In My Own Words – Page 47 – The Poems of David Garlick

Well done you painter of gentle dreams,

kind thoughts and pleasant memories.

The scent of cherry blossom and ancient

parchment rolled against time –

safe guarding smiles and private ideas.

The crinkle of an eye, the laughter lines.

Hair that blooms white in winter’s years.

Gentle flashes of humor.

Sharp word darts that may cause pain,

de-clawed with a knowing wink.

Vintage maturity, the flavor of life.

David Garlick, Sidney, May, 2009

How friable the years in the mill of life,

time, a lost dimension, in memories –

that we hold precious in our minds.

Thoughts and scenes that play forever

but vanish in a flash, precious snow flake

held for an instant on your hand.

Baby, child, youth or wo/man, play in an instant,

then vanish from the screen of life.

Layered, over written, covered with dust

but bright in a star burst of emotion.

Our past in the present, our present will pass.

How quietly time drifts, no scream of tires.

Just one frame replaced by another and

replaced, ever changing, but always the same.

David Garlick, Sidney, March, 2008

I was cold.

Your hospitable service

warmed me.

I was thirsty.

Your Sake

nearly quenched it !

I was hungry.

Your tasty food

filled me.

I was tired.

Your fine music

revived me.

Thank you

for welcoming

a stranger.

David Garlick, Tokyo, March, 1992

Sun and sand and scrub and sweat,

famine, filth and flies and fear,

running eyes and wasted frames,

open sores and tears.

Wind and dust and dirt and death,

shallow graves for all that’s left.

Soon the sand will cover all.

Drought has scourged the fragile land,

people now return to it.

Yet not so very far away,

a war of greed and empty words,

waged by those who’s only creed,

is, I will take, I will succeed.

And we can find the ships and tanks.

And we can find the men and funds

And we can find an endless stream

of planes and rockets, bombs and guns.

The Prairie wheat is on the ground.

The farmers had a bounteous year-

with elevators full of grain.

The trains are idle. Where the ships?

Where the will and where the call

to take it to the famined land

where people die for need of it?

The dainty and the debonair,

the TV or the music shows.

Are these the only thing we heed?

Can we not hear a cry for help?

Would we rather fatten rats

or let grain rot in golden hills?

David Garlick, Victoria, 1990