In My Own Words – Page 36 – The Poems of David Garlick

As I wander through my garden,

the garden of my life.

I see the shrubs I planted.

I see where weeds grow rife.

I see the fragrant flowers,

enjoying every one.

I see unfinished projects,

those things I should have done.

I know where plants have flourished.

I know where plants have died.

Could I have lived life better

if I had really tried?

David Garlick, Victoria, April, 1990

And the rain came.

Not the gentle drops

that drift to earth

in a West Coats shower.

Instead a deluge,

a single sheet, a torrent

that bounced on instant lakes

and sluicing side walks.

It overwhelmed roof gutters.

Down spouts gushed,

like fire hoses.

Streams, orange red,

gore from the hills.

Torn branches and stripped bark

damming storm drains;

spilling, flying, rolling, rushing,

engulfing all in its path

But with it all, warm rain,

warm air, wet bodies,

soaked to the skin

but not chilled to the bone.

Humid air easy to breath

clean leaves earthy smells.

Heavenly scents of

frangipani and jasmine.

The wet.

David Garlick, Cairns, February, 1992

And the crowd roared, they clapped with many hands.

They rose as one to cheer the athletes on;

as past the stands the runners, all a sweat,

continued on their muscle aching way-

to glory and exhaustion’s thin white tape.

No, not those famous names, we know so well.

No, not those athletes paid to entertain.

No, not a sponsors flag or banner flown.

Just people, happy in their joy to run

or jump or throw or just to sit and shout.

Who are these many true and happy folk?

Where did they learn the meaning of it all?

Who taught the basic wisdom “life is fun.”

The greatest prize is simply to take part?

They come from places scattered far and wide.

They come in buses, cars and airplanes.

They bring their problems and their challenges.

They bring their crutches, wheels and happy faith.

They bring their smiles and grimaces of pain.

They bring bright minds, captive to twisted limbs.

They bring a message that we need to hear.

They show the way that life’s game should be played.

David Garlick, Victoria, May, 1992

I found her, the other day.

A fragment from a time machine,

a memory, a faithful friend.

We reminisced of distant times.

The fun we had, those dances stepped.

The blare of lights, the shades of sounds,

music lost to other moods.

She was not as she used to be

but then I too had walked the miles.

She was still young, while I am old.

I do not move the way she can.

Clouds whispered of thoughts adrift,

the scenes of youth, of velvet nights,

of stars that spoke and moons that sighed,

and sand that sang to tune of wind.

Old friend, I thought, you still are lithe.

You sway in breeze, you waft, you step,

you speak softly of youth and dance,

you speak of long ago.

You speak of legs, brown from the sun,

of hair bleached clean, of shoeless feet.

of red lipped smiles, of melting eyes

of hands that sang of ears that sighed.

I found you and you smiled at me,

you did not speak, there was no need,

You being there was quite enough.

A small black dress, just hanging free!

David Garlick, Sidney, July, 2007