wishes, fennel seeds and love letters

Photo: Josh Kahen, Unsplash

Out in the wood there stands a well
with a worn bucket
secured more by habit than the
frayed, atrophied rope.
This well doesn’t always appear
on the game trails of deer,
hidden by huckleberry
and woodsorrel overgrowth.

When I stumble upon it,
I make wishes;
glinting offerings that lightly
bounce off the sides.
Pinging hollowly
in somersaulting descent,
flashing intermittent
of light.

Dowsed here in secret,
when thieves
came to steal,
stone striations line
the walls of the vortex.
I return with more wishes,
and prayer flags reveal
a promise to tend
empty pockets.

I have stood here…


Photo by: Peter Herrmann, Unsplash

Aroma of oil seeped into old wood and
incense burning its own sweet time,
rising tendrils of smoke
spin loosening spirals;
in knots that come untied.

Oxidation, patina of age,
a gift from time so lovely and scarce.
A place to marvel at prices paid,
lends to the ambiance.

Once stowed in back bedrooms,
covered in dust, destined for
moments alone.
Kept deep in storage next to
the memory of
a holiday spent back home.

Carvings of florets and scripts,
adorn a cookie jar on an old nightstand,
with a star-shaped chip
surviving the years
of tiny, outstretched hands.


In prose

Photo by: Joannes Plenio, Unsplash

In clear cerulean skies, a radiant star lusters
half a world in sunbeams;
cajoling fruit to blush from his phosphorescent kisses
and, rouses the sea to rise as thunderstorms
traveling west on the trade winds.

Late afternoon sheds diurnal linens
seeping ever so slowly with ink of dusk
as the retiring star surrenders in sunset;
a luminescent spilling across the expansive vault
in colors that praise autumn.

A streetlight glows upon his now ashen arm,
striking an elongated shadow on damp Earth
that had glittered under the steady sun. …

Photo: Ralph Mayhew on Unsplash

Clouds, shape shifting, becoming unstuck

Prose poem

Photo: Pradeep Charles, Unsplash

One fine day, the world came to fruition while waiting.
Gestation burst forth into the next happening, opening
something alive in me. I noticed the man waiting
in line wearing a heavy, shabby, corduroy jacket,
tousled strands of hair entangle in sweaty furrows
on his brow. He shuffled along dingy supermarket tiles,
speaking a distinct language of their own; one of
multi-directional scuff marks imprinted by
rubber soles who once walked here.

Souls waiting to be rung up, waiting to return home and
waiting for change. Every spring the rose bush changes,
budding in my back yard. …


Let yourself fall inward and down,
just as a light summer rain
trickles and slides down
a steamy window pane.
Flow lazy.
A glistening trail of one drop
becomes too heavy with itself,
resigned to sinuous descent
while infusing in its wake
many borrowed colors
from a lavish sky.
Natural rivulets
always changing shapes,
and pooling in darkened crevices.
Speechless, you cannot grasp
a vast ocean in your hand,
graciously wending its way
into every cherished cell.

Painting by Brigitte Bebey

A Jester’s Tale

She was not a learned sage,
for she is naught but jests,
especially for consensus
she could not care less.
Making many courts merry
saved her being so
With bells on her toes and hat,
she jingles as she falls
and always tumbles out of it,
with laughter had by all.
Oh they rarely question
if it was truth or just a play,
always softly chiming
as she walked away.
But, a whimsical mirror
to all the courtesan games,
it’s not customary for a fool
to remember all their names.
Thus, having no station
agreed to no agreements —
just a wisp completely free
to change in a moment’s hence.
Unbound by propriety,
she draws outside the lines,
does cartwheels on red carpets,
while singing ludicrous rhymes.
Reveling on the outside,
an untethered marionette,
twirling with bells on
in joyous pirouettes.

A Poem

My heart was a stone’s throw
away from all the pebbles
that accumulated together. Alabaster
and smoothed from ancient water,
washed away the rough edges
of them. I only saw snow
that seeped in and froze, swelling me
to crack open and I wondered
that I was not a stone, but a walnut.
A halfling seed germinating below
the surface of things. While cloud
beings fell to the Earth, just to
evaporate into the sky, growing pregnant
and falling to Earth again. Breaking
in their nourishment of me. Everlastingly
fragile, just like crowning seedlings;
weedy, taking up space
and reaching for the light.
Then seared shut by
the harshness of day. It…

The only thing you should know,
names are not engraved in stone.
Sharing unique reflections,
not all mine, although I do imagine
all we are, and we must split to
join together. We find great love
in the reversals, in the damp earth;
but, it was mostly in the reversals.
Why did she go into battle with
her arms bound? For she had
such strength. The kind men dream of.
Why did she wear a blind, obscuring
her vision? For she had
such beautiful eyes! Please do tell,
Doe eyes, pools of black;
glinting and skittish,
running on instinct, silently.
It was always your
tentative footsteps.
As falling velvet petals in a forest,
Deer one, we bled
what we had written.

Brigitte Bebey 02/2020

Brigitte Bebey

Avid reader, sometimes writer and visual creative, mostly just hoping to engage with your muses. 💫

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