Poem By A. L. Breitling

Garden is not garden
or the farthest hedge,
or the tea-rose trellis
where the glass snake rests his head
beneath leaf-shadow.
Garden is not garden
or the ancient loam,
or the earthworm
making its way under the irises.

Garden is the eye which overlooks the inflorescence
and finds its lesson in the subtle pitcher plant.
Sun may or may not come
to burn away the midnight mist;
Bee may or may not pollinate narcissus.
Garden is the business of the thunderstorm
and the consummated mating of the mantis.
It is the asp that strikes from beneath the stone;
It is the wasp which builds its home beside the swallows nest.

Beauty is the white flower of the Venus’ trap,
the cloisonné wings on the monarch’s back,
the bells and berries of the valley lily,
the russet cap of the Amanita.
Garden is the eye that is apothecary
and blends creation from the beautiful and deadly.
Garden is the eye which strays
then dwells upon three crumbling steps,
that whisper in their lonesomeness
of some forgotten edifice.
Eye searches for what has not been asked,
but is answered:

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Beautiful! Simply beautiful! U.

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Other poems of BREITLING


What have you got there?
A spirograph on a globe and those lines
that aren’t quite so unintended or random
but you can’t see them in the mechanism,


With my heart in my hand,


Proteus the shape shifter,
in every way potential,
arose: broad shoulders, rounded breast,
divided between ocean and miasmal mist –

To Beauty

Drink to me only with thine eyes
and leave the beer for yours truly.
I know it’s hard not to despise
this poetic ha and quite unruly


As she is, she is kept
under some cold illicit rock
where feminine and tension
coil together, compressing