separated by a war.
18 October 2008
poem by David Harris
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bottom of the stairs
red red roses in a vase
I srace to the top
red red roses in a vase
seem to get there before me
tanka by Dónall Dempsey
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A Numbered Poem
2. the mantle is heavy in white.
3. the white cup is not fuming.
4. the lover does not come tonight.
5. an empty vase keeps a shallow
6. conversation with the black clock.
7. there is no flower to brighten
8. the night without a tryst.
9. it is the black clock that ticks
10. time.It is this lament. A cup
11. without tea. A vase without
12. a rose, a daffodil, a white lily.
13. the black clock ticks. There
14. is no hint that it will stop.
That big shell knows it all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Picked A Flower
I picked a flower from a bush
And I loved it so
Put it in a vase next to my bed
But how was I to know
That the flower cried for its bush
That the bush cried for its flower
But how was I to know
That the flower would die in an hour
The flower withered away
And I put it inside my book
Because I loved the flower so
But how was I to know
That the flower gasped for breath
That it was facing death
But how was I to know
That the flower so badly wanted to go
And I kept the flower close to me
So that every day I could see
But how was I know
That the flower that I had loved so
Had always hated me
That there was pain I couln't see
And how was I to know?
poem by Shobhita Singh
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I think acting is about forgetting yourself in order to give the best of yourself. It's passing through you more than you're creating it. You're not the flower, but the vase which holds the flower.
quote by Juliette Binoche
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Wood The Flower Flails
Wood the flower flails,
So sad is now that vase,
None else to ever know,
That flower has joined the breeze,
Never to harvest new blooms.
Flower failed the wood a well,
A mothers dreary tail again to see,
To mix two hearts of one must she,
There beds now like the rest unmade.
poem by Is It Poetry
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First Flower of Her Day
I’ve been a small stone
In a barren desert.
I’m weary of myself
And the hours
I spend alone.
One day I’ll be a flower
In a crystal vase
In a woman’s bedroom,
The first flower of her day,
And I’ll never be lonely.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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The flower in the vase smiles, but no longer laughs.
quote by Malcolm De Chazal
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet XCV: The Vase of Life
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.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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A vase of flowers
I saw a vase of purple-pink roses
lying on your dark brown buffet
and simply had to have it.
“Who painted this, ” I immediately enquired
loving the picture more with each look
that I took of it
as it’s not your thing
to paint still life’s with flowers.
“I painted it. It’s like painting pillow slips, ”
you replied and astonished
I looked at it again
and this was on board
and not in water colours
but done with oil paint.
The folds of the cups were edged
in ridges along their lines
using the techniques
of your abstract paintings
and one smaller unopened bud
laid next to the bowl
almost running into your name.
Little pink flowers was in the background
where the transparent vase with green stems
was against the wall on a tiled floor.
[Reference: Vase with roses by Mandi Engelbrecht. (This painting belongs to me.) ]
poem by Gert Strydom
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0068 The Connoisseur (2)
Is there a god
sleeping in this room?
even the doorhandle, gently turned,
seems to speak a message
before the room entered, the first breath taken
of the room’s own air
and on the table, the grey-green vase seems
to be the host; the silent messenger: the furniture
somehow eternal in its order; every line and curve
within the room speaking of some
divine geometry; the shaded sunlight seems
to fall on tiptoe, touch in silent praise;
the air, to be refined; and the silence –
what does the silence say unspoken
as if it holds some god-smiled word,
some solemn laughter, about what
is there and is not there, has made
of this room, this ordinary room,
a shrine where one can worship without form
oneself?
the vase too holds itself both
open and reserved; its perfect curves
the subtle decisions of a history
of centuries, of generations
of human hands; of things made
for oneself, for others, for all else
where all else is known;
silent the vase; the room full of its sound.
Is there a god
sleeping in this room?
you; moving forward with respectful quiet step
to touch this grey-green
Chinese vase
poem by Michael Shepherd
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I hide myself within my flower
903
I hide myself within my flower,
That fading from your Vase,
You, unsuspecting, feel for me—
Almost a loneliness.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Flower In The Living Room
there is this flower
inside a vase early this
morning in the living room
of the house
when everyone had left
to their offices
and somewhere else
in my loneliness it give
delight
like your poem Meg
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poor plastic Flower
My mother in law loves flower
This is our trial
My wife in denial
As she plants a flower
She has a brown thumb
This makes me glum
For she can’t even grow a plum
She has plastic flowers
And those took a powder
Poor plastic flower
A flower needs water
To give it power
She forget this every hour
That is why her flowers are powder
Her plastic flower had power
Until it's last hour
The vase did tower
As it was full of water
Poor plastic flower
poem by Keith Wells
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Here Comes My Silent Prayer
waking up from a nightmare
i get out of my room and drink a glass of cold water
i sit on a chair beside a table with a vase of a single flower
i face the sea without the sun yet coming
and then i say my silent prayer
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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