The Poems of David Garlick
What stroke of pen or smear of paint can match the greatness of a simple flower? What knowledge of this world, one day one night? can match a cloud or wave upon an ocean? What emotion greater than the sacrifice of love or more vile than the hates which emanate from men? With all […]
Old as a bottle of vintage wine, young as the taste on your tongue. Old as the river that swoops to the sea, young as the brook in the hills. Old as the mountains that touch the sky, young as their dusting of snow. Old as the gem won from the ground, […]
Once a month, never more and more often less. He took a shower in his Stanfield’s undress. It was woolly, long sleeved, had a flap at the back. Red as a rose, course as a sack. He showered in song, as well as in water. His voice was off key, the words too, sort‘a. […]
They must be Gods, I thought. How else did they learn so well, while I could not remember anything? They must be gods, I thought. How else could they write, write, write in halls, where floors squeaked and sun beams danced the motes of dust? The scratch of pens on paper. They […]