In My Own Words – Page 17 – The Poems of David Garlick

I have a grandpa,

a sort of a grandpa.

Not really a grandpa,

if you know what I mean.

He likes to tell stories

or read funny poems;

changing his voice,

which makes it all real.

He speaks of nice dragons

or wee frightened monsters;

sometimes creepy crawlies,

mice, slugs or fast snails.

He has ones about surgers.

What ever a “surger” is.

Ghosts, whales, mammoths,

wasps, dogs and bees.

We sit in a hammock;

that swings in the garden

and the words make pictures

in my head like TV.

It’s nice to have someone

who likes to tell stories

about all kinds of things

to children like me.

David Garlick, England, 1997

Children of the world reach out,

to touch another land.

Children of the world reach out,

to clasp an offered hand.

Close your eyes and think about,

those children arm in arm.

A chain that circles round our world,

to keep it safe from harm.

And then in many different tongues,

their voices raised in song.

The children of the world will heal

the hate and fear and wrong.

So children of the world reach out,

to touch another land.

Please children of the world reach out,

to clasp that offered hand.

David Garlick, Victoria, 1990

The phone spoke in my ear.

“Do you want to go fishing?”

Sure, I said, where are we going?

“First Lake.” The voice said.

Do you have a Fresh Water license?”

No but I’ll pick one up, on the way.

The truck bounced over ruts

and brimming pot holes.

Trees gathered around.

The clouds touched

the white mountain tops –

pressing down on us,

breathing cold gusts of wind.

At the lake, rain ringed the water.

Others packed their campers

and left; smoky exhausts.

Our boat in the water,

we fought the engine alive

then clothed in wet gear-

set off on another fishing trip.

Rods in action, lures plucking tips,

we went in search of small trout

but that day they were elusive.

Not a bite, not a nibble, not a sign.

Too early, perhaps, wrong bait

perhaps, wrong speed, who knows?

The trout ignored us. Good coffee.

My silly finger turned white, damn!

Ashore, at a deserted camp

we coaxed embers into a fire.

Warmed our hands and dried out –

soaking gloves, steam billowed.

Pitch rich Fir sputtered and spat.

Glorious warmth invaded bones.

The sun jumped down on us.

A rainbow grew from the lake.

Trees decked out in a million –

diamonds winked and flashed.

We were the richest men alive.

We had a lake, a boat, a rainbow,

a snowy mountain, a diamond tree

and no fish to clean.

Two old friends, alive and free!

David Garlick, Ladysmith, March, 2001

In the early morning, fingers of mist

crept onto the sundeck to kiss the windows.

At sea, bell buoy sang and fog horn moaned.

All else was silent as stars and

no waves spoke against the rocks.

By midday the mist had retreated –

to the islands floating in the bay.

Light made lace of trees playing hide and seek.

Sun beat down on the deck,

steam rose from damp planks.

Soon we must leave paradise.

A cargo boat will pull us away.

Our hearts will whisper but our –

eyes will be the early morning mist.

David Garlick, Ucluelet, BC, August, 2006