In My Own Words – Page 33 – The Poems of David Garlick

As Spring’s soft fingers

caress my furrowed face.

My thoughts warm to birds and bees,

forgetting snow and ice.

Soon seeds will stir,

within my soil,

bulb spears will greenly show.

Then I will bask in mellow winds

and smiling watch them grow.

David Garlick, Victoria, May, 1991

To ski ‘s, like flying down a hill,

white snow, the clouds beneath your feet.

The skis are wings, that guide your flight,

pulled down the hill by gravity.

Control, instead of headlong dash

is how we learn to stretch these wings.

Then swooping as the eagle does,

we swing and push to make a turn.

The joy of flight, for earthly things,

is felt when all our sense know,

that we have time to let our minds

fly free above our leaden feet.

A shout, unbidden, leaves my mouth,

that steams with breath on frosty air,

to ring against the rocky face,

of mountains holding up the sky.

Oh shout, that fades like melting flakes.

Bear me as well upon the wind.

That I may truly taste the joy,

unfettered by my lack of skill.

Do not complain, the echo calls.

You have at least the heart to know,

that though your feet are bound to earth,

your mind may soar, as eagles rise.

David Garlick, Whistler, 1988

There is a dunny that I know

and it could have a wondrous view,

with star shapes cut into it’s door

or a tiny window pane or two.

Instead in darkness, all alone,

I sit in lordly splendor.

To rue the day they did away

with the friendly “double ender”.

Oh muse, who’s words flow from my pen.

It gives me pause to wonder.

Is it a plot to seal me in

and thus to steal my thunder.

David Garlick, Kangaroo Island, Australia, February, 1992

He stood on a rocky point, against a background of trees.

His boat quietly reflecting its image on the still water,

gray green in the early evening light.

Mountains rose steeply from the silent shore,

the sea, a thousand feet deep, waited.

He sailed single-handed and loved this place.

Quiet flooded over him, as waves on a beach.

Tomorrow would bring friends, tonight was his.

Peace entered his soul.

His illness had hewn deep lines on his face.

Perhaps this was his last cruise.

He would remember each moment with love,

with yearning for all the unspoken longings

that his special spot etched on his memory.

Tears of joy and sadness, moments of kindness

and the constant pull that brought him here,

The Blue Heron sighed by on the wing to settle

In the shallows where the minnows danced.

A family of racoons scuttled along the shore

pausing, only, to turn rocks for small crabs.

Otters rolled the water in play, tails flashing.

An Osprey sat motionless on an old snag,

sharp eyes ever watchful; beware you fish!

The moon appeared, as if by magic,

a silver sliver in the deepening dusk.

The Blue Heron waited patiently.

The man, like the heron, silent and still.

Next day friends came. They laughed and joked.

Good food was cooked and enjoyed.

Fresh clam chowder and oysters from the rocks.

Walks along the shore, views sprang into eyes.

Talk stopped, breathing slowed, hearts sang

with this bountiful harvest of quiet joy.

Time passed too quickly.

The other world’s siren call insisted.

A rocky point and the bay were deserted.

Next year the friends returned, alone.

The man had died; they came,

a pilgrimage for him, to this place he loved so well.

They were sad, no laughter echoed across the bay.

A glass of wine, a quiet tear, poignant memories.

Then a feathery sound filled their ears.

Great wing strokes beat upon the air.

Out of nowhere a Blue Heron settled,

to cling precariously, on the stern rail.

It made no noise but it was not afraid.

It just watched them, stayed in the evening quiet,

then flew silently away, to stand in the water

at the end of the rocky point.

David Garlick, Sidney, September, 2004