A Quartet



this poem is a finder of voices,
its spectral form lingers
in the midst of human turmoil
looking for an empathic match
and, when found, it bridges
the divide between them
and changes


this poem is a tree
waiting for the birds
to return and fill it
with their songs.


For a moment
this poem
made sense.

that moment
was over


This is poem is dead.
Killed in its mother’s womb.
It’s brain matter extruded,
just for a pack of cigarettes
in a chilling war game.
This poem wanted to play games too,
games that little children play.

• billet-doux • – Assorted verses


my innermost desires
sensuous syllables
in blushed hues of red
enveloped in predawn love
sealed with kisses
silly me hopes
they will reach you 


and every moment
before a moment
you are there
so far away
and yet so close
and in your
this being and not being
my heart awaits its blossoming


I crossed the bridge of stars

and found my dawn

your dusk



like crushed roses

on white satin sheet


the morning after

you sure have a way with your mouth