Poetry Here (Mostly)

The Vase


Algebra factors bored

friends who preferred baseball

thrown and caught, high and low,

through the heart of the house

that pounded hit and miss.

Venetian hand-blown glass,

glazed warm with memories,

Modigliani necked,

graceful, fragile icon,

broke like a shattered dream.

Dad took Ben’s mitt and ball,

grounded, Ben could not play,

did homework on his own.

What lesson did he learn?

It hurts when your Mom cries.

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Comments on: "The Vase" (5)

  1. so very loving and beautiful conclusion Elaine 🙂

  2. Poetry from the bits and pieces of life..love /thanks~

  3. E~have a sweet weeken~
    J

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