In My Own Words – Page 62 – The Poems of David Garlick

Who among many went to Bethlehem, Bethlehem, Bethlehem?

Who among many went to Bethlehem, cold and Winter worn?

Mary and Joseph went to Bethlehem, Bethlehem, Bethlehem.

Mary and Joseph went to Bethlehem, where our Savior was born.

Where in Bethlehem was the baby born, baby born, baby born.

Where in Bethlehem was the baby born on that Holy day?

He was born in the Inn Keepers stable, stable, stable.

He was born in the Inn Keepers stable, where the animals lay

Who came from distant hill to worship him, worship him, worship him?

Who came from distant hills to worship him where the baby was laid

Two poor shepherds came from the distant hills, distant hills, distant hills.

Two poor shepherds came from the distant hills, as the Angles bade.

What did those poor shepherds bring, shepherds bring, shepherds bring?

What did those poor shepherds bring, to the Holy Child.

The shepherds brought a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb.

The shepherds brought a little lamb and the blessed babe smiled.

How many great Prophet Kings traveled there, traveled there, traveled there?

How many great Prophet Kings traveled there, following The Star?

Three great Prophet Kings Prophet Kings, Prophet Kings,

Three great Prophet Kings followed it from afar

What did those great prophets bring, prophets bring, prophets bring?

What did those great prophets bring to the Stable Babe?

They brought three precious gifts, precious gifts, precious gifts.

They brought three precious gifts to where the babe lay.

Now how many people worship him, worship him, worship him?

Now how many people worship him when Christmas bells ring.

Millions of people now worship him, worship him, worship him.

Millions of people now worship him and his carols sing

How should his children worship him, worship him, worship him?

How should his children worship him on this joyous day?

Join hands and praise him, praise him, praise him.

Join hands and praise him. He who in a manger lay.

David Garlick, Victoria, December, 1994

News and views and weather stats.

Comments, characters and such.

Sports and business; it’s the same.

Doesn’t seem to matter much.

Now and then traffic reports.

Commuters phone from where they be.

Cellular keeps all in touch,

with Victoria’s C.B.C.

Snarls in snarls, a way of life.

Edgy edging foot by foot –

to and from a place of work.

Suffocating fumes to boot.

Then a call to make us smile,

from Victoria’s gentle rush.

Traffic stopped, all flow has ceased.

It’s enough to make one blush.

For you see we pride ourselves

in our gentle way of life.

Not for us the frenzied race

to and from the working place.

What could be the cause of this?

Where has traffic ceased to flow?

Should I stay at home today?

What to do and who will know.

Now we hear the awful news.

Grid lock, Fort and Foul Bay!

What has caused this disaster?

Dreaded news, oh fateful day.

Sirens wail, duck in quandary.

Foul Bay road or Bowker Creek.

Drivers wait in patience silence.

Victoria’s dreadful traffic peak.

David Garlick, Victoria, November, 1994

The Vacuumer swallowed my Dollar.

One gulp and the “Loonie” was gone.

Sucked into the things dirty stomach,

where unspeakable items belong.

It rattled its way up the flex hose;

the Gannet like neck of my foe

and pinged as fell in the bucket,

to tell me where lost Loonies go.

I was cleaning the car when this happened.

Something I do now and then;

when pressured by those of my family,

who never seem to be men.

I’d put a coin into the monster.

Air roared up it’s gullety bore,

as I wrestled the snake like sucker

to garner the dirt from the floor.

I was trying to lean further over,

to clean where one puts filthy feet.

When my last Loonie lost its moorings

to escape me under the seat.

I’ll get it when I’m in the back there;

I thought as I vacuumed the mat.

Then promptly forgot all about it.

Thus was the sad ending of that.

I whistled in tune with the suction.

A sort of baritone flush;

when a coin glinted under the front seat.

Then the Loonie was gone in a rush.

Oh sad loss of golden like dollar.

Loonies anguished cry echoed the dawn.

To a dusty tomb in a vacuum,

one hell of a place to be drawn.

David Garlick, Victoria, September, 1994

I was musing on the Mona Lisa’s smile.

It is almost as if she’d like to wink at me.

Not an awful face-disfiguring grimace;

full of teeth but the fluttering of an eyelid.

Yes, that’s it the smile is from the inside,

it filters upwards from her little toe-

as if by osmosis, to bud to tug

softly at the corner of her mouth.

Dear Shadow, my Aussie Canine friend

is watching me, as my fingers search

diligently for a keyboard letter or

my mind chases after words to

fill out a line in this painted poem,

of lips and smiles and tilts of head.

Shadow is a mistress of this skill.

Her lips, in repose, gently form the smile

which has mystified seekers of truths,

down through long centuries in galleries

where people are quiet and clarity of

thought, is so loud that it scratches behind

an itching ear seeking an answer to the

question of the Mona Lisa’s smile.

Shadow knows, always knew, has asked me!

“When is my delicious dinner to be served?”

Smile!

David Garlick, Sidney, October, 2007