Leaving alone, an older man,
played softly, to himself.
Was it just for practice?
Perhaps he liked the sound.
Or did he play in thanks,
a gift for his maker.
David Garlick, Vallarta
Sam
His name was Sam, a warehouse man.
Fat and ugly comes to mind.
With one tooth each side and little hair,
he chased what he could find.
He pursued the girls at every bar
but could never summarize
why his affairs were short in length.
Perhaps it was his size.
He met a damsel of the night
and madly fell for her.
Though truth to tell, I do not know
how she could stand the cur.
She took him home, a business deal,
how much he did not tell.
To sell, then keep what you have sold,
does have a quaint appeal.
In flagrant throes of love they thrashed.
The mounted mount did thrill.
When all at once she shouted out,
my pill, the pill, my pill
Too late, too late, Sam wheezed at her.
We haven’t got the time.
With rolling eyes he set his spurs,
surrendering to the sublime.
She wailed and arched and thrashed about,
with mounting thrill in time.
Still crying for the pill, my pill.
Oh what a time to whine.
When he was spent, his eyes he bent,
to gaze in love at her.
But she was still and seemed quite ill
she didn’t even stir.
When she awoke, to her he spoke.
Oh what a one night stand.
But what was that about a pill,
I just don’t understand?
She laughed, she cried and then she sighed,
you are a fat nit whit.
It wasn’t you my passions drew.
‘Twas an Epileptic fit!
David Garlick, England, 1986
A truestory, as heard in a construction camp.
The Door
I am the door.
Knock and I will answer.
Through me, may all who seek it, find shelter
and in my dwelling you will find peace.
For in my house are many rooms and everyone
will find their tongue spoken with understanding.
And all who seek truth will find it in their own way.
There are countless paths to my door,
but first a step must be taken.
The way may be rough, long and dusty.
Thirsty for the Word, is the traveler.
Raise your eyes to the huge domed sky,
give thanks for the chance to sing in praise.
I am not hard to find, only hard to follow.
But my hand is always there to help
when the way is too steep and boulders
of hate rain down on pilgrims.
Fortunate are those who hearing the word,
understand it. The word is not
complicated with doctrine and ritual.
It is written for all, not just the few.
How then so simple a concept
defeats you so easily?
Love God and all mankind.
Do only this for me.
David Garlick, Victoria, January 1996
Brave Bamboo
Beautiful, graceful, flexible Bamboo,
the strong bold stems greet our eyes.
They move with the moods of the wind.
Their simplicity calls to artists,
who stroke a calligraphy of stems and leaves
which stir and flutter in a light breeze.
They whisper and chatter to the sky –
and us, who pause to listen, softly.
But when the rising wind calls our ears,
to speak of waves at sea and arcing gulls.
We know that strong Bamboo will flex and bow
shedding the gusts with playful, carefree dance.
Other trees may flinch before a storm.
Creak to the moaning wind or groan in pain
but not Bamboo, strong, brave Bamboo!
She bends to the wind’s will and laughs.
Now the seas are high and steep.
They crash upon the shore.
Small boats cower in safe harbors.
Ships pitch, stagger, roll, hit and thump,
with ridged stem, the oceans mile stone waves.
Not so bamboo who, curtseys to the storm,
to ride the wind with grace and strength,
braving the cruelest gusts,
bowed low but never overcome.
Brave and beautiful Bamboo.
David Garlick, Sidney, September 2002
For Uki Miller