Love

None of it was real,
from where she sat, 

it was all just an illusion. 

She was still alone. 

- Dennis Birtch

Upon Waking

"It is always her"

As if in a dream.  It is her. It is always her,  but I can not remember her face.  I know her eyes,  I know her smile,  I know the tenderness of her kiss.  I know the sting of her passion as she playfully bites my lip.  I know her laugh,  I know her tears,  I know the sadness of her words. I know the joy of her desire as she softly whispers in my ear.  I know her pains,  I know her conventions,  I know the distance of her affections. I know the secrets of her heart as she gently touches my skin. I know her hopes,  I know her fears,  I know the depth of her love as she slowly moves away. I know the pull of her ... I know the ... I know the ... I can not remember her face,  but it is her. It is always her. As if in a dream. 

My heart stares (working)

And as quickly as she danced in my words she left to listen to mediocrity. 

-Dennis Birtch

Rudimentary Love

I had met an adventure once. 
I pushed it and it broke me. 
I am parts of what is left, 
loosely glued back. 
Forever cracked,
missing pieces, 
but somehow still whole. 

- Dennis Birtch

Thoughts of You.

Symmetry demands that when two imperfects collide the result is one of beauty. Yet I remain here and you remain there. Separated by a line defined as the straightest point between our two distances. And we as parallels shall never meet. 

- Dennis Birtch. 

Gifted Words

A sonnet is no more 

then words lacking prose. 

I always thought 

you were better than that.

- Dennis Birtch

Midnight Rainfall

I gave up trying to stand. 

I sit here,

the water falling

on me like rain. 

-Dennis Birtch

All I Have to Do

"All I have to do is speak."

All I have to do

is look. 

All I have to do 

is smile. 

All I have to do 

is approach 

All I have to do 

is speak. 

All I have to do
is grab her attention, 

but I don't. 

I write words. 

- Dennis Birtch

Abuse of Loneliness

"her vision always remained just under the surface"

And the wind pushed her back

against that which tried to break her. 

The feeling tore at her,

shoving her in the direction

she wished to escape from. 

Tears welled up and soon

her vision always remained

just under the surface. 

- Dennis Birtch

Rippled Reflection

"she looks down to find the familiar"

Reflection forms as she forces herself to stare at the simple mirror. The beauty is lost to her, stolen by her disillusioned vision. Tears come to her eyes again, just as they always have. She blinks in an attempt to fight them back, but they come.  Her sight is washed, it is almost impossible to see, but still a movement is caught. She watches as the glass cries with her. It mimics each newly formed streak causing the image to flow off the silver backing and gather in a pool on the floor. Just a frame remains, her emotions leaving the mirror now bare and blank, ready for endless possibilities. Still, her mind remains blinded. She gazes at nothing, she is alone and scared, so she looks down to find the familiar.  Nothing has changed. Her likeness floats upon the puddle and she sees no beauty. Emotion collects in her eyes and the barrier that was built can no longer hold back the flood.  Droplets pelt the mirage creating a ripple of distortion and change. Reflection forms as she forces herself to stare at the simple waves.  Beautiful.

- Dennis Birtch

Photo: Unknown

Painted Footsteps (Work in Progress)

"I leave steps of wondrous dreams"

Suppressed by a pedestal in which no statue resides, I regard a blank slate where once there was inspiration. I struggle for breath against the weight that only emptiness offers. With my body unmoving, my sight soon finds focus.  I watch as words begin to run down the sides as undertones of fresh paint are being drizzled against its surface.  Each slow moving drip brings with it the colors of my imagination.  No clear pattern seems to exist, every newly formed streak in itself a possibility. Refusing to remain solitary in direction, colors of thought seek out others. Defying the basic law that demands a straight descent, I could sense a whimsical contemplation nudge some to take a curvature that slides it into another. Free flowing verse after verse is formed. What once were just dripping words have become waves that smash downward breaking against what is holding me static. Gasping, breaths are caught as I struggle to be free from this bondage. I can feel the colors around me wanting to be my guide. I reach out and to my surprise I find an edge.  Barley grasping with fingers I force myself upwards. Tearing free I emerge up through the colors until I am standing in a puddle of self discovery and from it I leave steps of wondrous dreams as I turn my back and walk away.   

- Dennis Birtch

Inhibited Words

"Ink holds still and refuses to create words"

Restrained and immovable, it looms over actions. Ink holds still and refuses to create words.  An affront to the story, a halt to the exposition. Characters not brought about to act upon a stage. Desires never felt or acted upon during the growing push towards the apex of a journey. Dreams will crumple before sleep is scribed. There will be no elegance in the unrefined endeavors of a protagonist while action rises. No heartless delineation of an antagonist when the climax is in sight.  Unwritten acts of courage, honor, friendships, and love; shall never see full beauty or vigor in a plot. Stillness with a loss of conflict. Emptiness where there should exist dwindling action. A resolution never thought. No right holds a story from emergence.

- Dennis Birtch

If There Truly Was a Never Never Land

"My imagination was only curtailed by streetlights coming on..."

I came across a story about the second star to the right and now I can not stop thinking about the possibility of such a place. An island of adventure and wondrous things where I can be a kid for as long as I like. Solid friendships held together by the bonds of our imaginations. Being able to truly be free of those things that pull me down. To even fly above all the issues that as an adult weighs me to the ground. 

To be a real boy enjoying in the spontaneity of my decisions and not worry about the consequences, or the troubles that come with them. I recall a story of a wooden liar who had the same proposal and was turned into a donkey. Like he there is also a joy in learning from my mistakes.  To grow in understanding, but still retain a part of me that is held fast in the simple joys of simple things.

So I find myself drawn to stories of happy thoughts, crickets, and pirates.  To live carefree and joyful all the time would be delightful.  The possibilities of no more bills and the want of nothing is a much better story line then monthly payments to overcharged cards and large amounts of income used to pay for insurance I can not afford to use.  To draw away from all the troubles that make my adult self look towards the ground and kick at the dust. 

Still I believe that the directions are a bit muffled.  I remember a place such as mentioned, but I never had to go past a star.  It was at the corner of 12 Ave and 157 Street in Queens.  The method of travel was nothing more then an old refrigerator box placed in the front yard.  That box could become anything I wished it to be, but mostly it was childhood.  It represented a carefree way of thinking.  It represented games like "Mother May I, Freeze Tag, Red Light Green Light", and the ever so popular "Hide and Seek."  It represented youth in the form of summer vacation, ice cream trucks, old scary houses, and playing games in the rain. A youth that sometimes I feel was lost, existed in such a box, on such a street, during such time. My imagination was only curtailed by streetlights coming on and I had to run inside before the shouts of my mother made it to ears.  Soon my imagination would be put to rest and my dreams would take over.  I like to think it was all in preparation for the next days adventures, as long as the cardboard box was still there. 

Now many years later I crave such places and I have none. My thoughts are being stifled by a desk. It seems to shove my imagination to the back of my mind as more pressing issues come forward. I want to run and grab the couch cushions and a blanket to build a fort or an island, maybe even the inside of a whale. I don’t, maybe I am scared. Instead I will try to live on these pages and use my words to build up walls around me. Protected I will use story to attack those things that wish me to forget what I was. I must do it this way because I am pretty sure that I would probably be arrested if I jump around wearing green tights yelling "Get Some Fairy Dust and Think Happy Thoughts."

-Dennis Birtch

Musings of a Lamp Post

"It's time to watch flowers growing."

Night lures downward. Minds swim as much as hearts, and despondency is found for things that never were. Feelings form from a musing drowned, left grasping for what can not be perceived. Light follows a seraphic journey to bathe in Stygian sleep. Movements echoing life are but silhouettes of lasciviousness. Shadows flit and quiver with emotions in the dwindling luminescence of comprehension. Alone, swathed in a mantle of pitch; a fleeting blink of light and then a steady shimmer of assurance emerge. It's time to watch flowers growing. 

Hello, Lamp Post.

- Dennis Birtch

Enharmonic Interval of Beauty

"I am the conductor and she
 a symphony."

It is a prelude to a serenade, I trace her delicate curves as she lays. A delectable cavatina touch that creates notes as if they were lifted from an orchestra. Soft overtures reverberate as I write a melody with my fingertips. Each cleft begins a tune to gently preform. I fashion a silent composition, moving vibrato along lines of harmony. An absence of a crescendo, a misuse of a sonata. It is a rubato in simplest form.

I am the conductor and she a symphony. 

- Dennis Birtch

Coffee Shop

"They refuse to answer, buildings only speak to each other."

Everything in the coffee shop matches. Shirts match shoes, shoes match belts, and coffees match people. Hazelnut mocha latte with skim milk for the designer purse and expensive shoes. Chi tea for the loafers and hemp necklace. Black no sugar for the no-nonsense suits. Cream and sugar for the vintage t-shirt and cargo shorts. None of this supplies inspiration. Muffled commotion comes in from the streets. Noise travels on the wind leaving behind a haze to remind the inhabitants of a city’s heat. The coffee shop can not afford to let the air-conditioning run, but yet everyone sits and sips. Outside the buildings seem to shiver as if they were to step into a pool.  Convinced they have feelings, an overwhelming urge builds up. A wanting to shout out that they need to jump in all at once, get it over with quick. They refuse to answer, buildings only speak to each other. A stark language that is heard when wind passes down a city’s alleys and seen when sunlight glints off glass and steel. Spoken from a facade as they hold in the black coffee drinkers with their mumblings of numbers and sales. A constant jabber that would bring insanity if the structures could not discuss the sites below. Unknown to black suits that have shaded the windows with their accounts. The do not see a designer purse over a shoulder or red bottom heels moving forward. Not a glimpse as each step socializes perfume in the streets. Fragrance is lost to the steel, just as it is lost to the no-nonsense suits, and as it is lost to the designer dress, whose window is shaded by tweets.  So the latte sleeps in its cup, remaining untouched as a slight hazelnut aroma tries to escape through the lid only to be forced back by the complexity of a symphony. A musical construct conducted upon the senses. Musical waves that are pondered by hemp, truly disregarded by loafers.  Lost to all, but a vintage T and a regular cup of coffee.

- Dennis Birtch

Unheralded Muse

"I dance with words across parchment"

At a Bar in South Philadelphia I had a muse for a day, and as perfunctory as she appeared she was gone. She brought with her an idea, a re-emergence of word, an end to a sonnet, and a start to a narrative. As her whisper haunts, I dance with words across parchment. Each shifting foot leaving a pattern of soft curvatures and subtle delicacies. My lines manifest a delineation of her script.  With each statement comes a punctuality, and then a denouement.  The ink dries upon the paper as the masquerade comes to a close. She has absconded with my mask and placed before me a reflection. I stare at the interloper. I put a hand to my face and so does he. Realization has struck and I ruminate on his past and find it abhorrent. I reach for my guise, it is gone. Stolen by my muse only to be replaced by a manuscript of inflections with no lines to dance upon.

-Dennis Birtch