Opa (Version #3)
Opa,
You die before me,
Quickly your aged body crumbles,
You become a frail ghost.
Opa,
With scars on chest and tongue,
On leg and heart.
Your wounds go unnoticed.
Opa,
Still a smile to the last day.
My eulogy is being prepared.
Your eyes meet mine nightly.
Opa,
Your hands touch my hands,
My childhood world swiftly races through my mind.
Airplane Park, Train Park, New York City, Concord.
Opa,
You taught me light and shadow.
I danced in your army uniform.
We built Quaker Oats vehicles.
Opa,
A bayonet resides beneath your bed.
Your love awaits you in your heaven.
You are a gift to this world.
Opa,
So silently full of love.
A whispering howl of giving.
You are a knight.
Opa,
Without you the world will be smaller.
My plains of passion will be completed.
As compassion is greater.
Opa,
You taught me to give,
You taught me to love.
I will never stop giving and loving.
Opa,
Thank you for your love.
You will remain alive forever.
For your heart will always remain beating in mine.
© 2005 David Greg Harth
05.07.12.03:36:57@296NYC
Opa (Version #2)
As I entered your building,
it smelled of urine.
All the elderly gather there,
and die young at heart.
You confuse time,
You cannot operate the alarm clock
You cannot operate the telephone.
You don’t know how to tie a tie
You don’t know who to call.
You are my Opa,
My Opa I love.
Today you slept.
While I visited.
I read your book of letters.
You wrote Oma for 65 years.
Mother’s Day. Anniversary. Birthdays. War Letters.
You have experienced something I never have.
We’ve recently discussed.
That I have been looking.
Looking for one.
Going on dates.
Here and there.
Every time I phone you now,
You ask,
“Still looking?”
Yes,
Opa.
I am still looking.
If I could have
Just one second
Of the amount of love
You and Oma had,
I’d be happy.
Couldn’t help but think,
As you slept on the couch,
If I should suffocate you,
And let you be with Oma,
Once more; forever.
© 2005 David Greg Harth
05.07.07.01:30:00@296NYC
Oma and Opa (Version #7)
I adore both of you forever.
But one of you passed away the other day.
The morning of the 15th of February.
The morning after my celebrated Valentine’s Day.
Dear Oma.
You’ve passed on. You’ve left us. No more.
Opa is empty. Alone. Wanting to escape. End.
But we’ll not let him. Not with our love.
Dear Oma,
You died in Opa’s arms. Lifeless. After 65 years wed.
Your great grandson says “Omama died, Omama died”
He knows and he’ll know your legend. Your story. Your love.
We’ll teach him and your little baby great granddaughter too.
Dear Oma,
At age 90. So many battles won. I’m so happy to have known you.
For my 29 years. So very proud that you made it to this point.
So very proud that you were able to attend
your great grandson’s third birthday celebration.
Just 10 days before you left us
Dear Oma,
I missed you at home. I only saw your box draped at the home of funerals.
I had the most silent car ride to the cemetery. With Opa and Dad. It was so quiet.
You could hear the wind speak. You could hear the tears roll on one’s cheek.
You could hear birds sing in Lithuania. You could hear the leaves sway on the trees.
Dear Oma,
You could hear sorrow from each mourner’s footsteps.
We buried you completely. Your fragile pale body placed in a pine wood box.
Lowered to the dirt at the bottom of the grave. We did what Dad dreamed of.
What Dad needed to do. Shovel after shovel. We buried you completely in dirt.
We did not stop until the grave was full. Completely.
Suit jackets off. Shirts cuffed up. Shovel after shovel.
Why? Because your two sisters and mother never got,
the proper burial from the Nazis.
On your day, with our hearts, with our kindness, with gentle care,
we buried you and properly buried your sisters and mother.
We did with our tears, our sweat, our souls, our love.
Because we love you all.
As soon as we finished. The drizzle began.
The drizzle quickly turned to rain to pour.
Giving flowers around the earth a chance to grow.
Dear Oma,
I have a blister on my thumb from the shovel. My arms and hands are a bit sore.
I’ve washed mud and dirt from my shoes. My heart aches for you and Opa.
Opa says, “That’s it, it’s all over.”
Opa says, “I want to go up. I want to go away.”
Opa says, “Maybe I should stop eating.”
Opa says, “I want Rochelle back”
Oma - I want you to know. I’ll be here forever.
For your Martin. For your Marshall.
For your Cara. For Jordan. For Sophie.
I will take care of them. For I have the loving strength from you.
Dear Oma,
Dad looks at his old Bar Mitzvah photograph album.
Places his finger upon each person’s face.
He says “Gestorben, Gestorben, Gestorben,” and he arrives,
at your beautiful face and with tears shared by all he says,
“Gestorben”
Dear Oma,
We ate Cervelot Wurst the other day.
In your honor. In your kindness. In your love.
I wrote the warmest Eulogy. I think I’ll read it every year.
More than once. As I look at photographs of you.
Such beautiful memories. Such wonderful memories.
You will not be forgotten.
Dear Oma,
Phone calls were made. Cookies were shared.
I will visit the Vermont mountains.
I will visit Auschwitz. I will visit Lithuania.
I will go to Second Avenue Deli. I will go to services.
Dear Oma,
I’ve been taking care of Opa for days now.
Sleeping with him. Putting him to bed. Caressing his hair.
Kissing him. Holding him. Speaking to him with my eyes.
Speaking to him with my soft voice. Spending time with him.
At his pace. His aging slow pace. His warm pace.
I’ve been eating dinner with him at the dining hall.
You should see all the people coming up to him.
You were special to all. An extraordinary being.
Dear Oma,
I will never forget. I will always remember.
So much sadness. Yet for me, I have happiness.
For I know how much you changed the world.
For I know how much you have changed my life.
And how much you made my life better.
Dear Oma,
I love you.
I will love you forever.
Thank you for you.
I love you.
© 2005 David Greg Harth
05.02.24.03:15:46@296NYC
Oma and Opa (Version #6)
They have escaped the holocaust.
Some of their family did not.
She defeated melanoma.
He had tongue surgery.
She developed shingles.
He had open heart surgery.
She lost eye sight in one eye years ago.
He had a stroke and has a pacemaker that keeps ticking.
A million other things happened during their lives.
The sicknesses, the deaths, the anguish, the pain.
The happiness, the births, the utopia, the pleasure.
She was an EEG technician for years.
He was a tailor and served in the war.
They are disintegrating before my eyes.
With their black and blue marks. Their bloody nicks. And drooping skin.
Their liver spots, sun spots, cancer spots and hairy spots.
He now farts in my presence.
She wears a diaper and talks to me about crapping in it.
Their breath needs freshening.
They forget. They get lost.
They both no longer have their teeth.
They have bad hearing and bad understanding.
They are fragile to the touch and to the wind.
Bony and white and short and small and thin.
They both have fallen, but never out of love.
But as much as they decay before my eyes.
My love for them is stronger than anything.
I love them dearly. Forever.
And I will have the warmest eulogy when the time comes.
But is certainly has not come yet.
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.12.09.01:08:24@296NYC
November & December
Bronx & Manhattan
Hospital Observing
Over
She rolled over in bed,
her knee was brushing up against my lower back.
Our bodies were half under the down covers,
and half outside of the sheets.
We both felt that cool winter draft across our skin,
silently creeping to the spring air.
She rolled over quietly,
embracing my body with her arms.
Her soft touches soothing my inner pains
and outer pleasures.
In a moment of time things were perfect,
until she rolled once more, from back to forth.
She whispered in my ear,
and she left without a trace.
© 2004 David Greg Harth
04.02.02.10:08:38@296NYC
Off
Today is different
Instructor said
Teacher said
Professor said
Captain said
President said
Leader said
I can’t touch you
I can’t pray with you
I can’t feel you
I can’t be with you
Today is Tuesday
I can’t lie to you
I can’t see you
I can’t even love you
Today is Wednesday
I can’t find you
I can’t look at you
I can’t smile at you
Today is Thursday
I can’t sit next to you
I can’t stand in the park with you
I can’t eat with you
Today is Friday
I can’t do anything with you
Because I’m not here anymore
© 2001 David Greg Harth
01.06.26.09:12:03@296NYC
One Minute Poem (Version 2) (Easy wrong)
60
59
58
57
56
55
54
53
52
51
50
49
48
47
46
45
44
43
42
41
40
39
38
37
36
35
34
33
32
31
30
29
28
27
26
25
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11
10
9
8
7
6
5
4
3
2
1
© 2001 David Greg Harth
01.05.11.04:04:48@296NYC
One Minute Poem (Version 1) (Original Wrong)
1 One Thousand
2 One Thousand
3 One Thousand
4 One Thousand
5 One Thousand
6 One Thousand
7 One Thousand
8 One Thousand
9 One Thousand
10 One Thousand
11 One Thousand
12 One Thousand
13 One Thousand
14 One Thousand
15 One Thousand
16 One Thousand
17 One Thousand
18 One Thousand
19 One Thousand
20 One Thousand
21 One Thousand
22 One Thousand
23 One Thousand
24 One Thousand
25 One Thousand
26 One Thousand
27 One Thousand
28 One Thousand
29 One Thousand
30 One Thousand
31 One Thousand
32 One Thousand
33 One Thousand
34 One Thousand
35 One Thousand
36 One Thousand
37 One Thousand
38 One Thousand
39 One Thousand
40 One Thousand
41 One Thousand
42 One Thousand
43 One Thousand
44 One Thousand
45 One Thousand
46 One Thousand
47 One Thousand
48 One Thousand
49 One Thousand
50 One Thousand
51 One Thousand
52 One Thousand
53 One Thousand
54 One Thousand
55 One Thousand
56 One Thousand
57 One Thousand
58 One Thousand
59 One Thousand
60 One Thousand
© 2001 David Greg Harth
01.05.11.04:02:49@296NYC
Orgasm Central
lippity suck
spread your lips
suck my lips
spread your legs
scream my name
look into my eyes
kiss your lips
hold me tonight
© 2001 David Greg Harth
01.05.04.09:19:46 @ 296 NYC
Opa
David,
Its Three-Thirty in the morning
And I have to talk to Marshall
They’re killing me here
I’m losing the use of my hands
I have to get out of here
You have to get me out of here
Please
Tell Marshall to get me out of here
Please
Thursday Three-Twenty-Five AM
© 2000 David Greg Harth
00.05.11.03:25:00@296NYC
00.05.11.09:01:25@296NYC
Oma and Opa (Version #5)
My grandparents are dying.
The Informative Rundown:
Opa (Grandfather):
88
Immigrant from Germany
Escaped the Holocaust
Retired Expert Tailor, WWII Veteran
Pace Maker
Triple By-Pass
Prostate
Cataract x 2
Lymph in Tongue Surgery
Stroke x 2 + others
Did not go to the Hospital immediately after the last stroke because he never wants to leave the side of the love of his life
Still, in the midst of it all, he posed in the hospital for his grandson to take a photograph, for art
Oma (Grandmother):
85
Immigrant from Lithuania
Mother and Sisters shot in the Holocaust
Retired EKG Technician
Cancer in the leg x 2
Bulging bad eye
Shingles
Can no longer walk, locate the kitchen or remember if I gave her a pill 10
minutes ago
Still, in the midst of it all, makes sure I eat, talks about her grandson
being an artist, and shares my blue eyes
Home:
Opera singer floors above can be heard
Awards and certificates hang on the walls
My childhood art hangs on the walls
Dead flowers from the 60th anniversary just one week ago still on the table
The Coo-Coo clock has to be wound up
Medications unorganized and in wrong bottles
Can no longer sign checks or go to the bank or doctor or grocery
Refrigerator filled with delivered meals, bad food, expired milk, bread,
cheese, matzoh and prunes
Summary:
He’ll make 90
She’ll make matzoh ball soup and cookies again
Or
I’ll have to write pages and speak.
© 2000 David Greg Harth
00.04.18.00:00:00@ New York City 83PTW/296E
00.04.19.00:00:00@ New York City 83PTW/296E
00.04.20.00:00:00@ New York City 83PTW/296E
00.04.21.00:00:00@ New York City 83PTW/296E
00.04.21.03:31:31 @ New York City 296E
Oma and Opa (Version #4)
My grandfather had a stroke.
My grandmother doesn’t know where the kitchen is.
© 2000 David Greg Harth
00.04.18.00:00:00@ New York City 83PTW/296E
00.04.19.00:00:00@ New York City 83PTW/296E
00.04.20.00:00:00@ New York City 83PTW/296E
Oma and Opa (Version #3)
I stopped everything
To go watch my grandmother die
I took the A train uptown to 207th St
And walked up the street where the black squirrels ran
Three children were sledding down the snow covered hill
In laundry baskets, sleds, and cookie sheets
How could someone be so depressed and sad
When children play just outside?
I found my grandmother laying in the chair
Still and motionless
Not knowing I was there
I bent down
And held her hand
It was cold and veiny, filled with spots from the liver
She awoke to my warm touch and smile
Her grey hair had not been washed in days
Her whiskers on her cheek unclipped
Her leg swollen from where the cancer was carved away
Her depression making her hunch-back and stiff
Her wrinkles competing with her fragile structure
Her blue eyes still as powerful as my own
Her tears salty to the glance
Her heart still beating from the love
I delivered my words
As much as I could
Of hope and strength
Awards and certificates line the walls
Old portraits and photographs too
My artwork from when I was little
And articles about my grandfather’s favorite Democrats
The door knobs still have crystal on them
The door frames still arched
The couch still covered in plastic
The candy dish still on the round coffee table
My grandparents wearing their old clothes
From so many years ago
I don’t even know what is hip
In or out
The bed was unmade
Easier access perhaps
The dishes were clean
There was an overabundance of food from Meals-On-Wheels
She can no longer walk
Or go to the toilet alone
No more cookies for me
No more smiles on her face
She can no longer breathe sunny air
Afraid to go to doctors
Taking numerous pills a day, an hour
She sits and cries
All she can say
Is that God is punishing her
And never forget about her Five sisters and Mother
Murdered by the Nazis
As she escaped
And ran away
From Lithuania
As the sun came down today
They will not let me take the subway home
We order a car service
Arriving on time
They pack me full of different goodies
Fruit and Milk mainly
They have so much they cannot finish
Instead of rotting, they send it with me
Sometimes, as I see those pears rot in their kitchen
I make direct associations, and see them
Oma still lives
But,
What do I do now?
© 2000 David Greg Harth
00.02.05.03:00:00 @ 83PTW NYC
00.02.05.22:56:05 @ 296E NYC
Oma and Opa (Version #2)
I never thought
I would have a hunched-back grandmother
She shuffles her feet
Moving slowly from worn-out carpeted room to the next
Still on the same green
My grandfather struggles
Taking care of two
Organizing the week’s pills and drugs
Dropping hot coffee from strokes
Not remembering
I get offered fake cream cheese
Its Jalapeno-flavored by mistake
I visit my grandparents
Once or twice a month
I should more
As I watch them die before my eyes
Slowly
Age into a cold fragile bony lifeless full of love
The smell of bad breath I can’t get away from
Because I admit to a certain warmth I have for them
They visited me every day
And I can’t commit to each weekend or each month
I can’t support and call her an ass and we don’t understand
She saw her sisters shot
He never saw his brother in Africa
Years of photographs bring tears and stains
The stained plastic Tupperware
stained of chicken-matzoh-ball-soup, lox, and tuna fish
I get fed and care packages to take home to my bachelor pad
They die and I eat
I can’t even commit to a god they want
My grandfather can’t walk
But never sheds a tear for his strength is what makes him stone
His eyebrows grow like wild bushes and firestorm feeding brush
His eyes after surgery old and aging his cheek permanent with an accent
Thick of Germany
His pacemaker beats
She wets
I don’t know when their last bath was
Or if she looks like wonderfully aged Chinese woman I once saw at the New Museum
No more cookies, no recipe, some thin mints and M&Ms
Old, falling apart, deteriorating, bucket of bones cold and white
Their plastic has covered that couch for years
I wonder when they will take it off?
When one dies?
To be more comfortable
To feel the fabric of that couch?
Not the plastic sticking to your arms and legs and thighs?
Is the plastic an insecurity?
We protect the home from which we live, but we never fully live?
Is it their god that makes them cry?
Or makes them strong?
Does he pray for his mother each evening?
Or does he now pray for his wife?
As he once did for me?
Opera singers scream throughout the apartment
Some live, some radio
Some next door
And the green plants flourish
Or die
Never once did I see a bug
Or bullet, only a sword and an award
My grandparents are dying
Before my eyes
I want to hold them
I want to save them
I want to wrap them up in gauze and make them Egyptian art
I want to get the recipe
I want to show them my dead deer, my 9INE, my cats, my fat
My grandfather has held my hand
He has witnessed me in pain
In horror
In the nude
In the realness of the most fake state imaginable
I must have gotten my bright blue eyes
And blonde hair from her
Her blue eyes
As intense as mine
She taught me the language of her god
He taught me the gift of life
Now if I can only find someone to give that gift to
I’d make them happy, if they followed their god
© 2000 David Greg Harth
99.12.24.23:13:12 @ 296
00.01.03.20:33:33 @ 296
One Week
On Sunday
I take you to the Metropolitan Museum of Art
We see van Gogh, Degas, and Turner
We get lost together in their masterpieces
Of strokes, dances and light
We surround ourselves in the art around us
To create our own
We explore each room while re-inventing ourselves
On Monday
After a candle-lit dinner
I take you to the Empire State Building
Right to the tippy-top
To view the world
Our New York City
That we conquered together
With shared secrets and passion
On the top in an embrace
We kiss to the stars above and the midnight lights below
On Tuesday
After the wine down your back
I cuddle you in my arms
As we shower together
Feeling silky wet
With suds pouring down
I wash the slippery inches of your body
From butt to thigh to breast to ear
On Wednesday
We skip work
To where the sun shines daily
And birds fly high
Where flowers bloom beneath
Central park is where we escape today
Frolic in the sun on the meadow
Being with you and exploring
Laying upon your lap, you in mine
Together we relax and wonder
On Thursday
The evening is ours
This night is full of sweetness
From the kisses on your lips to your navel
I lick the honey from your mouth and stomach
To strawberries of today
Following your precious eyes
I take the strawberry to every corner of your body
And nibble nibble tonight
On Friday
The warm day brought us to a gathering tight close
With ice in my hand
I glide down your body through your soul
Upon your every pore
From foot upwards on your leg and inner thigh
Above your pubic mound to your strong navel
Upward glance
Upon your breasts and now stiff nipples
Until the ice reaches your neck
The coldness giving you goosebumps all over
To your lips
Ice and now I kiss
And run my fingers through your hair
And down your back
On Saturday
Quiet with the actions
Too many to exist in our time
Ran around here and there
Shared an ice tea on the avenue
Remembering last night and the night before
Everlasting
I let the water fill up the tub
For you
I sprinkle flowers on the water’s edge and surface
Roses, daisies, tulips, sunflowers, carnations, daffodils, irises, lilies
And leaves of green
Cover your warm bath water
And now you can beautify the world
And take a hot bath in flowers
While I wash your back and your hair
And burn candles on the porcelain surroundings
Tonight
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.04.10.03:27:38 @ 296 NYC
99.04.13.01:32:33 @ 296 NYC
One Way Out
No one allowed in
Not even barbed wire fetishists
Or concrete expansions
No sexy blue-eyes from the West
Not even loving brothers of art
Or inspirational rebels of Sunday
No flexible IV drugs
Not even spinal taps, SPECT scans, and MRIs
Or doctors from Pennsylvania
No pop artists
Not even previous grocery baggers
Or today’s best interest
No women from the womb
Not even from authors of Mars
Or Vietnam writers and golden makers
No papas from hills and trees
Not even superb bombers
Or home-made cookie makers
No more salty tears
Not even a trace and scent
Or a remainder of my existence.
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.03.29.01:19:00 @ FLT#116
Oma and Opa
Intrepid trips and the mountains of the concord
Lake George and my first home cooked meal after Neuro
Drawings saved and cherished memories explored
Hanukkah mensch and false teeth
Jump with sister and battle ships and swords
Cardboard oats cars and super 8 lighting
Family of black elephants and looking at the field
Squirrel parks and peanut feeding
Cupped hands and locked doors
Green carpets and curved couches
Rockefeller Christmas and Empire State
Hugs kisses and the warmth I’ve never had
Fresh Chocolate Chip cookies, sprinkles too
Pineapple chicken and first night dinners
Videotaping U2 as I grow
Hershey’s chocolate milk and canned pears
The beach box fighting man
Never forget the Ten Dollar story left on a park bench
Museums and matchbox cars
Parades and snoopy
Dip of a chair, relax and lean back
Corned Beef deli sandwiches and a car driver
Not telling them what to do
Large flushing toilets
Opera singers and little David upstairs playing
Finding places, meeting people, aging with beauty
Mints and M&Ms if I dress right
Proud and pride that come from the heart
Poetry and perspective
Corners have light and the sisters were shot
Holocaust avoided, conquered, escaped, effected, affected
Past the surgeries, the pace, the cancer, the hearts, the loss
Sewing buttons and holes galore
Stories told and always shared, some hidden
Photographs explored, taken, remembered
Two short ones, one time I once shorter
Unconditional love - If I am so dare to say
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.08.25.23:35:58@NJ
98.09.18.01:27:48@NJ
Ocean Space Is Where I Wait
Jesus or Moses
Seas and deserts
Among the rocks
Among the steam ships
Among the trains
And the radars that break barriers
Through the wires
Through the regions
We all bow
We all look up
Though even though I do not
Nor do he
I thank all that do for me
And those who do not
Among the bench
Among the ground
Among that mountainside
Among that cloud
We must reach it
That destination
Between that plain
Of imagination and destiny
Of fantasy and desire
Of truth and fiction
Of race and creed
Of sex and religion
Of death and life
Of morals and horror
Among the common ground
Among that sandbar
There is an ocean
Where we once belonged too
An ocean of colors
Of twinkles and currents
Of a surplus of stars
And spacious lives
An ocean of wonders
Of delicate beings
Of a generation undiscovered
And limitless time
Among that time
I will be there
Waiting for thy to come
Waiting for something real
I continue
I always wait
Until I die
Until I die
One day,
Many people will say,
“I wish it was me, and not him.”
© 1997 David Greg Harth
97.02.03.00:00:00@31USQWNYC