In My Own Words – Page 73 – The Poems of David Garlick

A friend who was till yesterday

just a picture in my mind.

Inspired by photos in a book

and tales of happy times.

For sixty years they’d been a pair.

Through good times and the bad.

But we had never met before

and now that makes me sad.

The picture in my mind persists,

for though she looked so frail,

I know that we will treasure her,

with love that will not fail.

I saw that love, in eyes of grey,

that leapt across the years.

To fill a void that time had made

with laughter and with tears.

Oh Blodwen, you are dear to us,

Though we live so far away.

And hope to share our mountains fair,

When you visit us one day.

David Garlick, England, 1986

( Just before Blodwen’s death )

Beautiful she was

but not as eyes would see.

Few there were

who glanced her way

or turned to watch her walk.

Beautiful she was

but not the cloths she wore.

She hid herself

in shapeless dress

but still her light shone through.

Beautiful she was,

it showed in gentle moves.

She glided down a busy street

as if no one were there.

Beautiful she was,

ethereal, serene.

Had she found

the very source,

from whence true beauty wells?

David Garlick, Seattle, September 1990

Her hair was set in fiber glass,

as she read the evening news.

She raised her brows,

lowered her lids

to under score her views.

Head turned and nodded,

preened and pecked;

I’m sure I never heard a word,

as I watched the evening news.

It fascinated me to see

the facile movement of her face,

taught in some silly school of nods.

Shadows learnt, to show to us

her feelings of a right or wrong.

The perfect lips, perfect bones.

The nods and tilts and turns of head,

lead us to trust her so.

Yet all the time you knew it was

just acting for the rating sheets.

The hypocrisy of “News.”

Why else would she be sitting there,

perfect in her smart pink suit.

Made up with gloss, glint and glow.

A touch of powder; no sweat must show

to mar the face that we all know.

Who reads the Evening News.

Yet think a moment. Who, what, why,

when and where were those who rolled

the unfeeling, mindless cameras;

stuck into faces, of those bereft,

encouraged then, to vent their grief,

not to a caring person but to lens of glass.

And while the soulless camera rolls,

their anguish sears the plastic tape,

that captures all their woe.

Are these the same damn cameras;

Cyclopes glorifying fights.

That snare poor fools, who witless scream.

Kill him, kill him, hit, hit, hit,

in games of skill made crassly base

by senseless violence and greed.

Barbarism on ice or field.

A throw back to times, long gone,

in ancient theaters of stone.

No, no, not us. They tritely plead.

We are quite blameless in our art.

We only catch what we can see.

The public (thank God,) has a right to know

and we will fight with all our might,

to justly make it so.

We do no wrong. We’re there for you.

We are bright heroes, not mere clones,

paid to make those candid shots, -pay !

Who better, then, to spread the news,

than some fair woman, full of grace.

An icon glowing in the gloom of life.

Not hidden in a silent crypt

but cherished for a perfect face,

with hair set in fiber glass.

The Goddess of us gormless fools.

The Reader of the evening news.

David Garlick, In disgust, Victoria, December, 1998

In threads of golden gossamer

her web hangs in the mornings dew.

It glints when sunbeams crest the hill,

to blaze like jewels in crowns may shine.

And as the warmth of a summer’s day

steals these gems our eyes enjoy.

She takes her place, at center stage,

to wait for some unwary prey.

David Garlick, Victoria, October, 1987