Villagers. Torches. Boris Karloff. What more could you want? Classics like this don’t jump-start my heart every few minutes like today’s horror scares. Instead they wake me up past midnight a week later, whispering softly and letting my brain do the rest of the work… Now that’s scary.
PS. Happy almost-Halloween. Remember, it’s always dark somewhere.
Nowhere nothing not anyone to follow the gaze
the gaze long gone yet still I stare why not where’s
the rest of me to go now I’m gone glaring at
the paving stones why don’t you rise up
why don’t you rise up damn it
the young let to wash old mens’ soles you lie
under hooves and tyrants and when the street
rivers blood shrug it to the sewer you won’t stain
like winter breaking a fall your job is done.
This feels more like a short film with an awesome soundtrack than a music video. The song seems to haunt the story rather than telling it. And it’s dark, my favorite!
Being frightened.
Losing.
Rain storms.
Leaving the windows open.
Skipping.
Red Rover.
Boring movies.
Long drives.
Nothing at all.
Everything at once.
Risks.
Safety.
Love.
Being a Capulet.
Or a Montague.
Repressed.
Or Wilde.
Saying yes.
Being rejected.
Not knowing.
Revealing.
Wanting.
Needing.
Letting go.
In the interest of posting something I’ve decided to stray from screenwriting and film-related stuff a little bit. Or, a lot. Here are a few short poems. They’re not new, but this is the first time they’ve seen the light of day! Which would make them as pale as I am…
Ghost Town
It is half night;
A half-moon half hides
In partial cloud
And half the stars are out.
Old half-men half watch
The half-light fade,
Half-lost in half the memories
Of half-lived lives.
Boys
Strapping and strutting
Making noise about nothing
Harsh noises, base nothings
Boys.
Sticks and stones and
The rockets’ red glare
Worlds filled with targets and
Toys.
The Poet
Hold me, my love, I’ve sung all day
And emptied myself too much
What’s left is me:
Solid, weighty, graceless
A trumpeter albatross
DARK BLUE
Because not everyone in Calgary is a Cowboy
He dreamt to run, to fly, to sail.
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a resource for moving poetry
Part time actor, aspiring writer of poetry and prose and full-time idiot with a heart.
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creative non-fiction. pursuit of truth.
Beyond Our Sanguinary Horizons
poetry by ariel goldberg
COPYWRITER, STARGAZER, STORYTELLER, TRAVELER, WEIRDO
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Social justice is built one idea at a time...
