In My Own Words – Page 51 – The Poems of David Garlick

I stand beneath these Douglas firs,

that soar like pillars of a nave,

as slanting beams of sunlight pierce

the silent arches of the glade.

Eight hundred years of vibrant growth

unmoving to my watchful eye.

this mighty stand of forest giants

saved from the fallers flashing blade.

A man of the city stares,

awed by the lofty canopy

that arches greenly to the sky

so far above his humbled head.

Some speak of Nature’s mighty power

and others of God’s guiding hand.

I only know I feel subdued

when standing in that hallowed grove.

David Garlick, Victoria, September, 1986

I saw her run today.

Long legs, hair blowing free.

The crowd drummed the sun filled stands

and rose in noisy unison

to greet her flowing stride.

What pride in one we hardly know.

What thrill to cheer her on.

What joy to see her run so well.

What tears that spill to greet

the anthems stirring rise.

Salute to you brave heart.

Salute to Canada.

Salute to roaring fans.

Salute the Commonwealth.

Salute to Angela.

David Garlick, Victoria, August, 1994

Three striking paintings, blazing messages;

perhaps just three large evocative canvases,

perhaps a glimpse, Past, Present and Future.

As with most lives, some dark times,

thoughts that haunt, smudges on the soul.

Leave them in the past, bury them forgive.

Firm texture showing growth and character,

light piercing through the oppressive dark.

Fun times love and laughter.

The Present, the joy of graduation,

the fulfillment of a dream.

An end and a new exciting beginning,

the steed of life waiting for the rider,

strength and beauty, art and ability.

Seize the reins and fly like the wind,

ride with passion but always with grace.

The Future unknown but definite,

sweep of brush and blaze of colour.

Light to seek and guide the way.

Form to express the ever-present reality,

life to be lived, ideas to be pursued.

The fabric of your existence to be crafted,

let this work shout with your full voice.

David Garlick, Victoria, May, 1995

For my artistic daughter of whom I am very proud.

I woke to hear a tapping noise

and then a dreadful groan.

A dragging sound, creak of board

and then a wheezing moan.

All through the night, I lay in dread,

sure a specter I would see,

come through the wall beside my bed,

to scare and haunt poor me.

Next morning when the sun had sped

the shadows of the night away.

I asked the host about the ghost,

to hear what he would say.

G-ghost, said he, turning quite white;

I know of none, said he.

Then what that awful moaning sound

I heard that frightened me?

Perhaps a tapping of a tile,

a shrinking board, a lose stair tread,

the plumbing or the central heat;

maybe the cistern overhead.

But still he looked a trifle white,

while finding reasons for my dread

and I still knew an inner fright,

for ghostly sounds, I’d heard in bed.

And I am sure that he was right,

to have his gills turn pale.

For I could find another place,

while he lived with my tale.

David Garlick, England, Summer, 1986