In My Own Words – Page 42 – The Poems of David Garlick

I knew a man and now he is gone.

I did not know him well; just at bowls.

He seemed kind, a cheerful happy man.

I liked him but I did not really know him.

One day I heard he was dying of cancer.

I did not visit him; he had many friends,

why should he wish a visit from me,

just another face from bowls?

He came to the club, one last time.

I did not recognize him, so thin, so gaunt.

He was dying before my eyes, tired pale.

Then he was gone!

I wondered if I should have been to see him?

Should I have held his hand?

Should I have said something, anything?

I had known a man and now he was dead.

I had not done or said anything!

But that does not mean that I do not care.

David Garlick, Sidney, June, 2001

May the Great Spirit

that guides the destiny of all,

bless us and those who have worked

so diligently to produce this feast.

May it give us the strength to oppose

the dragons of avarice and greed.

The wisdom to tread the narrow path

of ethical behavior.

And may the warm winds of brotherly love

guide us through the arch of Harmonious Accord,

to a better understanding of our fellow men.

David Garlick, Victoria, November, 1986
Written as a Grace before a Rotary dinner in China Town, Victoria.

They call me the drummer. I’m held in a prison.

Though the day, I know, will soon come.

The door will creek open, they’ll take me out.

And I shall die to the beat of a drum.

The crime I’ve committed is hardly a new one.

“My songs are unlawful.” They lie.

I sing for the people, their rights

and their freedoms. For this I am going to die.

Through a window set high in the wall of my cell

I can gaze at the sky through the bars.

This blue flag of freedom is all that I have

and at night it is studded with stars.

In each star I can see, the words of a clause.

Each tells of the rights to be won.

The freedom of speech, without fear of rebuke

or the threat of a death by the gun.

I can hear guards walking; their feet make a drumming

their keys, ring against the stone walls.

The clash of locks turning, the jangle of irons.

The crash of steel doors, then more tears.

One day to this music, a priest will attend me.

To hear my confession and prayer.

But I see no sin, in what I have done.

And my fears are only of fear.

They will come for me soon; I’m happy to say.

To their music and beat I shall sing.

A door will open, a court yard to greet me,

with my sky flag of freedom flying.

My people will come to sing freedom songs.

If I’m able, I’ll be singing too.

The stamp of feet anger, like bass drums beating,

For this deep note shall carry us through.

Squaddies will be waiting for their duty with rifles.

I’ll hear their orders, terse and grim.

I’ll see knuckles whiten, to take up the pressure

but not hear sticks rattle on rim.

My scarred post, still standing, left there pointing,

to our freedom flag, ablaze in the sky.

And the words the crowd’s singing shall be my anthem.

So my drum will live on; when I die.

David Garlick, Mexico, November, 1999

My special place has no GPS address.

It is a place that moves with time and mood.

It is elusive but once announced may not be ignored.

There is no road, no stairs to climb, only a drift

of consciousness and spirit, insistent tireless.

I sleep with an HB pencil, in case of attack.

I enjoy the chase of fleeing words,

revel in the joy of nascent phrase.

Now I stand at the top of our drive.

I try looking inwards despite the beauty

of our changing view of mountains,

islands, boats, trees and soaring birds.

But the eye is not obeying me.

It is only aware of our tireless view.

But perhaps there is a notion of an idea.

Leave the view, however beautiful.

Look at the colours of the trees,

be aware of the singing of the clouds

and the whisper of leaves calling me.

The fruit is ready to pick.

No that is too mundane.

The words are beckoning me with

Insistent laughter,

mocking chatter.

Write!

David Garlick, Sidney, October, 2009