In My Own Words – Page 59 – The Poems of David Garlick

Whether the wether was wet,

the weather certainly was. His fleece,

not his fleas, which fled, fleeing the weather;

whether the wether’s withers were wet or not.

The wether wondered whether wandering was fun

as he wended his way with a flock on a fell.

He fell into step with a sheep that he knew

who said I’m no sheep can’t you see I’m a ewe.

You’re me? said the wether, how can that be,

when you know I’m a wether , whether you or me.

I was a ram when I started out but

now I’m a wether, whether you like it or nought.

So sad, said the ewe, as they strolled the fall fell.

Whether wether or not, not withered as well?

Though you look like a ram you act like a ewe

Which is sad for a sheep, who took ewe for a you.

David Garlick, Sidney, December, 2006

Sometimes when dreaming, I run.

Gently enjoying the beauty of the land

and that youthful ease and grace, once found.

No tiring muscles or loss of breath,

just flowing movement and cool air.

The pace so easy that feet fly –

in great strides, devouring the miles

that escape beneath my heels.

The joy of strength and fulfillment.

The joy of a vanished youth.

On and on I run breathing easily –

as in days long gone; now dearly missed.

Deep draughts of breath,

fresh in my mouth,

the outward flow a joyful song.

A hill conquered, leaning into the slope,

now the crest, left briefly alone.

On into the down grade with lengthened stride,

feet fleetingly in contact with winding path;

a sense of almost falling down the hill.

Toes gently touching exposed root –

steps, etched in the ground, a pattern.

I feel weightless, another dimension.

Bent; elbows ease away from sides,

hands and fingers stretch to sense?

A gift, perhaps a thermal or magic

and before I know it my fingers read the

rising air mass and I am one with it,

soaring effortlessly. The ground falls away

and my arms flex to the lift,

I am soaring, soaring in the joy of flight.

David Garlick, Sidney, August, 2007

Early in the year, Maple buds form.

New life quickens on the down swept branches.

As the days lengthen, kind spring warms the air,

gentle breezes rock leaf cradles, life stirs.

Fat buds bursting, blooms show, bright green.

Then leaves appear when warmth opens them.

Summer flows across the land, leaves

stretch out to drink the season’s energy.

Now the leaves dance, immense, dark green, lush.

Fall, Maple trees dress in red and orange.

Year’s work done, their golden wealth garnered,

wind will whisper, the leaves will flutter down.

Time for trees to sleep, leaves to rot away

feeding strong roots grasping the kindly earth.

David Garlick, Sidney, March, 2007

We stood in a lineup with a package for Nana.

I watched all the people purchasing stamps.

Then at last it was our turn, so I said to the woman

who served at the counter in navy blue pants.

“Please have you the time to answer a question?

I know you are busy but I’ve just got to know.

“What’s the strange thing that every one mentions,

when buying their stamps so their letters may go?”

“What do you mean deary?” Glancing at mother.

“Its that three letter word, think GST is the one.”

“Oh that.” said the clerk and smiling at mother.

“Tell me first who the package is for, if you can.”

“It’s for my old Nana, who lives in Alberta.

A present we’re sending for her birthday, you see.”

“Well in her case.” said the woman.

“GST means – Going Straight There.

So we don’t need to worry any more you and me.”

“Thank you.” I said quietly. My Mom gave a smile.

“You’re welcome young lady. Do please come again.”

David Garlick, Victoria, October, 1995