Ria

My weekend sings, des chit chat, une espresso, when no one rings me, the silent majority, dejeuner avec lavorro, have no time to sing, not for them the sea, Martini, Amaretto, my coastline is free, of consumptive vulgarity, no lunchtime cornetto, needs vitiate me, let them scream, pasta, wine, siesta i'm my best Sunday dream, say stupid things, at evening's excess stroll at my beach, a lonely success.

Rona

She wakes in golden belief, the sound of a Holsum van, and wonders about a novena, each dance is a feast, moves her like no one can, every tune lets them see her, like the wood colour season, the bars are full of men, she drinks within reason, they rise to greet her, she graces them with elan, each sea green evening, but barefoot pays the heating, its better than having plans, a cabin makes it easier, if communion is a keeper, between rich and poor man, justice brings no lesion, she won’t refuse women.

Qudira

You laugh like Camus, the desert doesn't frighten you, your flowers hang in ruin, we go to meet the few, my partner faintly rues, writers who exude, an almond like bloom, on a weary afternoon, against a sea looking blue, nothing here to scare you, just the yellow truth, poetry of her tunes, she 'phones someone new, 'pillow talk' she soothes, ‘we're at the Belle D'Omjou,' come and see the view, powdered to make you swoon, her fragrance like glue, saturates the room.

Quare

Your failed blown kisses, reach a maritime shingle, crying across the Ithmus, down the Atlantic, they dance and tingle, turn the blue vista, to wriggle from crisis, waves tight mingle, sea birds dash the sunlight, where you stand faceless, for the terms fingled, by a wind lashed gate, high on resistance, you hear my canticle, a quotation of pieces, sometimes you miss, the remain to be single, do you hold consistence, instead of a ring ?

Queenie

She pinned a shamrock on us, as if literature was our freedom, the ones from the Terminus, like a school bound mistress, puffed out her cheeks, she listened to our issues, on Atlantic avenue's blues, where the winds freeze you, she made us feel useful, Brooklyn’s steamy closeness, her retirement at St Stephen's, jellies, anniversaries, toasts, she died at the Angelus, listening to the Swingle singers, joy her last impetus, we stood around coming close, Fulton street market, oh Jesus, our dollars and fancy clothes, the bridge a nodding reason.

Quita

Alone at the bus station, you ask for a smoke, are you a patient, in the green coat waiting, who goes for broke, the prodigal girl crazy, who’ll sweep elation, like Gypseys fix roads, in desire to escape, wooden benches forsaken, the way you joke, drunk on the pavement, a red letter fragrance, lost in lipstick, a ghost, your bottle taken, dark glasses no relation, telephone your hosts, your heart's not to blame, while pennies fall.

Quedesha

Your mother said, a drop of blood, does not bring death, not in your stealth, nor for your good, it merely slakes the bed, for sun, moon, the earth, it will bring no ruin, closer to your tread, for the ones who've left, persuade this one to soothe, things that fit together, if that makes sense, yellow sand, tidal flood, a late love at its crest, your house unending, patched and creaked by wood, mend your fences, before the dust.