Non Fiction

I would like to share my thoughts on poetry with your readership. I am dedicated to growth of poetry and the recognition of talented poets. I believe that its outlets like yours that encourage poets to write poetry and its articles/thoughts like this one below that convinces a readership that poetry should be as important as sports and music. In addition to my thoughts, if you wanted to include my poetry as well. I can submit one or two poems. My readership is mainly women and I write on issues that deal with their growth and healing and representation in society.

We are all fans

Being a fan is like an obsession but more pure, like a dedication to an object or person. Naturally we like certain smells, tastes, styles, abilities/talent and personalities. But this progression of thought is towards abilities within a person. We admire hard work, we admire success, we admire honesty and we admire style. I have a respect for Reggie Miller because I always remember him ‘hitting’ the three out of nowhere, without time to measure the shot. Also many of these shots led the team to victory. Basket fans would know what I am talking about. I respect Bob Marley because in his interviews, he is so simple and calm and not concerned about what the world/media thinks about him. His focus is towards the people and his music. He had such an undisturbed spirit. I respect Irving Layton because his poetry book was the first that I went more than once and his detailed love poems were an inspiration. Continuing, a fan seeks every moment to be in contact with this person. A fan seeks a connection. A fan will support, celebrate with, sympathise with and strongly defend the one who is admired. But my question is does the fan make the admired great, or is the admired great before the fan sees. It would have to be the first because the performance is practiced before the show, and the fan only sees the final product. So to all of you, who are fans, in this ‘difficult’ time, do support those who display the attributes you admire.

Ancestry

Landscape poems droop
Dangle
From a cracking ceiling,
they drip like water onto a royal oak table.
Damage surfaces, spotlighted by a radiant light
it shines from an unblinking table-lamp-bulb.

The circular glow highlights the Toronto Star
(Canada’s largest daily newspaper),
we celebrate Toronto’s 175 Birthday,
we confirm the passing of Michael Jackson
and concludes that today will be rainy.

The non stopping speeding liquid expands
to form a mini pond.
Drip by drip extends its width to find a pen.

She stands in front of her boyfriend,
He rises and grabs her arm and then releases.
She shakes her arm and declares,
“all poets are not alcoholics!”
He refutes, “oh yes they are!”

Afraid to introduce poetry,
a masculine teacher faces the class
he picks up the 1st written poem
on his desk and reads,
“Landscape poetry is boring.”
The class cheers.

He nods his head and continues
“the end.”

“Tell us more,” a student yells.
He reads the author’s name,
“by Oneal Walters.”

They write down the author’s name.



Outside of the Bedroom (From Global Poets)

Oh no, please don’t go, oh no.
Hear me, see me on the floor
my knees dry, cold and unloved;
the carpet which is a throne to your feet
is the same distance away
as your chocolate body is to mine.
Oh no, please don’t go, oh no.
I did open the door,
held your body closely; feeling it
pressed against my chest.
I did undress you,
our clothes were scattered on the carpet
our hearts-holding-hands in bed.
Oh no, now I see you in these blue jeans.
Your silence threatens my existence as your lover.
Yesterday has ended in passion and pleasure
and today falls asleep as a homeless child in the winter.
Hear me, remember, please remember;
my finger tips would glide like angels over your skin,
my smile would deepen as I touch the surface of your body.
I’m sorry. Don’t turn me away.
Please just hold and love me
the way Alicia Keys loves singing...
the way I love poetry.



Greatness (From Global Poets)
On lambskin I sleep on the lower deck.
I awake to screams of foul-smelling men and
tyrant winds that whip our sailing ship.
The ladies clutch several poetry pages,
dressed in fitted clothing, they repeat,
“justice or injustice
who shall we pick to calm the winds?”

The bare footed men point in unison
the sleeper is their chose to drown in the sea.
I rise; “I am a poet,
a phenomenal fire that ignites internal flames, that’s me.”
The ladies weep; they give me hugs warm like sunlight.
I alone exit through a brown-narrow-hall, face a mass of rain
blown until I grab the ship’s railing, I face Greatness.



Explain Love (From The Age Begins)
I would have to explain life,
Life is to be in constant giving
To strive to lift up another.
To welcome another's success
But not allow it to threaten
Your own success.
Love must be seen, felt
Not constantly told
Though much is given
When one is clearly told
To love is not to be broke
Or be a slave to another,
To love is to inspire, heal
And to embrace
The innermost parts
Of the spirit one wants to please.
To love is to share
To bear one's spirit
And as naked, expect
To be clothed by another



Picture of Love (From Global Poets)

In my room I pull open the dresser door.
I extend my hands to move a few clothes
And see her face, her smile, and her long hair.

I lick my lips;
adoring her butterscotch complexion.
I remember driving in her car;
she parks under the tree,

we open our doors and descend
deeply, truly, and into each other so freely.
We join what we pledge through words.
The window fogs,
my lips move below her earlobe
as I place kisses on her neck.

In my room I raise her picture
holding it near to my face;
peace is an image fashioned onto paper.
Love is always from within &
harmony the ability to give instinctively.

I step back to sit on my bed, stare at her teeth;
her love chews up all my disappointments.
My ears mourn her voice,
they tune out all sound until my eyes signal her arrival.
Her visit encourages me to give infinitely,
her visit is a victory and a gift for my body.