In My Own Words – Page 52 – The Poems of David Garlick

I did not know that

I was once omnipotent !

Strange as it seems,

my daughter told

me it was so.

I never dreamed that

she or her two brothers

would think of me

as anything but Dad.

And when at last they

realized all my faults,

my warts, my scars,

the things that set me low.

They felt let down by me,

their father and their mentor;

although I never knew

that it was so.

David Garlick, Victoria, December, 1994

And the waves weep.

Tears sweep the gleaming sand.

Water etches sculptures in the cliffs.

We only see the rocks.

As the waves weep,

our tears drip from our chins.

Drops of water wear holes in stone.

Are we the waves?

And the waves laugh.

Their notes like sea gulls rise

to nest on rocky ledges,

echoes on the wind

in joyous chorus.

As the waves laugh

the peals ring against the cliffs.

Music to the soul.

We are the waves.

David Garlick, Victoria, July, 1991

The Black Locus, Acacia is a flaming beacon

of a thousand golden tongues.

Each one exploring the breeze,

chattering, nudging the wind.

A crowd of leaves discussing

the Fall colours so rich to the eye.

Laughter!

The Weeping Willow hangs her head,

arms brushing the ground.

Still green, her long fingers touch the cobbles.

If it had been a stream they would write the

words they wished read, on it’s surface.

The stream would carry the message to the sea,

wondering what the sea would whisper?

Perhaps a song, perhaps the sound of weeping,

perhaps an anthem under the domed sky.

The willow would sing the descant, high and sweet.

Tears

David Garlick, Sidney, October, 2009

Chimney pots on high rooftops,

like chess men in a row.

Some with crowns and some quite plain,

all standing there on show.

When it’s dark and no one stirs,

is a game played under stars?

Do they all return at dawn,

or stay where they are borne?

Do Bishops rush to and fro,

to catch an unsuspecting foe.

And can the Knights, like cavalry,

charge and leap to set men free?

Will a Queen, with stately force,

check a King or cross the board,

leaving in her regal wake,

the shattered chaff of power?

I see Rooks on corner guard,

waiting for a Pawn to move,

to release their latent power,

on the checkered board.

Do the Pawns, like us below,

move where we’re supposed to go?

Never quite in charge of life,

just part of a great show?

David Garlick, Cheltenham, England, 1986