In My Own Words – Page 101 – The Poems of David Garlick

Dark and dank, the dead leaves lie,

a blanket on the frosted ground.

While dormant bulbs, in slumber rest,

to wait the coming of the spring

This dank but golden patch work quilt,

a bounty from the noble trees,

that shade the grass in summer time,

now returns to nurture it.

For though we mourn the passing warmth,

the summer and the fragrant flowers.

The seasons spark our very lives

and make each time a joyous thing.

So in the gloomy days of Fall

when mist and rain obscure the view.

Take comfort in the happy thought.

That soon it will be spring once more.

David. Garlick, Victoria, November 1986

In my ICU cocoon I rest alone

in solitary peace and quiet.

I think of little but the fact

that many things are left unsaid;

reminded that a silent tongue

can hurt a loved one just as much

as saying something hurtful can.

The tubes that festoon,

lights that blink and

monitors with jumping lines

tell stories to the clever folk

who monitor our failing pumps.

And we had better understand

that life is not a little game.

There is no practice run.

Next door in cocoon number four

suddenly activity.

A roll of wheels,

the squeak of feet,

the slither of a sliding door.

Fast words,

and orders indistinct.

Bed in moving scrapes the wall.

The sounds of people working hard,

I am not sure what’s going on.

I only sense the tragedy,

the drama in a tottering life.

Not me, I know that I’m OK.

My body ridged, fingers clenched,

I am not in the next cocoon

except that It just could be me.

A nurse takes time to visit me.

“ I’m sorry for the noise and fuss.

He was so sick, if not that old

and though we tried our very best

It was his time to go.”

A patted pillow,

straightened sheet,

and I am left alone to rest.

David Garlick, Victoria, 1996

I’ve found a place where I’m at peace,

a place with many friends.

With golden sand, seas that chant

and palms that clap their hands.

The wind blows gently, in my hair

and I can be, just me,

as flowers bright sing songs of love,

“of love?” you say, to me.

Yes of love, my kind of love,

a sweet and burning pain.

For love is love, for every one

though different as the rain.

I think of him a beautiful,

and though you say I’m Gay.

I love him; he loves me too.

What more is there to say?

So leave us love the sea and sun.

Love in a way that’s real.

For who may say a love is wrong.

When that is how we feel.

David Garlick, Puerto Vallarta, March 1998

Jezebel is a poem of unbridled sensuality, so please cover your shell like ears if you are easily embarrassed. For the more experienced, I suggest that you turn on the TV set in your head and listen carefully to every suggestive syllable. Please be advised that the author will not be surprised if you feel the need to softly express your feelings and further, at the end of this reading, expects no rowdy applause, unless you truthfully enjoyed this shameless poem. David

She was so very beautiful

and moved so sensuously.

She knew the power of her charms,

using them selfishly.

She came into my bed one night.

To lay her head upon my chest

and with her throaty voice caressed

my mind and ears, with sounds of love.

Her warm and fragrant torso moved

to form herself in flowing line,

that followed every contour of,

my body lying aching, there.

Oh heartless Jezebel, I thought,

to take advantage of this man,

who helpless in his love for you,

is held in torment by your plan.

As folds of velvet slumber fled,

before the onslaught of her wiles.

My dreams of peace evaporate,

to leave me staring in the night.

Then closer still, her warm form moved,

to smother me in silky hair,

‘till tickled by her white whiskers,

I sneezed and threw her to the floor.

David Garlick, Victoria, 1988