In My Own Words – Page 25 – The Poems of David Garlick

Kedah has gone away.

He has been away before

but then he resonated.

Now there is no whisper,

no distant feel from him.

He is far, far away.

His scent is still here

but his place is cold.

Not as before, when we

knew he would return.

Now we only feel sad.

Our Maureen is sad too.

She has wept, she has wept.

When she is sad she weeps.

When she weeps we feel pain.

We feel a deep loss and

we know that Kedah is gone.

We will miss him, far away.

He was so gentle and kind.

He was our friend, so still.

We feel no warm thoughts.

We feel empty.

He is far, far away, far away

He is far away!

He will not come home.

It is his time,

Like Rosie, it is his time.

We all have a time

but this time we know empty.

He has gone,

Dear Kedah is gone, far away.

David Garlick, Sidney, January, 2008

KEDAH, a special being.

Buddhists believe that we are all; whether louse, cockroach, dog or human, on a journey through life to improve our level of Being in our own existence through time.

If this benign belief has any voracity then we should feel comfort in the knowledge that, though it causes us pain, the speed with which dogs move on, though far greater than ours, is perhaps a reward. I will not dwell on the relative merits of lice or men but of dogs there can be little doubt that many of them deserve to move on quickly, to better things. In this regard, their relatively short time with us, may be an indication of the difficulty of their lives and the extraordinary ability they demonstrate in navigating this vale of tears.

When we consider the likes of Kedah, a dog amongst billions, we can see and feel his affection and the calming influence of his presence. He is so like what we might hope to become but may never attain. Like a beacon or navigation mark he will help to guide us to a safe place, if only to allow us time to gather ourselves for the next part of our journey.

Of course we will sorely miss him, when he must go but we will wave farewell to a good friend and companion, knowing that what ever his destination he will have done his best to live his life here with loving calm and affection.

Black is not dark in a coalmine.

Black smells of graft and brass.

A job for hard, tough men;

coal dust under finger nails.

In the black these men sing

and voices fill the shadows.

We are a family, we miners.

This mine is our life blood.

Wife and children up top;

where they belong.

We are here for them.

They are our spur our reason.

After a shift, a shower, a smile.

Hot food and warm love waits.

Later the pub, beer and darts,

foot ball, on’t telly, laughter.

The mine waits but is not lonely.

Tomorrow the men will return.

They will always come back

to their mistress, the coal mine.

Machines yell a torrent of sound,

the clank of wheel on rail,

the chunter of chain and tooth,

the sounds of the cage.

Light springs from headlamps

and lanterns but loses its self

in the twists of galleries.

Light only shines in straight lines.

Men’s voices run like rivers

to go where they must go.

Voices push back the dark.

The fear is of silence.

Men work here.

Slashing at the coalface.

Men live and die here,

men, jobs, wages, families.

Men fought for these jobs.

Picket lines, a fence of people;

more money, better conditions,

pride, sometimes stupidity.

Economics stole these jobs.

Clean people calculated.

Deep ledgers bled.

Deep mines suffocated.

Yes it is dark in a coalmine,

when the mine music stops.

Shadows die and men have gone.

Only water speaks in the black

The jobs blown in a blast of hate,

small grimy homes left to molder.

Front door steps no longer shine –

wet after soap and scrubbing brush.

Bewildered small people bereft,

families broken by poverty.

Life, a shaft shadow, escaped

to wither in the cruel world of light.

David Garlick, Sidney, December, 2000

The world of my dreams

is a wondrous place,

a wondrous place to be.

I can dream of

Lions and Tigers and such

or of course, I can dream about me.

I dream I can fly,

high up in the sky.

I dream I can breathe

in the sea.

I dream I can run

or ski like the wind,

or sleep on the branch of a tree.

I dream I can feast

on cookies and cake,

or eat chips and gravy for tea.

Perhaps bangers and mash,

or if we’ve enough cash,

have a meal out where

the food is Chinese.

Some times I awake,

in my warm bed I quake,

from the monster that

visits at night.

Then I run to my mum

where I’ll come to no harm,

for she’ll sooth my moment of fright.

Then I dream of my home,

all cozy and warm.

I dream of my friend,

George the dog.

Or I’ll dream of my mum,

Who always will come,

to give me a kiss or a hug.

The world of my dreams

is a wondrous world,

a wondrous place to be.

But the place I like best

is safe home in my nest

Just Mum, Dad, Georgie and me.

David Garlick, Victoria, December, 1990

The snow has almost gone.

It lies in green edged clouds

on crushed lawns and in wet ditches.

Soon, like sugar in coffee, it will melt

leaving only a kind memory

and a loving last lick.

I love the snow, it tickles me

as it floats to earth; like feathers,

drifting, weaving, tumbling, falling,

stopping only to melt happily –

on my warm black nose, delicious.

I love walks but in the snow

they are special adventures of fun

and slippery places. I like to roll

to make dog angels or kick back

making long marks and snow storms.

I love the snow!

I love the cool air on my face

and the kiss of snowflakes

on my eyelashes.

Best of all I love to open my mouth,

stick out my tongue to gouge a furrow

in the friendly, playful snow,

I love that last long lick!

David Garlick, Sidney, December, 2006