I’m A Fool To Love You – Cornelius Eady

black couple artisitic

There are poems that make you want to talk back to them and hold a conversation to make things different or agree that they’re the same.  I’m a Fool To Love You by Cornelius Eady is one of those poems.  First, I love the Blues—the give it to me straight, no chaser Blues.  Mr. Eady lets me know about 10 lines into this poem that the only way he can tell this story is to use the language of the Blues.  Religious or not, he makes me want to say “Amen!”

He talks about the choices his mom (a young black woman in the poem) and other women sometimes make when he speaks of “a strange and sometimes cruel gentleman” or a woman’s willingness to embrace a half a glass of water wholeheartedly because she’s been surviving on a tablespoon.  When you’re in the desert of internalized oppression, the half a glass of water sure looks good; the slight taint of cyanide is a small price to pay for the cool drink.  For me, I’m A Fool… goes on to say that “the Blues” is really about predestined fate—”a stacked deck”—where the odds are far from the winner’s circle.  Mr. Eady’s use of personification makes “the Blues” into someone I know who is the very essence of love gone awry.  I’m A Fool to Love You is a reminder that love just is…Be it fair or unjust, IT JUST IS!

As always, stay with Sharon and The Write Talk and let me know what this poem means to you.  Talk to you soon!

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Choose Your Obsessions – #SiddharthAnand

trojan horse1

A gift that’s not really a gift at all—”Trojan Horses/They bind you.”  Anand speaks very clearly about natural instincts that can become obsessions and thwart our lives.  I have a reminder for myself which is “not to break my own heart” and that’s exactly what excess can do.  Anand says “After the Tsunami/You wonder why you were destroyed/By your own army…”   What comes to mind are old sayings like “Be sure to get out of your own way and “You are your own worst enemy.”  In this poem, I really enjoyed the repetitious use of  “Choose your obsessions/For they are unworthy possessions” as these verses are not only the soul of the poem, but they give it a lyrical quality that lightens the mood.  It embraces freedom of choice as opposed to a predetermined future.  If I choose to think back on the best and worst of my life, I must admit that much of both was a result of decisions made…based on an obsession.  What is an obsession to me?  The fear of losing what I had or the fear of not getting what I wanted—Obsession.  What about you?  As always, thank you for staying with Sharon and The Write Talk!

Choose Your Obsessions

Choose your obsessions
For they are unworthy possessions
Trojan horses
They bind you
Without you realizing
They hinder your natural design
And make you completely blind

Choose your obsessions
For they are unworthy possessions;
They are the weeds,
You; yourself choose to grow.
Some seeds are rotten..
Still you keep them, them, you don’t throw.

And after the tsunami
You wonder why you were destroyed
By; your own army…

Choose your obsessions
For they are unworthy possessions;
They determine; the extent of your regression…
Although we must All have some,
Eggs turn into chickens
Choose your obsessions
For they are impressions
Which can determine your future
& Tomorrow’s positions
The journey; and the final decision.

Choose your obsessions
For they are unworthy possessions

Siddharth Anand
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in the wake of poseiden – Billy Corgan


Whether or not you are familiar with Smashing Pumpkins’ front man Billy Corgan, one thing is certain, he is a masterful lyricist. Is it coincidence that he is also a great poet, or does it just naturally follow since lyrics are poetry? Tonight, I present a poem from Corgan’s poetry book Blinking With Fists, a collection of beautiful poems in which Corgan explores the emotional journey that comes with love, loss, identity, and loyalty.

In the wake of poseidon is one of those poems that can be read in two different ways. Since the title is written in lowercase letters, they encourage you to read the title as part of the body of the poem; and yet you get a different feel from the beginning when you read the title as just that—a title.  A beautiful poem with vibrant images and a certain romance to the lines, it is a poem about bravery and commanding your own ship, “Spellbound! I was cast in an unlikely role/Seafarer, captain of the ship/I cut the lines to shore and said her prayer of honor.” When you think of Poseidon the God of Sea, you think of rough seas and the strength of the ocean.  However, what Corgan is really drawing on is the beauty of calm seas, being in the moment and therefore being present “in the wake of Poseidon.” It seems like Corgan is reminding us how beautiful it is to take a moment. The last two lines are perfect and they draw on the elation of going with the flow, “Drifting to and further fro/Caught between delight and what you know. What comes to mind when you read this poem? As always – Stay with Sharon and The Write Talk!

in the wake of poseidon

She held the pearl to her lips

Pushing it between her little teeth to shine

In waters crystal clear and reflective

I caused a certain dancing around the eyes

Spellbound! I was cast in an unlikely role

Seafarer, captain of the ship

I cut the lines to shore and said her prayers of honor

Did I mention the pearl was gray?

So in the wake of Poseiden did we reach and stretch

Up and out and towards

Dancing beneath all stars to behold

Now these are lazy scenes to paint

But it’s the breeze, the soft warm summer breeze

That I most wish to convey

A tempest without sound

Sneaking up on us in seagull cries

And her bubles and gurgles from down below

So out there we were all alone

In the wakeDrifting to and further fro

Caught between delight and what you know

~Bill Corgan

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As The Poems Go – Charles Bukowski


Charles Bukowski is sometimes stereotypically thought of as “a man’s poet.” However, I’m here to say that he’s “a woman’s poet” too!  Strong in voice and tone, he writes about more “manly” subjects (some of which resonate deeply with women) like beer, girls, and writing poetry during the early morning hours, after long nights of drinking. Bukowski copes with the reality (or even disappointment) of life through his poetry, and at times sounds like he is declaring a rant against one of life’s misfortunes. His prose, however, is beautiful in all its ruggedness and strikes a cord with his reader.

In As The Poems Go, one of Bukowski’s more gentle poems, I’m inspired by the images he draws on, and the impact they have on life’s work of poetry, “…the rain, the sunlight,/the traffic, the nights and the days of the/years, the faces.” We get a taste of his existential attitude when he declares, “leaving this will be easier than living it.” He displays the pure essence of poetry in the line that follows,”typing one more line now as/a man plays a piano through the radio.” He pulls the reader into the room where he is, and we can see him sensing his raw emotion in the room. What do you see or feel as you go over this poem? As always – Stay with Sharon and The Write Talk!

As The Poems Go

as the poems go into the thousands you                                                                                             realize that you’ve created very                                                                                                            little.                                                                                                                                                           it comes down to the rain, the sunlight,                                                                                              the traffic, the nights and the days of the                                                                                           years, the faces                                                                                                                                   leaving this will be easier than living                                                                                                it, typing one more line now as                                                                                                             a man plays a piano through the radio,                                                                                           the best writers have said very                                                                                                        little                                                                                                                                                          and the worst                                                                                                                                             far too much.

~Charles Bukowski

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Educate Not (Really?) – Sharon Esther Lampert


Well, Educate Not is quite an honest portrayal of our Education System.  Perhaps certain utterances are a little too piercing.  Sharon Esther Lampert breaks my own silence when she says “No time to teach…No time to learn/All by myself, I got to teach myself a zillion facts…/The first day of school, I gotta be behind.”  Here, I love the use of “Got” and “Gotta.”  Of course, not only is it a parody regarding education, but I can also feel the teacher’s hurried pace.  When we’re moving too quickly, we say things like got, gotta, gonna, wanna, etc., only to be met with a raised eyebrow.  For after all, “I’ma” teacher.

“I Got no time to read,” blurts Ms. Lampert.  “They Weigh IT…The Education System is Dumb.” I can feel my heart beat as she implies—I mean shouts—that our education system is not valued so it’s going to get worse and “waste my money, waste my mind and waste my time.”    The conundrum here, for me, is that she’s speaking about everyone. I can hear her talking to all of us as though it’s a mutually shared experience.  Each one of us has been on one end or the other and some of us have been teachers and students…a double dose.

Finally, that second to the last stanza is priceless for writers…”No time to think…” or let alone, do all the things necessary to create a “Masterpiece.”  Educate Not is about the pitiful state of mediocrity.  What’s worse than not doing anything at all?  Doing it halfway!  Garbage in—Garbage out.  As Ms. Lampert says “I Trash It. I Got No Time for Junk.”  What about you? Let me know your thoughts!  As always – Stay with Sharon and The Write Talk!

Educate Not by Sharon Esther Lampert

No Time to Teach:
In Class, They Give a General Overview.
On Tests, They Want Particular Details.

No Time to Learn:
All By Myself, I Got to Teach Myself a Zillion Facts:
I Got No Study Skills, I Got No Tutor,
The First Day of School, I Gotta Be Behind.

Students Got a Cheat-Sheet:
I Use Citations From Books
I Got No Time to Read.

Teachers Got a Cheat Sheet:
They Got No Time to Read IT.
They Weigh IT:
Looks Beautiful
They Grade IT A.
Looks Pretty
They Grade IT B.
Looks OK
They Grade IT C.
Looks Ugly
They Grade IT D.
Looks Can Kill
They Grade IT F.

Quantity Over Quality:
Education System is Dumb
And is Gonna Get Dumber,
Wastes My Good Dime,
My Good Mind,
And My Good Time.
I Survive, I Don’t Thrive.

Facts Move From Textbook
To Blackboard to Notebook.
Gotta Get the Facts INSIDE of ME:
No Time to Think,
No Time to Write an Outline,
No Time for Research,
No Time to Write a Rough Draft,
No Time to Reread, Revise, and Rewrite,
No Time to Write a Final Draft,
No Time to Write My Masterpiece.
When I Get IT Back, My Work-In-Progress,
I Trash IT. I Got No Time for Junk.

Teachers Got No Time to Teach.
I Got No Time to Learn.
No Time to Educate.

If you can, please help keep this teacher who loves to write… keep writing and publishing by voting for Sharon’s Books at https://www.facebook.com/intuit/app_280813488703650?app_data=us-en_showcase_2624_7. Every vote is appreciated.

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Poetry – Pablo Neruda


Poetry is not just about reading and rhyming words, when you take a moment to think about it, you can find poetry in just about anything in life. Think about the poetry of commuting, and trains glidding artistically to and from the station, you get lost in the color of life, a sea of people. Poetry is sometimes about the essence of things and what they mean to us. Poetry is this mysterious woman that has prompted every great poet to write about her. I find poems about poetry inspiring and insightful about the people who write them.

Poetry by Pablo Neruda seems to describe his first poetic encounter and how it was almost instinct to him, “…something started in my soul/fever or forgotten wings/and I made my own way.” I get the feeling of urgency, a sort of literary ecstacy, as if he can’t seem to get the words out fast enough. At the end he seems to relate poetry, or art, as being one with the universe, “and I, infinitesimal being…felt myself a pure part of the abyss.” What are your thoughts? As always – Stay with Sharon and The Write Talk!


And it was at that age … Poetry arrived                                                                                            in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where                                                                          it came from, from winter or a river.                                                                                                   I don’t know how or when,                                                                                                                  no they were not voices, they were not                                                                                        words, nor silence,                                                                                                                               but from a street I was summoned,                                                                                                    from the branches of night,                                                                                                          abruptly from the others,                                                                                                                among violent fires                                                                                                                               or returning alone,                                                                                                                              there I was without a face                                                                                                                      and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth                                                                                          had no way with names,                                                                                                                     my eyes were blind,                                                                                                                            and something started in my soul,                                                                                                fever or forgotten wings,                                                                                                                      and I made my own way,                                                                                                            deciphering                                                                                                                                          that fire,                                                                                                                                                   and I wrote the first faint line,                                                                                                       faint, without substance, pure                                                                                                    nonsense,                                                                                                                                               pure wisdom                                                                                                                                           of someone who knows nothing,                                                                                                           and suddenly I saw the heavens                                                                                             unfastened                                                                                                                                             and open,                                                                                                                                         planets,                                                                                                                                       palpitating plantations,                                                                                                               shadow perforated,                                                                                                                         riddled                                                                                                                                                  with arrows, fire and flowers,                                                                                                            the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,                                                                                                               drunk with the great starry                                                                                                             void,                                                                                                                                                 likeness, image of                                                                                                                          mystery,                                                                                                                                                  felt myself a pure part                                                                                                                              of the abyss,                                                                                                                                               I wheeled with the stars,                                                                                                                    my heart broke loose on the wind

Pablo Neruda

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Approach of Winter – William Carlos Williams

With the passing of Thanksgiving we are all reminded winter is well on its way. For one moment I want us to forget about the obligation of the season and stop to appreciate the beauty of nature that comes with winter. William Carlos Williams is brilliant at summoning the spirit of objects and bringing them to life in ways that make us ponder the meaning of life, or maybe something less deep. I love the splashes of color he includes, “where the salvias, hard carmine–” is Williams speaking just about nature or is he drawing on a deeper meaning about the “Winter” of life. Which garden is he referring to and why does the Garden of Eden come to mind? What are your thoughts? As always – Stay with Sharon and The Write Talk!

Approach of Winter

The half-stripped trees                                                                                                                   struck by a wind together,                                                                                                              bending all,                                                                                                                                            the leaves flutter drily                                                                                                                       and refuse to let go                                                                                                                                or driven like hail                                                                                                                                   stream bitterly out to one side                                                                                                         and fall                                                                                                                                                   where the salvias, hard carmine–                                                                                                     like no leaf that ever was–                                                                                                               edge the bare garden.

William Carlos Williams

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Grand Finale – Najai (The Logical Poetist)

Grand Finale is one of those poems that you read over and over again and you keep finding a new depth and dimension in your own life experience.  At least that’s how it is for me.  Logical Poetist, thank you for casting a radiant glow on my progressing years.  This is no Dove commercial concerned with external aesthetics for the mature woman.  Only those who have done interior construction can apply for this work.  Here, I am reminded again that it is on the mountaintop where I sing (“No more racing, gracefully pacing /humbly giving mightily living”), but it’s in the valley where I grow (“leaky pen, torn pages.../shattered emotions dry bones”).  Beautiful, gracious and honest!  What are your thoughts?  As always – Stay with Sharon and The Write Talk!

Grand Finale

Leaky pen, torn pages
representative of soul sages
shattered emotions dry bones
defines wisdom and ages
desperate voice crying aloud
experiences few are proud

strong hands of hard work
smiles that speak to a minimal play
raging memory wrinkled roses
internal butterflies
metaphoric vision helps hide
alidad captures the truth inside
behind all the isms and false defines

Attempted robbery, of spiritual high
lies, lies ,cries, cries
streaming tears from souls flask
embellished result.. bask.. bask

leaky pens still extend,
pages whole souls blend
torn no more healed emotions
lubricated bones not sore
age now giving birth to wisdom
soul sages baked pages
setting stages, aromatic release

knowledgeable increase
meditation displays answers
revelation forces reflection
elation of buried complications
No more judgements God in me
simply put… sufficient
No more racing, gracefully pacing
humbly giving mightily living

(C) logicalpoetist February 2010


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I’m sick of a Rose – Gwendolyn Brooks

Ah, it’s those that “have” and those that “have less” or “have different” – “the charity children” says Ms. Brooks in “a song in the front yard.” Is the grass always greener on the other side?  You know, “A girl gets sick of a rose.” For whatever reason, this poem reminds me of relationships and routine.  I’m pretty sure that’s not what it’s about exactly, but The Write Talk is about what the poem means to me—and you.  If all I have available is lobster everyday, is it normal to crave something different?  And  if so, what will I do to get it?  Just food for thought…no pun intended.  Having a great time with Ms. Gwendolyn Brooks, a phenomenal poet.  What about you?  As always, stay with Sharon and The Write Talk!  Talk to you soon!

a song in the front yard

I’ve stayed in the front yard all my life.
I want a peek at the back
Where it’s rough and untended and hungry weed grows.
A girl gets sick of a rose.

I want to go in the back yard now
And maybe down the alley,
To where the charity children play.
I want a good time today.

They do some wonderful things.
They have some wonderful fun.
My mother sneers, but I say it’s fine
How they don’t have to go in at quarter to nine.
My mother, she tells me that Johnnie Mae
Will grow up to be a bad woman.
That George’ll be taken to Jail soon or late
(On account of last winter he sold our back gate).

But I say it’s fine. Honest, I do.
And I’d like to be a bad woman, too,
And wear the brave stockings of night-black lace
And strut down the streets with paint on my face.

Gwendolyn Brooks
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Nothing but the Best – from Edgar A. Guest

There are some poems that are just so true you can’t believe the author was able to capture your truth with such accuracy, and The Junk Box is just that for me.  Don’t throw people away is what Mr. Guest is telling me. They are not disposable.  It makes me think of “let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”  My favorite stanza is “Despite the vices he’d display/He never threw a man away/But kept him for another day.”  Well, I guess that means my trash today may be my treasure tomorrow. This poem is so inspiring for humanity as a whole.  Everyone has a worth and can be of service in some way. This is the reminder that I do need from time to time.  Hats off to you again Edgar Guest—nothing but the best!  What are your thoughts?  As always – Stay with Sharon and The Write Talk!  Talk to you soon!

The Junk Box

My father often used to say:
“My boy don’t throw a thing away:
You’ll find a use for it some day.”

So in a box he stored up things,
Bent nails, old washers, pipes and rings,
And bolts and nuts and rusty springs.

Despite each blemish and each flaw,
Some use for everything he saw;
With things material, this was law.

And often when he’d work to do,
He searched the junk box through and through
And found old stuff as good as new.

And I have often thought since then,
That father did the same with men;
He knew he’d need their help again.

It seems to me he understood
That men, as well as iron and wood,
May broken be and still be good.

Despite the vices he’d display
He never threw a man away,
But kept him for another day.

A human junk box is this earth
And into it we’re tossed at birth,
To wait the day we’ll be of worth.

Though bent and twisted, weak of will,
And full of flaws and lacking skill,
Some service each can render still.

[The end]
Edgar A. Guest‘s poem: Junk Box

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