In My Own Words – Page 104 – The Poems of David Garlick

Petal soft the feel of youthful skin,

warm, pliant, sensuous to the mind,

thrill of human purrs, in reply.

Exchange of subtle moves and lips

that meet as if by magic, in their welcoming.

The years turn round the warming sun.

The magic is still there but so is gravity.

Eyes tell lies to finger dreams

but lips are still as soft as velvet memories.

More setting suns, more loving thoughts.

Hair that blooms in white, an opened bud.

Wrinkles, the hiding place of happy mirth.

A word of love as welcome now as ever was

and gentle acts that fill the loving years.

David Garlick, Puerto Vallarta, December 1999
(A sonnet written for Liz’s 63rd birthday.)

Our mortality is

just a moment of sorrow

in the vastness of tomorrow.

The sorrow is mitigated,

not by where we have been,

nor by what we have done,

or how much we have

accumulated and spent.

But rather, by how much

we have loved and been loved.

How much we have smiled.

How much we have laughed

and how much we

have embraced our fellow men.

David Garlick, Sidney, November 2003

I’ll miss my friend, a gentle man.

A Hard Rock miner, tall and strong.

The North shone in his piercing eyes

and laughter played around his lips.

But now he’s gone, he was not young

and soon we all must follow him.

Still we could wish that he had stayed

a while longer in our midst.

For there were times to talk about.

And tales of claims upon the Shield,

where men could search to find that place,

that distant grail, the Mother Lode.

His friendship, like a vein of gold,

deep in his soul, a tiny thread.

That gathered those who recognized

the wealth stored in this massive man.

Good bye old friend, hard hand, torn nail.

Good bye we’ll miss your strength and nerve.

Good bye to times that fade to dust,

in mines where silence reigns alone.

The Northern Lights will always shine,

where in a dome the sky is deep.

And we will see you in the glow

that brightens up a Winters night.

David Garlick, Victoria, September 1991

Mud flew from cleated boots

kicked against a granite rock.

Gravel chattered underfoot.

A wrought iron latch

clacked a welcome.

Pushed open,

the weathered door vented mist,

shouting into cold nostrils,

of damp flag stones and panting dogs.

The moist pub fug reached out,

to warm chills; singing of beer and meat pies.

Thirsty throats and empty stomachs

growled a terse response.

Claws clicked, benches groaned,

muscles gave thanks mutely.

Blued, brown eyes watched every movement.

A long tongue rolls in a red yawn.

Waiting for the shared pie.

David Garlick, Nantwich, UK, June 1999