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The blue dish broke tonight

On my fortieth she bought a dozen red roses
Not being able to attend the party

Burnt petals became an archive, dried
in a flat pottery dish

15 inches in diameter
Three inches in height, sides scalloped
A blue that Ms. Lena approved

Of me, too

Mom died, but the petals
I dried, displayed
in Grandma’s dish
Resided for a decade

Safe, assured and taken for granted

Till one day, I needed that dish
to hold the water of a potted hibiscus
that meant something just as dear

She lived
in my foray for years
Calm, collected
Pooling after a drink

And settled too
Yet her leaves yellowed
Not enough sunlight
Or too much

Not knowing
And with rain every day
I moved her outside

The blue dish broke tonight

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 


and a warm welcome
An impressive first post. Sadness overwhelms.

I felt like the 'her' and the 'she' need a better reference, but perhaps only me.
Let's see if others have any suggestions
Welcome again.


Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words
........Robert Frost☺

Follow me

I do refer to both my mother and Miss Lena--I need to make the pronoun references more clear.

author comment

Firstly welcome to Neopoet group, I hope you find that being with us you can enjoy poetry and learn of many things.
You will become use to each of us as time goes by, just check the odd profile to learn more, styles and the way of writing will grow on you.
Staring at me across my bureau is a notebook that I filled with bits I called them when I was 15 years old, earlier I was still writing some of them up and editing.
Now I am trans-scribing the writes as they were then in 1957 from a 15 year olds point of view of the world, the original is the best I believe with all its faults it is to me pure.
This write is lovely, it must mean a lot to you, that the blue dish has broken after all these years is probably to show you that to hold onto the past is good but other memories are much dearer.
Take care and hope to read more as you experiment with the now,
Yours Ian.T

There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

I take encouragement by your reply. What you describe doing with your poems must be hard. the temptation of changing a poem--a beaut when it was written, a 'time in a bottle' concept--still, today I think sounds better this way... good luck with your endeavor!!

Thanks for your welcome. How do I start the workshops?

author comment

U r such a teacher
methodical as ever
but sad you had to forget your mother

its been years I lost mine
a rich woman once
turned a misfortune to
live fine.

Yet she left a bangle for me,
I treasure it softly
the only piece of memory

flowers can become murky
but the bangle will I life long keep
and towards heaven take it
along with me .

My love for my mom
no one can compare
each day she still comes
in my dreams to share

son remember me
ere you join the wilderness in a reverie

no chance we'll have to meet here
the distance around many heavens all traverse
where can you find a mom like me
you my son continue to love me
till then be happy!

Young lady welcome
we will read more of you
till then
remember flowers r 4 ever..roses
this is just maiden!

read it
as tomorrow I shall remove it
they will all hammer me
for giving you an
unwarranted sermon


A heartfelt welcome to Neopoet, and yes a very impressive start. Regards Roscoe...

Roscoe Llane,

Religion will rip your faith off, and return
for the mask of disbelief that's left.

This is a good piece. Thanks for sharing.

I spent many nights,
caring for mother.
After a hard day's work
I'll look after her,
watching her sleep soundly
brings me peace.
Hearing her words spoken softly
is such a bliss
For each moment with her
is filled with the love
that she taught when I'm younger
and its the gift that I now serve.
My mother is an old woman,
who mostly stay in bed.
Age has decreased her movements
and caused her joints to ache
but she'll have me and my sisters
to help her when we're awake.



If 'the blue dish..." inspired your poem, I am so glad. Thank you for sharing this with me.

author comment

and you're welcome.


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