In My Own Words – Page 28 – The Poems of David Garlick

The noon sun

shone from a cloudless sky,

making brilliant points of light,

diamonds on the ruffled waters.

Perhaps the seeds that stars grow from

to fill the nights sky, when the sun sleeps

and the moon hides her face.

Later the sun

melted and ran like butter on the sea.

Golden splotches stretched

by the inky waves.

Then it was no more and

sank from sight beneath the tranquil waters,

gray in the evening light.

Along the shore,

mist, a billowing duvet

luring the unwary to sleep

among the rocks and shoals,

where the tide sucks and

tiny creatures make their homes.

Living small important lives

in the suburbs of the ocean.

The moon rose,

a silver shaft on the now still sea.

A silent sword of light

impaling the boat on it’s blade.

No wind, no human sounds,

only the breathing of the night

and the eerie calls of birds,

like lost souls wandering

between Earth and Heaven.

Peace and the promise of another day

to enjoy the beauty of this world.

Mind uncluttered by those things

which seemed all important

so short a time ago.

David Garlick, Victoria, May, 1992

We promised.

“We will remember you!”

How quickly we forget.

Their cries of anguish echo through time,

cursing wars glorified by books, statues and poems.

Cries that fall on deaf ears.

Their deaths made meaningless,

by greed, foolishness and revenge.

Tell us, you who would wage war.

Tell us, what fighting solves?

Tell us what is gained by the death of men?

Tell us what is gained by killing women and children?

Can we repair them with chewing gum?

Bombs can be guided to hit targets

they also hit the innocent.

The modern “war phrase” for,

injuring, flaying, dismembering,

disemboweling, blinding, deafening

beheading, shattering, crushing,

disfiguring, maiming and killing,

is, collateral damage.

How convenient, how hypocritical!

That phrase is penned in the blood

of fountains, spraying gore from

slashed throats and severed arteries!

Have we learnt so little in all this time?

Have not enough gouts of blood and

searing tears been shed, for so little?

Have we no understanding?

Have we no humanity?

Have we no shame?

David Garlick, Victoria, February, 2003

Softly, softly, softly and now we are old!

Where did all those years go?

They were filled with seconds,

minutes, days, weeks and months.

Each, at the time, so important

but now lost in forgetfulness.

Strange how the mind censures the bad,

leaving only the bright and positive.

Those shadows are still there but

they are just shadows, blinded by light,

left only, to give meaning to joy.

How fortunate to have health and love.

In later years, the joy of words surface.

They tumble from a mind to mark a page,

bring life and form to thoughts and ideas.

These thoughts, the distillation of our

unconscious being, will not be denied.

Perhaps they will comfort others.

So, softly, softly, kind time has smoothed hurts,

healed wounds, quenched yearnings,

fulfilled love and friendships, given meaning

to all the events that make a life, that may be,

grand or ordinary, applauded or ignored,

and from this we realize that, love is all.

David Garlick, Sidney, May, 2003

There are never any covers in the cupboard for those plastic bowls,

one keeps the left overs in, to eat another time.

I’m told that they are in there but however hard I look for them,

they always seem to hide from me or change their plastic size.

Perhaps there is a an island fair, way out in the Pacific blue,

where all those lost and mislaid things go at vacation time.

And there, in heaps upon the shore in deck chairs or the burning sand,

they lie in wait to hear that we are searching for them here.

Glad they are, that though mundane, our lives are not complete at all

without their quiet services; though we seldom say Thank you, to

things that serve us every day like socks and shoes or plastic lids,

trowels, watches, keys and rings that we search for all the time.

So I promise not to scream, when things, are not where they should be.

For after all, they, just like me, sometimes need a holiday.

Instead I’ll see them in my mind; that blessed thing I cannot lose

because it’s firmly stuck to me in a most possessive way.

I’ll think of them upon the strand enjoying suds or warming sun.

And hope that they may send a card; showing them etcetera,

linked in endless dance between the sand dunes and the sea.

There on the back, in finest prose a message to us here alone.

“So glad that you are there.“

David Garlick, Victoria, October, 1994