In My Own Words – Page 88 – The Poems of David Garlick

There comes a time when

happiness deserts my heart,

leaving behind desolation in my soul.

Words held captive, as water in a mountain,

bubble through the fissures of my mind

to run unheeded down the slope of life.

They gather in tiny pools, each bright as the sky.

Reflecting twinkling sun dust,

or the eyes of angles in the night.

They speak on pebble, laugh between rocks,

sing songs of purity, falling from ledges.

Cascading to form a lake of verse.

They flow as tears at a wedding.

Half sadness, half joy

for the promise of new beginnings.

The yearnings for what was once ours.

Now stolen by years and blunted

by the grit of life.

The blade is strong in wisdom,

honed by the whetstone of experience.

But lacks the brilliant feel of

fresh worked steel.

And so the tears flow, salt at the

the corner of my mouth.

Each one a thought or memory,

a jewel in the necklace of life.

Each one a word to share with you

who understands my inner being.

Who with a word or touch, can

rout the tears that overwhelm me.

David Garlick, Victoria, May, 1995

A note!

Part of a beautiful song

or maybe, part of a discord.

I only am.

Just a note.

One note in so many,

sometimes beautiful,

sometimes a slip of a pen.

A black dot on paper.

A sound in a mind.

A tear wrenching sound clip.

a peak, a valley, a crevasse.

I am used, I am discarded.

I have no control, I seek none;

yet I am beautiful or sad.

I am on the wing, on the wind

a whimper in a wood!

Come, gone.

A sound of immortality,

a sound lost in eternity.

For I am just a note,

and that is enough!

David Garlick, Puerto Vallarta, February, 2001

Thoughts on ‘A Note’.

The other day, at a poetry reading, I became aware of another level of understanding of the poem ‘A Note’. I realized that while the original concept was in expressing the smallness of my, or for that matter your life, against the whole history of mankind, that we as people may ring as brightly as a high C or just be an important part of the background music

It struck me that while a note is heard fleetingly in a piece of music that though it is no longer at our ear it is still available, it does not rot away. It is now, it was as always in our consciousness and will be there in the future.

Each life is a piece of music. It may be as important as a primitive drum note or as casual as the tune we hum while doing something else. All our notes are expressions of our humanity, of our individuality, of our being.

And so my little poem while suggesting that life is brief and unimportant, also says that a note is very worthwhile, however fleetingly it rings in the orchestra of history.

The process that first prompted me to jot down the lines that you read in the poem ‘A Note’ came back, as I waited to read the poem. It returned to show me just how important every note in every piece of music, of every life, really is.

Ring on loud and clear!

David.

Please always tell me, truthfully, what you think of my pieces. If I am to improve I need to recognize what is poor as well as reasonable.

Thanks and best wishes. David.

He stood by the bar, elbows a-leaning,

foot on the brass rail, beer in his hand.

“Have a good day?” said the man chewing peanuts.

“Yes good, had a great Daughters Day.”

“What’s a daughters day mate?”

Said the man with the peanuts.

Carl was his name, if my memory serves.

“A day with my daughter, once a month by agreement

and I live through the rest just for those happy hours.

What a mess we can make in a few thoughtless minutes.

What remorse we can suffer, as years hurry by

but at least for a short time, a few precious hours

my child of love is entirely mine.”

So we start with a breakfast of pancakes and syrup.

Then pack up the car to go somewhere new,

perhaps to go fishing or climb up a mountain,

to sit at it’s summit and swallow the view.

Or sometimes we go shopping,

though I’m not much for shopping

but for her I would even do this through a day.

Just to watch her a browsing and picking things over.

Is a treat for my soul, so lonely and dry.

No today was just special.

It wasn’t the joy of places or vistas.

It wasn’t the excitement, material things.

It was just as we parted; hands held as we waited

for the car that would come to take her away.

She turned slowly towards me and taking my other hand,

looked up with those gray eyes so clear.

Then she said very softly, like the whisper of bird’s wings.

“My own Dad I love you. I love you, my father so dear.”

David Garlick, Victoria, September 1994

My mother has a “Surger,” with lots of bobbins on it.

It sits there slyly smiling in the bedroom down the hall.

But I know it can be wicked, as it looks just like a spider,

with it’s arms and legs all waiting for that moment to explore.

I’ve a funny sort of feeling it could serge me to the ceiling

or perhaps it sits there waiting to surge across the floor.

So never leave it running, when you have to do the shopping,

or you’ll find it has been busy while you’ve been at the store.

For it will serge around the telly, and over Teddies belly

or round the kitchen cabinets, where the cookies try to hide.

And it will serge across the windows and the Heatalator fireplace.

So on returning from your shopping you can’t enter by the door.

‘Cos the surger has been surging and the house is firmly tangled

in a web of colored sewing threads that are blowing in the wind.

And until the thread is finished it will just go on a surging,

which will make it very difficult to get inside once more.

So never touch the bobbins or play with any buttons

or those tempting little levers, that sparkle in the sun.

But most of all remember that a surger can be cunning.

So never leave it running, if it turns on, on its own.

And however much your toes itch to press upon the foot switch.

Never ever let them touch that peddle on the floor.

David Garlick, Victoria, April, 1990