In My Own Words – Page 98 – The Poems of David Garlick

I’m five today,

how very grown up.

The things I have learnt to do.

I can brush my hair,

clean my teeth

and tie a bow in my shoe.

I can carry a bag,

when we visit the store.

I can walk and run and skip.

I can swing on a swing,

slide on a slide.

Or pretend to Captain a ship.

I can draw and paint.

I can count to ten.

I can recite the alphabet.

I can roll on the grass.

I can catch a ball,

or play with my Lego set.

I can give mum a kiss.

I can give dad a hug.

I know to say please and thank you.

There’s such a lot

to learn when you’re five

but it’s all such fun to do.

So I think I’ll stay five.

It’s a nice sort of age

for someone who’s clever like me.

But most of all

I want to be five.

‘cos right now

it’s the best I can be.

David Garlick, Victoria, October, 1990

I’m in here ‘cos my silly heart has a tendency to plug.

It’s probably just sawdust falling down from up above.

They treat us well and coddle us but the hardest part of all is

trying to sleep through mating calls of the Race Rocks Sea Lion Corps.

It’s not their fault they rumble in a vibrant sort of way.

And I’m sure they would be mortified to think of building sway.

But try as hard as ever, with pills that tumble down,

it’s hard to rest an ailing heart to a Sea Lions mating call.

The nurses, bless them, minister to those of us who stare

at empty walls and curtain draws, as try to sleep we fail.

But if I have my druthers these waking hours I’ll spend,

in writing silly poems to the awful sound of them!

David Garlick, Victoria., April 1986

Adieu my friends, for I’m away to Mexico
but you may travel with me in my mind.
I’ll sense you when the sun is warm
or in a noisy market place.
At peace with me in lofty church
or where the breeze makes busy leaves.
You’ll join me in a balmy sea
where gaudy fish, like butterflies,
flick among the rocks and weeds
or bravely peer into my mask.
And we will talk to rushing waves
pick blooms bright as summer lips.
Feel joy in sand that kisses feet,
or laugh at language hard to phrase.
We’ll sit and stare at setting sun
or think sad thoughts to rising moon.
Then in the evening’s dancing lights,
that shimmer in a fragrant dusk.
I’ll raise a frosted glass to say.
The Margaritas salty taste
comes not from crystals on a rim
but from the tears I shed for you.

David Garlick, Victoria, April 1995

A man stood in the shadows, in the shadow of his cameras.

Shadows gathered around; the shadows of another time.

Shadows played within his mind, of years long gone, a pantomime,

when love and laughter were alive and children grew up strong.

When wild places called a man to live a life to ancient tunes,

to hunt, to fish, to see and live, provider of the needs of life.

Still other timeless tugs of mind, the thought of paintings in a cave.

Stone walls carved or drawn upon, with animals of long ago.

Again the shadows fill his mind, as on this day he gives away

a daughter dear, a part of him. Where have the years all gone?

Now the shadows dance again. The music blows the human forms.

The leaping flames mere images of people from another age.

But now these shadows are not lost, held on a tiny camera disc.

The RAM, not horned but silicone; holds the image dot by dot.

So there he is, this shadows man. Lost in an age, lost from an age,

the images an endless theme but what of life and love?

David Garlick, Sidney, August, 2002