In My Own Words – Page 86 – The Poems of David Garlick

Spurn not my loving in the early morn,

as sun’s pink fingers paint the dawning day.

Melt in my arms, snowflake on a naked branch –

that clings, then drops upon the fertile ground.

Silent as footsteps in fresh fallen snow,

soft as the petals of a fragrant flower,

lips meet, a touch that trips the heart,

to chases icicles of fear away.

Our love is mirrored in the waking day

from softest pink to warmer shades of light.

Till rising from its slumber ladened lair,

bursts in flaming rays across the sky.

Then with drowsy eyes, we cling, our arms entwined.

Dreaming soft images, feathers on the wind.

David Garlick, Victoria, 1989

When I am old

I’ll still have love in my heart.

I’ll enjoy pretty girls and

smile at handsome women.

They may not notice me

but that’s OK, when I am old.

When I am old

I’ll still enjoy a few drinks.

Not by myself in a bar

but with friends

or fellow fishermen.

They may not believe my stories.

But that’s OK, when I am old

When I am old

I’ll sit and think

of times long past.

Reliving happy days

when life was full of promise.

I’ll not hear people talking to me.

But that’s OK when I am old.

When I am old

I hope my best friend is alive.

We have traveled

a long road together.

Mostly up hill and

rocky under foot.

There were wrong turns too

but that’s OK.

While we grow old together.

David Garlick, Victoria, June, 1992

They’re leaving, one by one,

those people, of my distant youth.

I see the women then,

in bright printed cotton.

The men, bronzed by the desert sun,

gleaming with youth and vigor.

Now they slip away,

leaving us the fewer.

The keening wind blows –

the dust and sand.

Songs of days long gone.

We’re leaving, one by one.

Our verse is said.

Commas and pauses are no more,

only the tiny mark that says.

Enough, stop.

Good bye my friends.

Those were good times we had.

David Garlick, Hinkley, England, May 1997

He came to me from somewhere fine.

Perhaps a Georgian home, white pillared front

that overlooked a quiet tree fringed square,

where children ran in ancient noisy games

and nannies in light gray, wheeled stately prams.

He came to me, smart, in his uniform.

Pale and distant, hollow eyed, deep set, sad.

Unwilling to share horrors he had seen.

Yet boy young, innocent of carnal love

and clumsy in his time of urgent need.

He came to me from stinking fear filled war,

and with it all so weary and alone.

No one to understand the terror’s scars

no one to hold him close and croon his name.

He saw me, knew that I was there for him.

Shy glance, eyes down he gently took my hand,

then let me guide him to my shabby place.

He came in silence, shaking sweaty palm,

I helped him hold his fears just for a while.

He saw me in the flickering gas firelight.

Fed with a penny soon the cheerful glow

banished harsh shadows from my simple room.

Our young skins shone palely in its loom.

Gently we shared the warmth of human love.

Then when dawn came to lighten slate rooftops,

the quiet sounds, milk bottles on stone steps.

I woke to look in wonder at this boy.

His face at peace against my naked breast;

while tears fled my eyes to damp a pillow;

the stress was gone and in its place was rest.

In time his letter came and my hand shook.

I dared not open it, though knew I must.

For in my heart I sensed that he would not

return to let me hold him close again.

Written before going into battle.

In case of death upon that killing field,

he wrote in thanks for our short time together.

The peace that now was his, instead of fear.

David Garlick, Victoria, March, 1995