In My Own Words – Page 45 – The Poems of David Garlick

What a wondrous idea!

What a great goal!

What a prize to work towards!

What a gift to pass on?

“Ah, now there’s the rub.”

For in giving it too freely, to those

who have not sought the

shade and responsibilities,

it may fester in neglect,

to perish in greed.

For you cannot force it on people.

That, is not democratic!

It will be resisted.

It will not take root!

The seed must lie dormant,

awaiting the gentle rain of reason.

Beware of false leaders.

Beware of despots.

Beware of excesses.

Beware of indulgencies.

Beware of glittering gifts.

Beware but always be generous.

Give openly to help everyone,

not just a few.

Learn that you cannot buy

real friendship;

only dark evil, envy!

Through all this, sense a

shining grail.

Reach for it.

Strive for it.

Dream of it.

Live it.

This pure idea is not easy.

It is a philosophy,

the concept of equality.

The simple but convoluted philosophy of love.

David Garlick, Boulder, November, 2008

In the growing dusk she sat –

in her favorite chair on the porch.

This was her ritual,

something to look forward to –

as the light faded.

The day’s tasks done,

fulfillment.

Another day among so many,

now thoughts of distant family

and departed friends visited her.

Not sadly but in an awareness

of time and distance.

Would they come to her again?

Like the Black Stilts –

that stalked the stream –

in the wet lands, scything for prey.

She loved these ancient birds,

black suits and red stockings,

how tidy they looked.

How bravely –

they protected their young.

How sad that their numbers –

are dwindling, how very sad;

like old friends and family.

The Black Stilts are endangered!

How bereft the world would be

if there were no Black Stilts –

to wade the stream in the meadow.

She watched them carefully,

lovingly remembering them.

A part of her life etched in her mind.

One day, like them, she would also be,

a happy memory.

David Garlick, Sidney, April, 2007

The waves reared up behind us,

with the look of polished stone.

The white wake streaming behind it,

a reflection of dead men’s bone.

My hands had felt the slash of her fangs,

my muscles the lash of her tail.

My eyes, red rimmed, from lack of sleep

and storms to make a heart quail.

She slept in my bunk, wore my boots

and stole my dry socks away.

Her mildew grew on food and clothes,

where the Wave Goddess held her sway.

My fingers were cramped to painful hooks.

Torn nails and split lips too.

And all for a cup, a silver cup;

the strange things that men will do.

Then out of the West, a great white bird

soared over the cruel wave.

And she listened to him, the albatross,

for ’twas me he’d come to save.

Oh great white bird, I love you so

as you deftly wing over the sea.

And I hope you will stay, to help in my quest

for that “Grail” which still eludes me.

David Garlick, Maui, July, 1992

Those who take part in Sport?

Forget it!

These are the worshippers at the alter of

vicarious adulation.

The applauders of mindless acts of violence

by padded gladiators.

They pay their tithe and yell,

“kill him, kill him !”

Then scream in delight at senseless fights,

or boo when others win or do well.

Such is the legacy they pass on.

Cheat, for to win is all there is.

This is what the “great public,” want.

“Shame,” too kind a word.

Nausea spews its vile effluent over us.

Youth is poisoned by brutality.

The specter of “professional sport”

contaminates our lives.

David Garlick, Victoria, May, 1995