In My Own Words – Page 39 – The Poems of David Garlick

Near our home there is a magic lake.

Not a big lake but a very pretty one.

Two lakes really but once it was one, I think.

More like large ponds set among aspen trees,

willow, popular, birch, evergreens and bushes

of blackberry, salmon berry, Huckleberry

and red current, offering a snack or a bucket full

of jam, once some work has been done, by Nana.

It is a good place to take grand children.

Or should that be, a grand place to take good children

to introduce them to Mother Nature.

Magic, why?

Well it is the sort of lake where happy

stories unfold and birds gather to

build their nests and rear their young.

Owls glide among the trees and

over the paths that ring the lakes.

If you are lucky you may catch a glimpse

of one, having a wash or taking a drink,

the secret keeper of reflections.

We live with magic all around us, every day.

Not the wiz bang type but the quiet moments

when something wonderful happens without

us pressing a button or flicking a switch.

The kind that makes your heart go bumpity bump

or a smile finds a friendly mouth to play with.

A squirrel chunters from a low branch,

A woodpecker plays a deft roll on his drum.

Lilies bow their heads to dance the breeze.

How beautiful nature is, how fortunate we are

to remember it all so clearly,

close your eyes and open your heart.

David Garlick, Sidney, November 2009

It started off quite simply.

“We want a house.” they said.

“With old world charm, a view of the sea

and room for our king size bed.”

Three bedrooms will do,

with a bathroom or two

and a garage, now that’s understood.

But we don’t have much cash

and I’m sorry to say

our credit’s not very good.

We’d like a large lot,

though mostly in rock,

‘cos we don’t like to garden you see

but when all’s said and done

what we really desire

is just lots of privacy.

In the country’s just fine,

if it’s close to a school

or close to a park in the city.

But we don’t like the Airport

and Colwood won’t do

and Sooke is too far, mores the pity.

Now Langford’s a mess

and Esquimalt is less than –

enough for those who are picky.

We love Beacon Hill Park

but hear, after dark, that

the “wild life” can be a bit tricky.

So Fairfield won’t do

and James Bay, entre nous

is fine for a temporary stay

but what we’d like if we can

is a spacious floor plan,

Water Front, Saanich East or Oak Bay.”

David Garlick, Victoria, 1988

At the helm

engine humming underfoot.

There is on need of words.

The conversation is between

River and me.

Reeds do not bow in deference

but in greeting.

Silent but fluent

in sign language.

Weeping Willow waterfalls.

Branches reach out to touch.

Flowers shout their colours,

from frothy banks.

Huge leafed Rhubarb offers

parasols for the delicate.

Lilly pads in shallows,

twist, dance and sink;

a water ballet.

Woodwind music

with leaf tambourines.

Pan pipes for the ageless.

Beat of the heart.

Muted mortality whispers.

David Garlick, The Oxford canal, England, 1997

A “Cut” is canal jargon for a canal

With one last hug, a kiss and we’ll be gone.

Leaving behind our love ones and our cares,

a poignant moment lost amid the noise.

Good wishes, hand shakes, smiles and quiet tears,

The cord is cut; mooring lines let go.

The planning and the stowing reach that point –

where all at once we find ourselves alone.

The things we left behind, now never were.

Excitedly we wave to other boats.

Good luck we shout in answer to their calls.

The start is clean and all the yachts reach off.

The long race new and we are going well.

The days fly past. We leave them in our wake.

Some clean and straight, others a tortured path –

but we are one, a team of close knit friends,

whose strengths and weaknesses we understand.

The finish line, a Pilot Boat and beer.

A cheering crowd of friends and love ones there

to greet us lovingly at waters edge

with wreaths and leis, sweet perfume in the night.

Then all at once I miss the quiet times

spent in lonely thought upon a deck,

where men and sea and sky meet as if one;

the All is simply sailing to our goal.

David Garlick, Victoria, August, 1992

Victoria Maui Race