In My Own Words – Page 34 – The Poems of David Garlick

There’s a garden that

few people know of.

Set on the side of a hill.

Where sun floods all day long,

when its shining,

and flowers from terraces spill.

Come visit on Saturday pm.

Two to four is the time set aside.

I’ll have time to show you the garden

or answer you questions, inside.

David Garlick, Victoria, May, 1995

The Wording for an ad for selling our old house on Barkley Terrace.

Ring bells ring.

Call the sun to greet this happy morning.

Breezes in budding trees

echo notes; thought lost to our ears.

Thanks for your stirring sounds,

Phoenix of furnace and mold;

now reborn to greet

two thousand years of love.

People, along paths, like notes on a staff,

bob and gather in accord.

We welcome you with joy,

as thirty years of silence slips away.

Replaced by peals of sound,

that makes people smile and recall

happy memories.

David Garlick, Clevedon, North Somerset, England, June, 1997

Through a life there will be many

pleasant places and happy memories.

There will also be moments of sorrow,

moments of loss and moments of understanding.

Life is a journey from a beginning to an end.

Every journey has days of rain or sunshine.

On our journey there will be good and bad.

There will be sadness and joy, love and despair

moments of fear and wonder!

How we live through our lives is what matters.

How we treat our fellow humans is the test,

not how far up the mountain we manage to climb.

Stretch out your hand to steady a fellow climber.

Love your brother, always!

David Garlick, Sidney, August, 2008

He was a wicked charmer,

gray beard and looks aloof.

His mouth seemed to be smiling

as he pawed with cloven hoof.

Who knows what artful visions

were conjured in his mind.

Behind the piercing scrutiny

he leveled at mankind.

He fed on living salad;

herb garden at his ken

and quietly ruminated

on the qualities of men.

Some frightened by his story.

Some feared to show their back.

Some kindly but so cautious;

afraid of horned attack.

One ear was almost missing

but verve shone on his face,

as with artistic passion

he judged the human race.

I said. “Your name sir?” softly

but he gave me no reply.

Instead he slowly turned his head

to stare me in the eye.

The quiet woman, near me

said. “Vincent is his name,

perhaps reincarnated

from a man of painting fame.

With baleful look he withered her.

She quailed before she spoke.

Then stooped to whisper in my ear

“He’s named Vincent Van Goat.”

David Garlick, Victoria, October, 1994