The Secret Garden

There was a garden in his head, not
a magazine garden, nor one painted
by Monet desirous of lilies

The garden was bug full and worm
wood holy, and its mist rose with
tactile antics and startled airs

It was a garden that Wilde might
have discarded from an off poem,
or Byron might have thought about

but forgotten…

So let us thank children for the kind
of garden it turned out to be, messy
with pails and forgotten halos…

The hobos for planting its lettuce and
bean stalks – and for saving up to bury
so many secret pennies…

But not the man who once wandered
there, he’s busy fetching canaries and
is not safe, until his mind trumpets

warnings to wearies…


3 responses to “The Secret Garden

  1. Bryan Borland

    Fantastic. The stuff about Wilde and Byron, the image of the hobos tending the garden, the phrase “mind trumpets” – great stuff and a perfect pairing with my morning coffee. Hope you are doing well, Poetman.

  2. Bryan –

    My favorite line is – “…and its mist rose with
    tactile antics and startled airs.”

    I am Well, Thanks for asking.


  3. I like this poem much. Will take some time out to read the rest soon.
    Those I’ve read so far are great.

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