In My Own Words – Page 72 – The Poems of David Garlick

The house is hot in Summer time.

South windows catching all the sun

and far below, the glassy sea

is patterned with a currents flow.

Our garden hums with many sounds,

a buzzing bee, the whir of wings.

The chatter of a cool lawn spray

and leaves that rustle in a breeze.

Waves of heat distort the view.

Children play upon the sand.

Adults snooze in shady spots

and languidly fend off a fly.

A Humming Bird sips from a flower.

A Butterfly wafts into sight.

A petal falls upon the pond.

A flash of gold reveals a Carp.

Bald Eagles, scornful in their flight,

avoiding fractious Crows and Gulls.

While Robins, with heads cocked in thought,

search through the beds for tasty bugs.

These lovely, lazy days drift by.

The dog digs holes to cool his tum.

The cat peers from a leafy bower

and flowers bloom in lusty show.

Summers such a wondrous time,

for us who love these balmy days.

We wish this season would not end

but know that soon the Fall will come.

David Garlick, Victoria, 1988

I planted a rose in my garden.

Watered and tended it grew.

Reaching verdantly upwards,

as if my purpose it knew.

Slowly, in tight buds it flourished.

Patient, I bided my time.

Waiting for that special moment

when the bloom would be in its prime.

Early when dew gemmed the garden,

with diamonds, rubies and pearls,

the most lovely of which, a pink rose,

slowly it’s petals unfurled.

The moment was ripe, full of promise.

Its heavenly scent filled the air.

I cut the long stem, almost sadly,

on my hand fell a drop, a rose tear.

Part sorrow, part awe at it’s beauty.

I gave the pink bloom to my bride.

A gift for years of love given,

the joy of a friend by my side.

David Garlick, Victoria, October, 1992

It is only April after all.

Rains swamp thoughts of spring.

Yet plants and birds and bees and butterflies,

burst forth in leaf or song or drunken flight.

So when the sun breaks through the lowering clouds

it’s golden rays, like spot lights on a stage.

We know, who wait in patience here below,

that soon the theater of life

will entertain us once again.

David Garlick, Lopez Island, WA, 1988

Early in the morning she sat on my lap.

Chubby legs, dimpled at the knee.

Golden hair, still mussed from sleep.

Warm, she lent against my chest.

To share my toast.

Early in the morning

we talked of many things.

She asked. “What is snow?

Why chickens lay eggs?

Where Summer comes from

and how to butter toast?”

Early in the morning I left for work.

She stood inside the door,

her breath frosting the beveled panes.

Hair glistening in the light.

Waving a piece of toast.

Early in the morning I still go to work.

I miss my little daughter.

I miss her chatter.

I miss her love.

All I have is my toast.

David Garlick, Victoria, 1989