10 second love story / “Somehow”

pickup truck couple



I spend a lot of time above a pen and before a keyboard,

trying to let you know how I feel and what you mean to me,

usually to no avail and causing greater confusion.

I’d like to somehow write away the trail of devastation

that you are now forced to walk in the name of me

making a delusional attempt to save the world.

I need to somehow write us back in time

to the place where we were little more than a rumor

and your eyes were smiling more than sad.

I wish that I could somehow write you into my heart

where you could sit quietly and hear it beat for a while

and listen to the words of my own song,

not the lyrics and message of others.

I should somehow write us a two-person tailgate,

with a honey whiskey paper cup and a six-pack

discussing life – real life – while parked under

a “Jesus is the Answer” billboard.

If I could write all of this somehow, you would

understand perfectly what words are in my head

and what my mouth is trying to say.


Poetry / “Franklin’s Kite”

franklin kite

Like I suppose Columbus held

while he sailed the ocean blue,

I try to locate you with

a brass compass.


Like I’ve seen Gandhi wear,

while nonviolently battling the Brits,

I battle old photos through clear

round gold frames


Like I learned da Vinci designed,

in between the helicopter and scuba gear,

on my wall waiting for you to return

is a painfully accurate clock.


Like we were taught Hancock wielded

to sweep his name on the Declaration,

on my desk is a pen that I’ve used

to denounced my independence


Like I know Franklin used

when he discovered electricity,

I have a key and a string and a kite

that I send up daily like a beacon

hoping to be struck so that you

will know that I’m still here


Copyright 2012

My eBooks of poetry and romance are available at Etsy – please visit my page:


Poetry / “Diner placemat love note”


diner placemat

I have become a

front porch Bell jar wino

looking for yesterday


But all I want is to be

a back alley junkie

freebasing glimpses of tomorrow


And on each day of your absence

I’ve received a morphine drip

of your perceived value


While fearing the dark

and squinting to find

your fading light


At first we loved slowly

as if our touch was a match

that would send up any remaining oxygen


But later we found out we matched

however not each other

causing us to softly fade


Like a cry for help in a soundproof room

or a reframed photograph hung on a different wall

all leading to your evaporation.


So now I’m stuck

and have abandoned myself

on a Formica counter swivel stool


With an empty plastic

methadone shot glass

in one hand


Writing this diner placemat love note with the other

mind failing and my heart barely strong enough

to pump your entire short life.

Copyright 2013

My eBooks of poetry and romance are available at Etsy – please visit my page:



eBook of Poetry and Romance / “Songs You Can’t Dance To”

book cover_songs you cant dance to

A mixture of equal parts of love and grief, “Songs you can’t dance to” contains poems that center on the anticipation and joy of new and maintained love as well as the sorrow and pain of longing and loss. Additionally, this volume includes eight works of short fiction that range in theme from high school love to the unending echo of a national tragedy. With “Songs you can’t dance to” Steven Harz begins to explore the key components of the human experience.


This book of poetry and romance can be found at: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-us/ebook/songs-you-can-t-dance-to


Poetry / “Gunpowder ghosts”

gunpowder ghost1

Gunpowder ghosts


I am unsure that you still exist because

my memories are grainy and out of focus

like films of bigfoot

lumbering across the landscape

leaving footprints real or not


Perhaps you’re still here and

are held up by invisible strings

like blurry pie plates in UFO films

that we once watched on a

second hand black and white Zenith


I have tried to find you

in movies of the Bermuda Triangle

between the invisible wreckage

of hull and fuselage on

the possible coast of Atlantis


Unclear and unstill the

photos of Loch Ness

forbid me from finding you

on her shores in the Highlands

and in the shadows of sea serpents


Finally six stories above

Zapruder’s 8mm vantage point

among the gunpowder ghosts of

Jack and Oswald and Ruby

I find you deciding whether you

are anything more than a hoax

as you polish your barrel

and weigh the options of

pulling your own trigger

_ _ _ _

copyright 2014

_ _ _ _

My eBooks of poetry and romance are available at Etsy – please visit my page:



Romance / “B is for Browne”

record albums (2)

B is for Browne



How will I know if we’re through, she asked half kidding, even though they’d only been together since the hot summer and now it was the crisp fall.


He explained that being a fan of what he calls ‘suicide music’ that any dark period in his life, and that includes breakups, would involve Jackson Browne’s “Late for the Sky” album, and this seed was forgotten as quickly as it was planted and they went about the business of falling in love.


A vibrant and explosive autumn, both in foliage and flesh, was filled with farm fairs and hayrides. Intimate dinners and intimacy in general, slowly fused into a bleak winter filled with detachment and avoidance as their first Christmas Eve led to their last Valentine’s Day and consecutive nights together gave way to multiple days apart. The more she asked the less he responded and the one sided rift grew as she clung onto everything and he evaporated into nothing.


Although she, like everyone else, had been through all of this before – both on the giving and receiving ends – this one was harder because it was now and it was him. She knew that all they had intertwined was now unraveling and there was nothing to do but get caught up in the funnel cloud of despair.


Last year’s Autumn smells of pumpkins and burning leaves were replaced by today’s frost in the air and the chill of the mood and one day when he was out, somewhere other than where he said he’d be, she went to his album collection – alphabetically aligned by artist’s last name – and saw the gap in the B’s.

copyright 2013

My eBooks of poetry and romance are available at Etsy – please visit my page:





Poetry / “Context”




I might tell you how much I enjoy being with you

as if you couldn’t tell

(I am that transparent)

but it would be without true meaning


I should let you know how each of your kisses

paralyze me for a beautiful brief instant

(which is why I have to pull away and reset)

but it would not really matter


I could describe the pain in my chest

when we are apart

(that is sometimes accompanied by tears)

but what would be the point


I ought to share the calm that I feel

when we are together

(in church they say ‘peace that surpasses all understanding’)

but the words would be hollow


I could say all of these things

to you either out loud or in a whisper

(which would you prefer)

but they cannot land successfully

without first framing them

(with I love you)

My eBooks of poetry and romance are available at Etsy – please visit my page:


Love story / “Blessed”

tappan zee



I’d really like to start going to church, she said out of nowhere. He merged the old Monte Carlo onto the parkway on a gray day that was too fucking cold for March. It’s supposed to be the third day of spring, he thought, and in protest he hadn’t brought a coat.


What makes you say that, he said, because he knew that she had a problem with people who hid behind Jesus. As her daddy, and the man who dragged her to Sunday school in her pigtails and plaid skirts and to her mother’s funeral in her new black dress, he knew her better than anyone, and was pretty sure that she didn’t want to hide, but rather wanted to begin using the Messiah as a shield.


Because the world is a shitty place, and most people are evil, and I don’t want to get caught up in all of it. He agreed with her, except he said that he would have to change the word ‘most’ to ‘some’ – although ten years ago he would have underlined and italicized it.


He was now on a personal mission to help her not go down the same path he’d taken, because it was for shit to say the least. No one should have to go through that, and if he could take that bullet for her, the way that Christ took the nails for humanity, then he was willing to make that deal.


Guard rails and yellow caution signs showing deer silhouettes with graffiti penises flew past the New England spring and she said that when she is in the church listening to the pastor she is more at peace than at any other time. He then grinned and quoted their refrigerator magnet that read peace is not a place without chaos, but rather a place where you can be surrounded by chaos and still be calm in your heart.


For a few seconds she watched trees attempting to bud on along the side of the road then turned and with a slight smile and hint of a tear said, fuck you – and your lame quotes.


But he couldn’t help it. He got the habit from his dead grandfather. And then he hit her with the kingdom of heaven is not a place but a state of mind, so she smacked him on the leg and he pretended to veer off the road. They had to be quiet for a while and let it all soak in because, as they – and he – say, silence is golden.


Approaching the Tappan Zee Bridge he thought if he drove really fast and used bridge as a ramp they would be in orbit in no time, and wouldn’t that be better than here, and even though for a moment he thought it really might happen it didn’t and they were passed by a minivan with a mom and some kids and a license place that said ‘im-blesd’.

copyright 2012 Steven Harz

Poetry / “Songs you can’t dance to”

Songs you cant dance to_cover

Songs you can’t dance to


The cloud that covers me when

I trace the curve of your back


The blindness that overcomes me

when I see the back of your knee


The hangover I fight through

on the morning after we touch


The momentary blackout you cause

as you lean in eyes closed for a kiss


The dense fog that surrounds

when you show me your love


The deafening beat of my heart

as it is pressed onto yours


The numbing buzz of my skin

underneath your fingertips


The frantic swim to the surface

so I don’t drown in my emotion

and in our twisted tangled sheets


As I wait for you to come back

from sleep and your dreams

these all invade my head


And as with songs you can’t dance to

I am beside you listening to them

in a warm horizontal haze

copyright 2012 Steven Harz

My eBooks of poetry and romance are available at Etsy – please visit my page: