David's Original Artwork & Poetry
[David's original paintings and poetry are featured across this site]
"...the collision of the intellectual life that science demands of its practitioners and the human sense of time that living long brings leads me to my personal, and I hope provocative, take on the inevitable themes of lyric poetry, mortality, love, and time".
~ David J. Galas (on "Lost Thunder", his first collection of poetry)
Click titles to find David's original poetry online
Whatever it is it must have the strength
To stand against the weakness of our hearts,
To try our craft, and fire the silicon vitals
of our eccentric and small ambitions.
It speaks in breaths of beauty and in awkward truth,
To the sweep of galactic clouds, out of time’s reach,
And in the pusle of intricate molecular purpose.
When we find it, it is immense, almost unseen,
And darkly fair. Roaring in splendid defiance,
It will roil the sea and sweep across the land.
It’s fate will be to cruelly destroy, to build and love,
and to be lonely mid the hubbub of human minds.
Finding out, when it works, is a joy.
less Eureka, than a deep
warmth that doesn’t cool
in months of dull, hard days
and long nights, walking the halls
of eternity, bereft of love,
More than darkness
set with galaxies.
What horizon is worth
the sense of relief that ends
in dim regret for lesser ends,
and not, as wished, in mixed
intent and euphoric stride,
across the room to have a look, and finally to learn, again?
What is it in the semi-simple curve,
The charming middle twixt chaos and order,
that touches the eye and draws my mind into
a pleasant and forgetful land.
How you recoiled in disgust, thinking of
the grotesque symmetry of life’s beginning and end,
the visible rise of an infant’s mind each day,
and the risible loss of wit as time runs out.
and the unkind beauty of living out this pretty curve.
There is but one picture in the room, of a golden field,
a sky awash and a sharp cathedral thrust into
a cloud that is not too full, a land not too pleasant,
joined in caticles of colored strokes and ideas,
clustered in chaotic repose,
we yet despair of finding meaning in
the horizon’s gentle curve,
and still we sing of beauty.