Hello new friends!  The name is Oswald Goodheart, from Los Angeles (though originally from back east).  I am an old guy, now long retired, and I am posting my poetry/prose for the first time, many of which I wrote 30 plus years ago.  I hope you will take a few moments and have a look.  If you read something you especially enjoy.  If there is anything you find especially thought provoking and would like to know the "behind the scenes" of the words, I do hope you will ask me.  Here's hoping you like what you read.  If you don't, that's ok too, as long as what I write has given you something to think about.  

Oswald.

http://www.oswaldgoodheart.blogspot.com

Thought I would post a couple of samples...

"Somebody's Daughter"

I watched as somebody’s daughter
walked up and down the sidewalk,
pausing a moment to fix the strap of her shoe,
then continue up and down the sidewalk,
glancing at each car that passed by,
offering an occasional friendly smile.
Once or twice some fella would saunter by,
and they’d chat a moment,
then the guy would keep on sauntering,
and so would she,
until some dude in a flashy car pulled up
and she’d stop at the passenger window
to exchange some
words.
And after a short while
she’d slide into the passenger seat
and the car would roar off.
Then, 45 minutes or so later, she’d return,
and she’d walk up and down the sidewalk.
and she’d pause again to fix the strap on her shoe.

This went on day after day after day,
week after week,
up and down the sidewalk,
fixing the shoe,
smiling,
chatting,
driving away with some dude in his car.

This ultimately got me to thinking…

With all the cash this gal’s raking in,
you’d think she could afford
far better
shoes.


"Season in Hell"

The damn alarm blasted at 6:15.
I slammed it off,
and spent the next five or so minutes
staring at the ceiling over me;
then I managed,
as I always do,
to slide my body off the bed,
allowed my feet to touch the cold floor,
and sat there, trembling,
vigorously rubbing hands over knees, over arms;
and as my blood started to flow,
I went to the window and stared out
and into a chaotic, swirling snowy morn,
and at the street below
where children romped gaily in sunshine
mere days before.

Still rubbing my arms,
I shuffled into the bathroom,
did my thing,
doused warm water over my bleary-eyed
face,
then shuffled out to the hotplate
and put water on
to boil.
I shoveled some instant into my
“Employee of the Month” mug,
then
shuffled to that window again
and gazed into that white miasma.
And I stood there—
just stood there—
and all I could muster was
a pathetic shake of the head, as I muttered:

“Here I am—another season in Hell.”

Hello Oswald

I am not really much of a poetry guy. I did like the classical urban feeling here. Even the second story seems to take place in a city. The idea of kids playing in the street outside your window feels like something from a world that no longer exists. People are more likely to live in suburbs now, and kids no longer play outside. They play video games. The few that grow up in urban environments don't have safe neighborhoods. So I like the way this evokes a time that is now gone, almost but not quite forgotten.

It reminded me of a photograph I saw the other day from my hometown, an old industrial city. It was of a neighborhood, taken in the 1950s. The street was still cobblestone, with a single trolley line, a narrow, winding street. Tenement houses were densely packed, shops on the ground floor. Easy to imagine kids playing on that street on a hot day, or someone like yourself looking out the window on a snowy one.

In the 70s they destroyed all the buildings. Urban renewal. Now it's a slum with parking lots, strip malls, and low income apartment towers. All the remains of that more colorful time are photos. And maybe an occasional poem.

Thank you for the lovely response, Leitskev.  You've made an old man happy.  Yes, that particular poem you brought up, "Season in Hell," was written, if I recall correctly, in the mid-1960s.  Kids played outside then.  Well, time's change.  (Nobody knows better than I!)  Again, thank you for your lovely response.  I shall cherish it.
Oswald.

If you would be willing to share where you lived when you wrote it, and where you grew up, I would love to hear more. I was born in 1966, so this was a time before mine, but I wish I could have seen it. Maybe I could get a glimpse through your story, through what you have seen.

At the time (which I think was 1965, maybe 66) I was living in Brooklyn, NY, on the third floor of a dreadful old building on Kenmore Place.  I was going through a rough patch:  drinking a bit too much, working for a buck-twenty-five an hour in a local grocery store (making deliveries mostly, so I got occasional tips).  But I was a kid then (early 20s) and had a lot to learn.  Looking back from the old guy I am now, I realize what an adventure it all was.  Not nearly as bad as I made it out to be.  Young squirts these days don’t know how good they got it.  And loneliness--which I had busloads of back then--doesn’t have to exists when you can make connections, as I am now, with you and all the fine folks here on this nice internet site.  Yours…Oswald.

Brooklyn is like what I pictured from your poem, so either pretty effective, or lucky! I think I had in my head 1950s Brooklyn, similar to scenes from a Bronx Tale.  Maybe you could do a short script that takes place in that time and place.

"Young squirts" have it good in some ways, but they're missing out, too, on the great world you got to experience. I think there's plenty of interest by younger people in those times.

What a pleasant fellow you seem to be.  That cannot possibly be your real name, can it?

I am not a poetry guy, either, but I did peruse your site a bit -- amused by the warning of adult content that first greeted me.

For me, I dug "The Fortune Teller" amongst those I browsed.  Thought I would let you know.

Since the primary purpose of this site is feedback, I would ask if you have ever considered omitting the very, very last line of that poem?

I originally thought it ended with "...served me right," and it was only a few moments later that I discovered the line that follows.

And I found that I liked the poem (a bit) less with the addition of that extra line.  I much prefer the snarky tone this piece adopts by ending on the penultimate line.  It changes nearly everything -- at least, to me it does.

Anyways, welcome to the site.  You are encouraged to try your hand at a few short scripts while you are here.  Judging by your work, you certainly seem to have the chops for it.

Yes, it is my real name!!  My maternal grandfather, too, was named Oswald.  I tend to think, as you have mentioned, that I am a pleasant fellow.  Far more pleasant nowadays than in my younger, fiery years.  Funny that you--and others here--say you are not "a poetry guy."  I do not consider myself one either.  Honestly, I have read very little poetry in my lifetime.  My poetry--or whatever you wish to call it--came as a way for me to express myself when I had no other way to do so.  I would sit in whatever filthy rathole I was living in and lose myself in the words.  I was too frightened to write short stories, which was my true desire in life.  The words just wouldn't come for that sort of writing, but for my poems...the words seemed to come.  And thank you for your thoughts on "The Fortune Teller."  You have an interesting idea there about eliminating that last line.  No, I never thought about removing it.  The way I see it (through these old, old eyes of mine) is that once a poem is done, it's done.  It is what it is.  And it's these "flaws" in the piece (though to some, they are not flaws) that allow us to have these conversations...and that is a beautiful thing.

I do hope you will investigate my poems further.  These conversations, this interaction, this sharing of my work, means more to me that you can ever know.

With appreciation...Oswald.

Shalom Oswald,

I loved reading Somebody's Daughter

I think it would make a great What If for a script.

The guy who was watching this same girl day after day... he
wonders about that one curiosity-- her shoe. Why? Why
can't she afford a different shoe?

Well, being a woman, a very thrifty woman who loves expensive scotch and cheap shoes, I love to shop shoes out of season. Pick them up for $5 bucks! How's that?!

No. There's gotta be a reason more than money that she wears those shoes.

Does she wear them for luck?

Does she wear them because they were a gift from her last real, but now
deceased boyfriend?

Does she wear them because they really don't seem to bother her, she's oblivious to the fact that she's constantly fixing the strap?

Wow. All because of a lilly pair of shoes.

I loved this. Truly. Right up my alley.

Sandra