No Love
No,
not here.
No love to give
Penetrated mind.
I’m locked forever.
I’m boarded up.
Forever bound,
never, will I ever,
let you in
and inside.
No Love
to receive,
or accept
I’m not here anymore.
Nothing can be done.
No love
No honor
Swept away
left you,
not on your feet.
I’m solid
Rock.
Chained and sealed.
Dagger through my heart
Hurt so much,
forgot your name
from city to city
Search, an end.
No love,
today.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.08.14.12:03:22@296NYC
Jordan
It’s beyond amazing.
Beyond beautiful.
Beyond wonderful.
Beyond all of the great words and terms and feelings,
I could describe using words from the dictionary.
The feeling is pure love.
Love like I have never felt.
Love that I have never experienced.
Love that I never knew existed.
When I sit Indian-Style,
you approach me with book in hand,
make your little grunt for me to read that book to you,
and you plop yourself in my lap.
Your back against mine.
You fit your tiny body on my lap.
Your little shirt,
your little shorts,
your little socks,
your little shoes.
You carry the smell of baby with you.
Your curly hair and big baby green eyes.
You sit in my lap and listen to me read to you.
You are a genius, pointing to the fire engine, the horse and the kittens.
This overwhelming feeling.
I had to write about it.
It’s so hard to express.
So, beyond anything I could possibly write.
But that feeling of love.
That overwhelming feeling of when you’re in my lap.
Knowing I will protect you from ocean to ocean.
World to world, barrier to barrier, land to land.
Knowing that you are more precious than gold and diamonds.
It’s beyond amazing.
Beyond beautiful.
Beyond wonderful.
Again, that overwhelming feeling of when you’re in my lap.
You are the definition of love.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.08.12.04:13:32@296NYC
Johnny, Bring Me The Gun
Johnny,
I’m calling your name.
Come down the stairs,
Washing the damp walls.
Scurry about,
Collect the papers,
Find the holes
And patch them up.
Patch them up.
Johnny,
Come down the stairs.
Scale and climb,
Run your fingers against the wooden grain.
It’s time to go.
Time to go.
Feel your way down,
Pass the pigeon-blood red walls,
And step down the carpeted stairs.
I’m waiting for you here.
Come quickly,
No time to waste today.
Johnny,
Come as swiftly as you can.
I left the silk work upstairs.
Safe keeping is the best way to keep.
It’s raining, don’t keep me waiting too long.
We’re about to get wet, soaked,
I felt this before, leaking.
Inside, it’s time to run,
Past the deep ochre hallways.
We really must go.
Johnny,
Bring me the gun,
We’re not fooling anyone here.
Let’s hurry up and go.
It’s raining outside.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.08.06.05:17:53 @ 296 NYC
The Tiger Dance
And so, she whispered
Hinted with her eyes
Took the approach
Danced the dance
Came in nearer
Not nearly enough
A wicked dance
Penetrating through
Roaring, Growling
Coming through
Seeing through
Dancing with the sway
She closed her eyes
Dreamed of the passion
Hidden desires lie within
Pleasure opens one’s soul
She danced the dance
The tiger that she was
Roared all night
Echoed in my mind
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.07.31.03:16:10@296NYC
Your Voice
Your voice is near,
so far away.
At the other end,
just saying “hey.”
A message heard,
a message left.
A heart is here,
without a theft.
A soothing tone,
beautiful reminder.
Silent keeper,
I think I won’t forget her.
That’s my tale
of your whisper.
Hear it again,
Come in closer.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.07.15.14:09:56@296NYC
I didn’t get to
I didn’t get to say that I was sorry.
I didn’t get to tell you that I love you.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.07.13.15:19:51@296NYC
Seven Ten
It’s seven to ten.
You’re still not here.
It’s just about time.
But you are nowhere to be found.
It’s seven to ten.
I’m here and you are not.
Around the earth, I’ve searched.
Nothing came up, nothing came down.
It’s seven to ten.
I’ve held on forever.
Looked and waited.
Nothing yet, nothing here.
It’s seven to ten.
Where are you?
Just another day gone by.
Sunrise and sunset, alone.
It’s seven to ten.
We are about to begin.
No one here but me and my dreams.
Back door closed; poetry written.
It’s seven to ten.
Whisper in my ear.
Sweet thoughts.
I know you are near.
It’s seven to ten.
No one is knocking at the door.
Not even you, nor she.
I’m about to get up and leave.
It’s seven to ten.
Heaven is here.
I’ve looked back now.
I did not see.
It’s seven to ten.
Kiss me there.
It’s seven to ten.
Kiss me here.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.07.10.02:21:03@296NYC
Beauty (Version #2)
Wanting you
Is the last thing
I’ll be happy to remember
Before my death arrives
Tomorrow
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.07.06.19:55:55@296NYC
Constant Wanting
Looking.
Seeking.
Waiting.
To my right, no, not there.
To my left, no, not there.
The most beautiful woman in the world.
Where?
At the grocery store.
On the subway.
Riding the bus.
At the gallery.
Walking on the sidewalk.
In the museum.
Where?
Right next to me.
Daily.
In my heart.
Looking.
Seeking.
Waiting.
Always wanting.
Constant craving.
Hopeless Romantic,
Define Me.
Make Me.
Beautify Me.
Where?
Yesterday.
Today.
Tomorrow.
Lying right next to me.
Meeting my family.
With my friends.
Next door.
Sharing with me.
Escaping with me.
Learning.
Living.
Loving.
Looking.
Seeking.
Waiting.
Always,
a craving.
Always,
a constant wanting.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.06.27.20:14:10@296NYC
Norman
It was hot and crowded at the gallery on 126th Street in Harlem. Black viewers dominated the Jazz inspired exhibition. I was standing along the East wall with a plate in hand. Some rice, some pasta and some fresh vegetables were spread evenly on my white foam plate. With my plastic fork I stood there eating my free food, my starving artist food that I scored at this gallery opening. I stood and observed the crowd. As I stood there, to my left was a man of about age 70 who sat on one of the rare wooden chairs in the gallery. I saw him earlier in the space. He was decked out in a very fashionable jazz outfit. I remember him distinctly because he was dressed in a bright red suit and yellow shirt with matching colourful shoes. His shoes were red and glazed with a shine. They looked like great works of art, almost like Dutch shoes, but these were more electrified with Jazz, like Coltrane blew music through the soles. He walked with a fancy cane held by a hand with a silver nugget ring. Now I stand along the wall, eating my freely scored meal. Out of the corner of my eye I see this wonderful beautiful man all of a sudden slump over and fall out of the chair. For half of a second I pondered if this was performance art, then the other half of the second I realize that there was something seriously wrong. I quickly put my freely scored meal down on the floor with my bag which contained my Bible and went over to the aging black man in the red suit. His face was against the floor and his body twisted in a fashion quite unusual. His cane to the side and his legs overlapping each other. His thick rimmed glasses knocked off of his face, with the weight of his head pressing down on them against the floor. His red cap still on his head. I cradle him in my arms and yell, “Sir! Sir!?” I get no response. A woman walks quickly over from the front of the gallery, “Norman!? Norman!” I realize this woman must know this man and this man was Norman. I cradle him more, with my arms around his back and pick up his head slowly. I yell “Norman!? Norman!?” As I hear various other art viewers yell “Call 9-1-1! Call 9-1-1!” Finally, Norman, with the yellow ochre pants and grey socks slowly opens his eyes. The first being this black man sees in this Harlem gallery is a young white man with blue eyes. I wonder if he thought he was in heaven with white folk or knew where he was. In this hot gallery. This overcrowded space with people who chit chatted to loudly when the speakers wanted to speak. I continue to soothe Norman and his companion leans over with tears and yells for Norman to come to complete consciousness. Norman was only probably out a mere eight to ten seconds, but felt like the lifetime of a pet with four legs. His glasses were off his face now. Yellow glasses with black stripes forming the pattern of a zebra. His yellow shirt cleanly pressed under his stop-sign red jacket. As I continued to cradle this beautiful Jazz man, a man approached me and said “I am a doctor, can I help?” I said yes, and the doctor took over the procedure for caring for the man. As the doctor continued to assist, I stood nearby in case if another helping hand was needed. Finally, in a short amount of time, the emergency workers arrived and attended to my beautiful jazz friend and he finally arose and walked with assistance to the waiting ambulance outside.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.06.18.20:30:00@104E126thStNYC
03.06.24.05:23:00@296NYC
loving you
loving you is the hardest thing to do
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.06.14.02:07:34@296NYC
Sleeping Angel
Angel, in my sleep.
Sleeping next to you,
connecting
feeding my thirst for the ache.
The venture needed,
the emptiness filled.
One more, once more.
Sleeping with you,
forgetting the world behind
leaving for a moment
elevating
to a higher sensation of being.
One time, alone here.
Angel, in my sleep.
Next to you I breathe a deeper breath
I sleep a sounder sleep,
I dream a more colorful dream.
Angel, next to me.
I love you forever,
lying here, listening to your beating heart.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.06.04.02:39:16@296NYC
It’s been raining for days
It’s been raining for days.
It’s so wonderful.
You know why?
Because for days, we’ve stayed inside.
We haven’t gone out.
We’ve just stayed inside together.
For days.
And we just spooned, all day and all night.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.06.04.02:22:44@296NYC
Love, Again
I’m in love again.
I admit it.
I’ve fallen once more.
Head over heels.
I’m in cloud nine.
I’m high above.
Wonderful.
Sunshine is all around.
Everywhere.
Fate brought us together.
Love is all around.
I’m in love.
Love, again.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.06.04.01:04:22@296NYC
I Don’t Want To
I don’t want to fall.
I don’t want to.
It’s not my style.
I’m cold.
I don’t want to fall.
I don’t want to be in.
It’s not my way.
I’m alone.
I don’t want to fall.
I don’t want to wake up next to.
It’s not my method.
I’m strong.
I don’t want to fall.
I don’t want to experience.
It’s not my desire.
I’m closed.
I don’t want to fall.
I don’t want to hurt.
It’s not my ache.
I’m deep.
I don’t want to fall.
I don’t want to feel.
It’s not my path.
I’m singular.
I don’t want to fall.
Not today.
I fell long ago.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.05.31.02:44:16@296NYC
funny little artman
funny little artman
crawling on the bottom of the sea
crawling on the white walls of the Chelsea Gallery
crawling on the floor beneath Peggy Guggenheim’s skirt
funny little artman
showing his art all around town
showing his thick cock to all the viewers
showing his talent to the world
funny little artman
charming the moms and dads
charming the art critics
charming the women
funny little artman
creating with his camera
creating with his paintbrush
creating with his mind
funny little artman
up in the attic working
up in the sky working
up in the bed working
funny little artman
gone to the museum to study Pollock
gone to the gallery to study De Kooning
gone to the center to study Ryman
funny little artman
carrying the Bible wherever he may go
carrying the rubber bands around his wrist
carrying the black clothes on his back
funny little artman
in his studio
in his mind
in his development
watch him run!
watch him grow!
watch him succeed!
funny little artman!
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.05.23.04:48:59@296NYC
No Time On Earth
No time is left,
Let’s leave this place
and shut the door.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.05.22.12:28:40@296NYC
Silence, Nothing
Silence heard,
silence lost.
Nothing gained,
nothing learned.
Silence felt,
silence new.
Nothing inside,
nothing realized.
Silence kept,
silence given
Nothing taken,
nothing lasted.
Silence in my eyes,
silence at your lips.
Nothing here,
nothing there.
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.05.22.12:15:12@296NYC
I Want It So Bad
Words cannot express
Art cannot express
Music cannot express
How badly I wish to love
© 2003 David Greg Harth
03.05.04.22:39:12@296NYC