Vitriol means cruel and bitter criticism. It’s origin is French. I think my beat poem accurately sums the definition of vitriol. “In the 1940s and 50s, a new generation of poets rebelled against the conventions of mainstream American life and writing. They became known as the Beat Poets––a name that evokes weariness, down-and-outness, the beat under a piece of music, and beatific spirituality. Beat poets sought to write in an authentic, unfettered style. “First thought, best thought” was how central Beat poet Allen Ginsberg described their method of spontaneous writing.”
Social Suicide At a splintered glance, the slaughtered branch suggested a new understanding for the dreaded masses, commanding a new meaning for the dying denying their aggressive lying. The persecuted forget, they are not above the light they once sought. A fragile line between life and death thoughts listened with bated breath to the vitriol verses or screaming curses. Silence demanded a skeleton bones to shudder like gelation praying for tenderness beyond this page that lost secrets won’t engage the destruction of mankind. Through the years we refined our lies, and plead naiveté although our reactions betray. Bitter ineptitude, our abandoned view overrides a cowering end because we feel entitled to a godsend.
Awesome synonyms for vitriol are acidity, acridity, acridness, acrimony, asperity, bile, bitterness, cattiness, corrosiveness, mordancy, tartness, and virulence.
I love that I can easily substitute any of the synonyms for vitriol into my poem and not change the meaning. Though it would lose its alliteration.
Today’s theme is “time of the day.” What is your favorite time of day? Are you a morning person? A night owl? Do you prefer afternoons? Or do you like to go to bed and dream? Share a story, a poem, a photo, a drawing, some music, or whatever you wish to share about your favorite time of day.
Sunrise is my favorite. It has always called to me but unfortunately so does the stillness of the night. I don’t sleep much. For years, I went to be 11:00-11:30 pm. and rose at 4:30 to be at work at 5:15am because I drove a school bus. After I stopped driving, I worked at Starbucks for 8 years as an opener still retiring at 11:00. Now that I’m home all the time since I was disabled I go to bed at 12:00-12:30 and rise without an alarm at 6:00. My body doesn’t seem to desire more sleep. A lot of times I wake up and watch the sunrise and then fall back asleep. Other times, I ask Vic to drive us to the ocean so I can walk in the wet sand as the sun rises as in the picture I took above with the seagull and the sun rising. I love seeing the fiery glow break on the water.
The Oriental Octet is an invented verse form that appears to emulate the syllabic pattern of the tanka and haiku. It was created by James R. Gray who requests the theme of the poem be nature. The Oriental Octet was created by James Gray
1. Nature theme like tanka
2. Syllable Count: 5-7-5-7-7-5-7-5
3. Un-rhymed
Although, there are nights when the moon is full I don’t sleep at all. I’m drawn to the moon like a moth or a firefly.There is something about the energy that simply compels me.
Shimmers across a darkened sky
that halo around it does not bode well.
All the signs are hard to deny
soon stormy weather, or maybe a white spell.
Those gusty raw winds chill to the bone.
Small animals scurry to cover
before the wolves catch them alone.
Palpable fear seems to hover,
the fittest survive, the weak will die.
The laws of nature are not fair,
some will struggle to defy
while others give in to despair.
Today’s theme is “your favorite season.” There are only four to choose from, so which is your favorite…and why? Share a story, a poem, a photo, a drawing, some music, or whatever you wish to share about your favorite season.
Silences of a deafening spring surround me,
branches stir, snap, and crackle bitter green.
Nutty birds chirp blue and bicker with glee.
My large ears blind with ignorance.
Bold, purple breezes silently flap,
as grass screams. Beware worm.
A fierce white robin, such a friendly chap.
My eyes deaf to the pleasant garlicky scene.
Orange citrus boldly streak across
an abundantly cloudless azure sky,
as Moon bows to the sun, acknowledges her loss
and sadly falls slowly, her taste sates me.
I sense the warmth of a new diurnal.
I shake and shudder in ecstatic green alarm,
fear delights me, will this be eternal?
My tongue touches the sensual smell.
I love all the seasons but spring always calls to me the most. I chose a Synesthesia poem form.
Synesthesia in literature or poetry is a literary device that writers can use to create interest in the work. … People with synesthesia have a neurological disorder where when they experience one sense, they involuntarily experience another. With this disorder, someone might actually see sound or taste colors. Writing poetry is about creating visual images and understanding that words have meaning. What better way to be descriptive than to incorporate and explore a topic than with your Five Senses– touch, taste, hearing, sight, and smell.
Fandango writes: “Today’s theme is “your favorite beverage.” Are you going to choose an alcoholic beverage like a mixed drink, beer, hard lemonade, flavored vodka, or something like that? A hot drink like coffee or tea? Soda, water, or a milkshake? Share a story, a poem, a photo, a drawing, some music, or whatever you wish to share about your favorite beverage (or beverages).”
Everyday on Facebook, I say good morning everyone with three coffee cups and typically there’s a coffee meme picture.
As a child, I hated milk and every opportunity I had I would swap my milk for her black coffee. She couldn’t believe I liked black coffee. After many battles she finally conceded, and let me drink black coffee. I’ve been drinking my coffee black with no sweetener since I was three, I’m 64 now. 61 years of heaven.
My doctor goes nuts because I drink 2 sometimes 3 pots of coffee a day. As a compromise on the day of my physical I drink only 1 pot before seeing him. That way I have a normal ekg, because when I drink 2 sometimes my ekg shows premature ventricular contractions (PVCs) which are extra heartbeats that begin in one of your heart’s two lower pumping chambers (ventricles). These extra beats disrupt your regular heart rhythm, sometimes causing you to feel a fluttering or a skipped beat in your chest. I learned that if I have occasional premature ventricular contractions, but am otherwise healthy, there’s probably no reason for concern, and no need for treatment. If I had frequent premature ventricular contractions or underlying heart disease, I might need treatment.
Premature ventricular contractions often cause few or no symptoms. But one might feel an odd sensation in your chest, such as:
Fluttering
Pounding or jumping
Skipped beats or missed beats
Increased awareness of your heartbeat
I don’t have any of the symptoms. But he does wish I would drink less coffee. I love coffee and until it causes me other issues than I’m going to keep enjoying my coffee. I think of all the possible vices one could have coffee isn’t as bad as it could be and I’m fortunate it never keeps me awake. I really do think my primary worries too much.
I even wrote a poem about my love of coffee back in 2015. If you look closely, the words shape a to-go- coffee mug too.
Ode to My Joe
Oh, your heady fragrance can be
so smoothly intoxicating.
Your smoky aroma whets my appetite.
As the sun rises, the beginning
of a new adventure, my addictive mind
says I need you to invigorate my senses,
tease me to step out of my comfort zone.
I remember when I was a mere wisp of myself
the novelty of your power was
fiercely intimidating yet compelling
me to drop all pretense of control.
You frightened and lured me like
a moth to a flame. I could not
resist, although I struggled
in vain, my addiction was too much.
You laughed at my feeble attempts
to withdraw because
I was scared of all the negative
propaganda surrounding you.
You assured me… it was all lies
Your sweet whispers told me
I would never feel so good
with anything like this again.
I waivered…
afraid of the me without you.
I threw caution to the wind and
slowly sipped, savoring your
heat while ignoring the
bitter after taste that
lingered on my breath.
I surrendered and let myself
float into the dark spiral
of an addict’s life.
I live… my passion for you
briefly fulfilled
The other beverage I enjoy is water and I do consume a lot of water too.
In the evening, Vic and I always have a cup of tea together before going to bed. Like my coffee, my tea is black with no sweetener.
Today’s theme is “a lesson you learned.” What is a lesson that you learned along the way? How did you learn the lesson? Who did you learn it from? How did that lesson change your life, it at all? Share a story, a poem, a photo, a drawing, some music, or whatever you wish to share about a lesson that you learned.
There was a time when I was very young
that my life paralleled so many songs sung.
His temper flared and his hurtful words stung;
I envisioned him without a tongue.
There was a time when I was a foolish teen…
partying all the time in peasant shirts and low rise jeans
I knew somewhere, there was a much better scene.
He led me to believe life with him would be green.
There was a time when I reached my mid life,
I had more than enough of this continuous strife.
The day had come; I wasn’t going to be a battered wife.
It was my freedom, or it was going down with a knife.
There was a time when magic happened, I was fifty two
Life for me changed, I was happy in love, I said, I do.
Everything around me was vivid and bright, oh what a view.
My past was past, my future new, gracefully then, I said adieu.
There was a time that I looked around and saw no way out.
Now, I know what real love is and I have no doubt
how wonderful life can be with someone so devout.
He will even eat veggies, like kale and Brussels sprouts.
There was a time my life seemed so hopeless.
Now, it is filled with laughter and sweet caresses.
Yes, there are some days filled with too much stress
I remember the past briefly; thankful I am truly blessed.
There was a time when I was a wee one in age.
Life was happening; good or bad, it was my stage.
Now, that I am older, I realize only I can write the page
before life ends and I will have lost the chance to engage.
I think my poem answers your question about lessons learned in life, Fandago.
I was Maid Marion and Vic was Robin Hood. We were married on Halloween.
Two days more to go before the initial meeting with the gastric oncologist. This waiting is so frustrating. Time to me feels like pouring the dredges of honey from a bottle. January 8th is when all the crap began. They removed my gallbladder on the 13th. Nothing has been right since. I’m very aware things take time and COVID-19 has complicated stuff but…cancer works on it’s own schedule not ours.
I couldn’t focus yesterday. I was even sure I would actually get a post for day 44 done but I did. It wasn’t one of my best that’s for sure. Though I did share some beautiful flower pictures from our walk in Lambertville. The daisies made me smile.
Daisies
When I was young, I used to walk on the Horn of the Moon road in East Montpelier by the Wrightsville Dam picking daisies. I would weave them together and then wear them on my long red hair. My crown of daisies lifted me from the drudgery. I was my siblings’ parent while our actual parents were in Connecticut running around with their liasons. Yeah, they both had lovers on the side. My father worked nights and my mother days so the timing worked well for their cheating selfs.
My sister used to pluck the petals and ask does he love me, or does he not. I never did. I didn’t want anyone to have that kind of control of my heart. Instead, I wanted to be riding off into battle dressed in armor with a daisy crown.
Poetry:
Apathy and Evil
Under a full moon, the wind ripped silent
that night in the overgrown cemetery.
Headstones cracked and leaned valiant
better than the local constabulary.
The decomposed body lies prominent
exposed, no one cared who did the treachery.
Eyes filled with indifference, so convenient
like everything in this small town sanctuary.
The daisies reminded me of the night I snuck to the cemetery for the first time when I was eleven after my siblings were asleep. The nearest one from my grandfathers camp involved me walking across the Wrightsville Dam Road and then down Route 12 for about a half mile then up the Bolio Road to the graveyard. I randomly laid daisy crowns on the worn headstones of my family members. That summer the nightly explorations became a favorite thing for me because I used to imagine the person’s life. The stories I would write about them. Writing has always brought me enjoyment.
This poem came about after re-reading my diary stories from my summer jaunts to the cemetery. I had written a story about a constabulary being killed and his body abandoned in the cemetery. No one looked there for his body. It wasn’t discovered until someone had been buried there the following year. He wad so disliked they simply left his body exposed with no investigation to follow.
I did love to wander a lot at night without my parents, or my grandparents ever knowing where I was. Sleep wasn’t important to me. Maybe that’s why I have such good night vision. When I think back on all the things I did without ever thinking about the danger… I was a fearless child. Sometimes, I wish I had that kind of fearlessness now.
Culinary:
Tuna Casserole on this crazy humid ninety-four degree day. I’m going to load my casserole with carrots and peas. We’re having a side salad with fresh picked kale, swisschard, and beetgreens with honeydew and cranberries. Yummy!
I wish the thunderstorms would come earlier today and cool things down. I love the energy of a thunderstorms, don’t you?
On Facebook, there’s a Lawrenceville community page and there was a bunch of posts about the firework noise. People need to release some of the tension with all this social distancing but of course some one has to be a downer. I wonder if they want Mother Nature arrested too because the thunder storms we’ve been having since this heat wave began are loud.
I’ll toss a couple more culinary cancer tools for you to know.
Cabbage like the cruciferous veggies, Cauliflower, Brussel Sprouts, Kale, Bok Choy, Broccoli and Turnip is antibacterial and anti-inflammatory. The key is not over-cooking it so you preserve the sinigrin compound that detoxifies carcinogens and inhibits tumor cell growth.
Cantalope is also anti-inflammatory with tons of Vitamin A.
Cardamon is a digestive aid and anti-inflammatory. It’s great for digestive issues by simply chewing on cardamon seeds. Bonus you get fresh breath too! Cardamon may also reduce blood pressure, that’s an another added bonus.
Carrots are anti-inflammatory and also have tons of Vitamin A. The beta-carotene that gives carrots their lovely color helps us fight against lung, mouth, throat, stomach, intentinal, bladder,prostrate and breast… cancers. We should be eating carrots every day.
We made an early morning trek to the ocean. I really needed to recharge myself. There’s something about having my toes in the salty water and walking on the sand that refreshes me. I realized last night that’s what I truly needed. I hadn’t been in three months which is very unlike me.
One the ride back, thought about the beach, people were socially distanced this morning. There was one family of three who arrived just before I was leaving that were doing their best to be in the moment. Dad helped his daughter fly her kite. She may have been three or four years old. Her joyous laughter filled the air. I miss the sound of happiness more than anything.
That leads me to my song choice today. Yeah I am very sentimental and sappy. I won’t deny it. It’s not the boy meets girl and falls in love part of this song that makes me smile as much as the perfect moment. Dancing barefoot on the grass, being together in that perfect moment. In the last two days, I’ve enjoyed perfect moments with Vic. We walked hand in hand on the canal. We sat together looking up at the beautiful Thunder Moon. We got up at 4:30 this morning to do an ocean pilgrimmage. We’ve played cribbage with coffee on the deck and in the kitchen.
Isn’t that what living in the moment is really about. letter-c , you have nothing to do with these perfect moments. My moments and dreams are mine always and forever.
Dear Johnny,
Your Dad has grayed a lot in the past year since you left us. Gramma sees the sadness in his eyes all the time with out you. I thought of you a lot yesterday, you loved the fireworks so much. Your cousin Olyvia and you share that in common.
If you can find a way, let Dad know you’re with him. I think he really needs a sign from you. Gramma and Grandpa wished we could have been there with him. I hate this virus that is forcing us to be socially distanced.
You’re both always on my mind, always in my heart as are Vic, Jacob, Chris, CJ, Amanda, Olyiva, Lael, Braylie, Mikhayla, Caitlyn, Marcia, Debbie, Janine, Sammy and Logan
oops I can’t forget my beloved fur babies. Fluffy, Quasimoto, Purryl, Angel, Yeats, and Macavity.
The biggest regret of my life is that I have not said ‘I love you’ often enough.’
It’s now 8 days shy of a month since that face time call and the dang letter-c reappeared in my world. Twenty two days of not sleeping peacefully through the night. Twenty two days of feeling the walls closing in around me. Grrrr.
We did the early morning senior run to the grocery store, finally the store shelves are beginning to look normal again. Part of me says stock up now because this virus will be back for round two but the other part of me says don’t become one of those who went into full on hoarder mode.
The garden is looking amazing thus far. The seedlings I started in the house are double their size. Now, to keep the chipmunk out of the mix. I was reading that chipmunks are not fond of cinnamon oil and peppermint oil. I’m going to place cotton balls soaked with it near a couple of my plants and see if that discourages the digging he/she is determined to do. It looks like we’re going to have a few comfortable days ahead of us in the 70’s. I hate having the ac on. I love hearing the birds chatter and the sound of leaves rustling that the ac drowns out.
I finished Langston Hughes Not Without Laughter. I enjoyed the writing style and visual imagery that moved the story forward. I can’t even begin to comprehend life during that time frame as he shared. The social injustices of the time sickened me as I read. Maya Angelou said, “Prejudice is a burden that confuses the past, threatens the future, and renders the present inaccessible.” I believe it is still occurring maybe not as bad as in Hughes time but a lot of the brutality and inequality when it comes to career and income haven’t ended. Why is it unless we see prejudice and injustice with our own eyes we continue in a state of denial ? The stories in books are dismissed as fiction because it’s easier to dismiss it than to accept the responsibility that all of us are part of the problem. Like the ostrich with its head buried in the sand, see nothing, know nothing. I didn’t intend to go off on another rant. I feel so frustrated because I feel like I am not doing enough.
Anyway, I enjoyed the book immensely and will be updating my reading list and reviewing on Goodreads. I highly recommend reading his work. His poetry is amazing if you haven’t had the opportunity to read it.
His poetry inspired me along with Poe, Plath, Yeats, Whitman, Donne, Eliot, Wilde, Thomas, Bronte, Thoreau, Homer, Shelly and Bukowski. I love how each of them mastered a story or a message within verse.
Shimmers across a darkened sky
that halo around it does not bode well.
All the signs are hard to deny
soon stormy weather, or maybe a white spell.
Those gusty raw winds chill to the bone.
Small animals scurry to cover
before the wolves catch them alone.
Palpable fear seems to hover,
the fittest survive, the weak will die.
The laws of nature are not fair,
some will struggle to defy
while others give in to despair.
Maybe some day someone will find my writing as inspiring to them. Like Hughes reminds us all we can’t let our dreams die.
My song choice today is by Kevin Sharpe, who by the way also battled cancer as a teen but unfortunately died at 43 from complications because of the chemo and radiation he underwent because of ongoing complications from past stomach surgeries and digestive issues.” His book , Tragedy’s Gift is a powerful read. The Song Nobody Knows discusses the pain felt when a relationship ends and the lengths one goes to keep it secret from others prying eyes by pretending nothing is wrong. My relationship hasn’t ended but I feel like I’m walking a similar path by trying to keep a happy face on for everyone else.
Sometimes I just get tired like today. The four walls close in around me… nobody knows.
I keep thinking about the days when the letter-c was just a memory.
I was looking in my port on Writing.com when I saw this poem, it’s one of my favorite poems I’ve written. I looked to see if I had shared it here on WordPress and discovered it among my early posts when I had one follower so I decided to share it again since I do have a larger following of poetry lovers.
It is done in couplets with a rhyming pattern on the end.
Love of an Irish Lass
He bowed his head in silence,
allowing his rattled breath to slow.
Closing his eyes, he could feel
the lively Celtic music flow.
He was swept away to days past,
Where her feet moved to and fro.
Oh wee lass, dance for me, I long to
see those ye’s rosy cheeks aglow.
Take me back to those days
Of hornpipes and tapping heel and toe.
Show me again those green Irish eyes
when you paused and bowed ever so low.
He lowered his head in silence again
cherishing his memories of long ago.
I read a lot of different styles of poetry every day. I believe the key to writing good poetry is to immerse one’s self. This particular one by Collins I find stimulating because I love how Collins uses descriptive phrases like sunflash of trumpets, rows of roadside trees, the huge blue sheet of the sky, into a pasture of high grass than drops the reader at the dizzying cliffs of morality. Life is definitely too short to miss all the sun-flash and dazzle of life.
The Parade by Billy Collins
How exhilarating it was to march
along the great boulevards
in the sunflash of trumpets
and under all the waving flags–
the flag of desire, the flag of ambition.
So many of us streaming along–
all of humanity, really–
moving in perfect sync,
yet each lost in the room of a private dream.
How stimulating the scenery of the world,
the rows of roadside trees,
the huge blue sheet of the sky.
How endless it seemed until we veered
off the broad turnpike
into a pasture of high grass,
heading toward the dizzying cliffs of mortality.
Generation after generation,
we shoulder forward
under the play of clouds
until we high-step off the sharp lip into space.
So I should not have to remind you
that little time is given here
to rest on a wayside bench,
to stop and bend to the wildflowers,
or to study a bird on a branch–
not when the young
keep shoving from behind,
not when the old are tugging us forward,
pulling on our arms with all their feeble strength.
My own attempts are feeble in comparison to Collins, but wth practice I will become better.
At The Lake’s Edge by Lyn Crain
The long rocky shoreline had rough water tonight
this breezy spring twilight in April.
I came to watch the evening sun set on the water.
I heard the loons crooning to their mates.
My tranquility was disrupted by a child’s screech and
two young people paddling hard in a canoe.
An elderly man fished on the opposite shore while
a woman read a book in her chair on the dock.
I shivered as the waves swished against the beach
and the cold spray hit my leg as I sat on the rock.
I struggled to regroup my thoughts, to close this day
The peace in my world was jeopardized so
I sought the calm of my beautiful beach haven.
I ached to find my composure once more
As I immersed myself in the beauty at the lake’s edge.
My mind rambled to the times when I brought my children
to swim and play in the chilling water in the summer’s heat.
Those moonlit nights on my way home from work when I swam
successfully working out stress in my own way.
I committed to memory the reasons why I must pick me up once more,
I need another sunrise, to gaze at another sunset on the lake’s edge.
The troubled emotions, I felt when I arrived have dissipated because
the lake’s rippled water refreshed my essence.
I heard the soft call of a loon, the woeful song was
a gentle reminder of my lover who waits for me
Good night, my lakeside haven!
Thank you for giving me sanctuary,
I am okay now because of you.
As you go about your day, I hope you find time to appreciate your surroundings and those in your life. Maybe read a poem while you’re there. ❤
Artists think outside the box either by choice or habit.These thoughts determine our actions. Showing up to our chosen canvas sometimes takes a lot of energy. The negative baggage we bury ourselves under like “I really have no particular talent” sabotages us. I’m sure there are good solutions out there, but for me, I strongly feel that my job is to mind my thoughts and to use my strengths to improve my creativity. I make myself lists of all the ways I can be inspired and then another list how I can inspire others. I never limit myself to one creative outlet.
One consistent thing that shows up in my lists is photographs, a captured image frozen in a narrow focus. Over the years, when I’ve found myself stuck writing, I grab my camera and just look at things all around me through that closed view. The details in that small glimpse are incredible because I frequently miss them with my eyes.
The pictures I chose today are great examples of looking at a picture differently. The seagull over the vast ocean is what I saw without my lens. Once, I looked at the seagull through the lens I saw his wings and how effortlessly he parted the wind to turn. His gliding motion when he wanted to use the wind to lessen his workload. I studied him until he flew out of my lens range and I moved onto the next one.
I filled my notebook with everything I saw. I discovered the seagull’s world not just in a picture, but later in poetry as I considered all the things the bird enjoyed and I needed which in turn inspired this.
My Deserted Island Has
Turquoise water swirling, seagulls hovering,
with shallow waves breaking along the reef,
crystal blue streams, and mossy banks in the shade.
A chilly deep pool sparkling with the sun’s glimmering rays,
surrounded by luscious trees with sweeping branches,
that beckon me to climb over a sandy beach.
Wow, so many seashells scattered on
the glimmering sand. It’s a shell collectors dream,
a painter’s haven hidden from the masses.
Wildflowers strewed randomly along the hillside, bursts of
purple and pink with a bit of orange amidst green grass.
Oh my, curious creatures peeking from the
rocks, and cliffs that shape the steep top of a mountain edge
where a large bird’s nest looms in a treetop.
I stared at the sail of yacht passing by,
Yes, I think one more day before I signal, I am here.
Maybe two days… I am content in the peace
I found here on my lovely deserted island.
I was looking in my port on Writing.com when I saw this poem, it’s one of my favorite poems I’ve written. I looked to see if I had shared it here on WordPress and discovered it among my early posts when I had one follower so I decided to share it again since I do have a larger following of poetry lovers.
Artists think outside the box either by choice or habit.These thoughts determine our actions. Showing up to our chosen canvas sometimes takes a lot of energy. The negative baggage we bury ourselves under like “I really have no particular talent” sabotages us. I’m sure there are good solutions out there, but for me, I strongly feel that my job is to mind my thoughts and to use my strengths to improve my creativity. I make myself lists of all the ways I can be inspired and then another list how I can inspire others. I never limit myself to one creative outlet.
lyncrain 