In My Own Words – Page 95 – The Poems of David Garlick

Along the cut, dawn sips the cup of night.

Day sounds lie silent. Ears become eyes.

At this magic hour you may hear mist creep

and the flutter of your thoughts taking flight.

The splashy chatter of leaking lock gates.

The calls of waking birds cackle of a duck.

The mewing of gulls, the squawk of pheasants,

a cock calls the sun, still hidden in night.

A scatter of rain rattles treetops.

Wind hisses in a wheat field, rush beds creek.

Plop of fish feeding; whine of insect wings.

Cool air, fragrances of moss and mown hay.

The muted music of the night hums.

Motorways pause in their noisy madness.

Distant trains mutter then fade to nothing;

a slash of yellow on a dark canvas.

The breeze tells of cattle in a near by field.

Smoke from a cottage chimney talks of tea

and milking time; clatter of hob nailed boots.

Soon steel churns will ring; a warm white harvest.

The time machine of stars whirls silently,

sharing their ancient light with those who see.

Enjoy this noisy silence while you may.

Soon small sounds will drown in the light of day.

David Garlick, England, September ,1997

A Wasp is a Wasp.

A Bee is a Bee.

The difference is really

quite easy to see.

For a Wasp is more streamlined,

while we Bees are quite plump.

Wasps attack you for fun,

while we promise we wont.

Wasps are a nuisance,

they wont go away.

Once one has arrived

soon more come to stay.

Now we Bees are more gentle

we work flower beds,

to make you sweet honey,

to spread on your bread.

Some Bees are quite tiny,

but Bumbles are fat.

We like to be friendly

but it takes two to do that.

So don’t swat us or bash us,

or some other such thing.

“Cos if you do, you should know,

we also can sting!

We don’t like to do this

but we cant make you hear,

If our wings are unable

to fly through the air.

We only attack,

If there’s no other way;

for if we sting you, we die,

I’m sorry to say.

Wasps, on the other hand

sting again and again.

Which hardly seems fair,

If we get the blame.

So please check us out,

now you know who is who.

Be kind to us Bees,

we’ll be friendly to you.

David Garlick, Victoria, 1990

Wave on wave came crashing in

with savage blows, to crush the sand,

send snowy foam in graceful arc,

to then retreat with sucking sighs.

And in the wake, where bubbles blew

and breathing holes marked hidden clams,

tiny stones, shone like gems

and winked the sun, hot overhead.

Palm fronds rattled in the breeze,

casting shadows, cooling shade.

The only sound the breaking surf,

the day was clean of other noise.

What force, the never-ending grind

of wave on beach, that rending stroke

that spawns the sand, the grist, its life.

the golden harvest of remorseless waves.

The character of coast and beach;

etched by the crashing of the waves.

Those actions that life’s forces make

on lives and how we cope with them.

And so among the shattered shells

the broken stones, our plans and dreams,

a small pink shell survived it all,

two parts quite whole, the hinge intact

amongst the litter of the grander spoils.

Fragile it lay, perfect on my palm,

It’s worth not measured by its size

but by its beauty and the flexing hinge.

David Garlick, Puerto Vallarta, February 1998

Do not mourn my passing.

The years have had their way.

An old tide leaves the shore.

Clean, the sand to write on.

A new hand picks up the stick.

The ebbing sea leaves only

a line of froth, a shell or two

and clumps of kelp a-coil.

Seize that stick.

Write in the sand.

The words may not last beyond the flood

but until gone they speaks your name.

The island of my soul awaits the dawn.

Fingers of chill stab my skin;

erupting in flesh cobbles.

Squalls of shivers shake my bones.

Light up horizon, it is time for me.

I am ready to go. Let me claim my bunk.

The sounds of seas my lullaby;

for I am ready for my rest.

David Garlick, Boat Harbor, May, 1996