Author: dgarrett

The End of the Old Fishing Grounds

I’m bound to go down to the old fishing ground, where I swear every year is my last.
Still, I’m here and I’m bent after 40 years spent, now the fate of my future is cast.

I remember the days it took booms and the stays to get the day’s catch in the hold.
Now we load them by hand and its little we land, as we stand in the ice and the cold.

I said in my time, I’d never more sign for another year’s stay on as crew.
But I’d look like some fool, if I went back to school, when there’s no work and nothing to do.

So I’m called the ol’ duffer and my time is near spent. My hands are all gnarled and sore.
Still I’d rather go out with a shove and a shout, than stand and wave from the shore.

There’s ol’ Mac McPhee and the skipper and me, as we head back to St. Mary’s Reach.
Like the boats on the quay we’re all rusting away, soon we all be keeled up on the beach.

I’m bound to go down to the old fishing ground where I swear every year is my last.
Still I’m here and I’m bent after 40 years spent, and the fate of my future is cast.
The fate of my future is cast…

-Doug Garrett

My Elf/Self

Starkle, starkle, little twink,
How I wonder why we think?
High above this earthly state,
Where do thoughts originate?
Brilliant thoughts that fire the brain,
Shameful thoughts that sear like flame.

I have this voice that loves debates.
He’s in my head, articulates
All alone or in a crowd,
Mostly quiet, sometimes loud.
Alter ego? Spirit self ?
Who designed this meddling elf?

Here in utter solitude,
Between ourselves we always feud.
Analyzing all the facts,
He sorts my fantasy from facts.
Sometimes losing, sometimes win.
I’m forever giving in.

From all these seeming random views,
Carefully I pick and choose.
Some I think are really clever,
Some I’d never think, no never.
But if I ever think to lie,
He never with me would comply.

It’s always him who takes the lead,
Its always me who does the deed.
I’m the one whose always caught,
He’s always making sure he’s not.
He thinks that I should take the blame.
Why can’t we ever think the same?

I suspect someday I’ll know,
Face-to-face. Toe-to-toe.
At last I’d finally get to meet
This elf, I never got to beat.
What hilarious irony
If that little elf is me!

Twinkle, little star, I find
I’m glad my little elf’s is mine.
He’s the one who stands between
Me and God and keeps me clean.
If with God I get to be,
I ‘ll bet it ’cause my elf’s with me.

-Doug Garrett

The Fax Machine

My little fax beside me stands, upon my desk with dignity.
And yet between its plastic bands, a blank sheet rests for all to see.
Green lights brightly blinking shine, bringing courage to my heart.
I’ll wait for someone’s push online to send the signal, “talk, send, start.”

In silence I repeat the call to stem my wave of mounting rage,
Perhaps today I shall be blessed with writing on the empty page.
Should I send faxes? Perhaps by luck, like arrows falling who knows where,
Someone’s hand will find and pluck this random cipher of despair.

Come then, your destiny fulfill, seize the moment I implore,
Lest my dreary monthly bill remains unjustified once more.
Even you must know (and dread), the end of fax machines is near.
So write this on your empty page: “We’ll only need you one more year.”

-Doug Garrett

Olivia Constance

(This poem is dedicated to our granddaughter, who wrote to us while we were serving a mission in New Zealand.)

Olivia Constance said to herself, “What shall I do today?”
I have no school ’cause its cold outside and the cold won’t go away.
So into her toy box she put her hand to see what she could find:
A plastic doll, crayon and clips, and a piece of orange rind.

“Oh,” Olivia Constance said, “I know what I can do:
Write my Grandma and Grandpa a note to tell them everything new.”

So that’s what Olivia Constance did, with doodles, circles and squares.
About her life and important things like, how she didn’t like curls.
Letters like “G” and “M” and “D” and happy faces as well.
Olivia Constance found that she had so many things to tell.

Round the corner and into the post, off then the letter flew.
Up in the plane and away to the coast, down to the house painted blue. 

What a surprise to Grandma Shirl, as she read to Grandpa Doug:
“How do you do,” said Olivia C. “Please find enclosed, “ 1x Hug.”
As for the doodles and circles and swirls, the “G and the “M” and the “D’s,”
It was perfectly clear to them what it meant – and it made them perfectly pleased. 

-Doug Garrett

Flue Shot Junkie

Breathes there a man with soul so dead, who never to himself had said,
“Why should I to the doctor go, to have him on my arm bestow
Those singular and “iffy” shots, he says protects me from the trots?”

Oh, fickle, random parasite, which fain would keep us up at night,
Perchance confine us to our beds while throbbing curses ache our heads.
Still worse, I hear it can become Pneumococcus Bacterium.

This Russian roulette guessing game, has had its cruel intended aim.
I watch lest one cough becomes two. Oh, curse, I have the dreaded flue.
Next year, I vow, I’ll take the leap and bare my arm and silent keep.

-Doug Garrett

The House Plant

A house plant is a solid pet who never lets you down. 
Despite you never did him much, ‘cept stick him in the ground.

Who else would take your “Co2”, while you don’t give a care?
To feed you copious bits of “O” so you could breathe the air?

And in return what do you do, ungrateful as you are? 
Blow clouds of smoke, which I suspect, has carcinogens and tar.

Justice will not be denied, someday your fate we’ll view. 
That’s when in earth’s recycle pot, they’ll plant the likes of you.

Then all the ground, both ripe and browned, from you since passed away,
They’ll sell pot mix penny per sack, your natural N and K.

-Doug Garrett

One By One

Words and Music by Doug Garrett,  Music arranged by Donald A Garrett

In the quiet of the soul he teaches one by one,
By his still small voice he teaches, reaches one by one.
Touch his feet, touch his side. See how once he died,
For us, for us, to save us one by one.

A mighty storm arises, see the wind. As it sears my heart and causes doubts therein,
My trembling shoulders get crushed to the ground, by angry taunting voices all around.

Though strength is gone and confidence is torn, I rise and turn my face towards the storm.
My weakness seems to rob me of all choice. When all seems lost, its then I hear his voice.

He knows me by my name, I’m not alone. I have the strength to find my way back home.
And when I do, we’ll meet as face-to-face, I’ll hear his voice again as we embrace.

In the quiet of the soul he teaches one by one,
By his still small voice he teaches, reaches one by one.
Touch his feet, touch his side. See how once he died,
For us, for us, to save us one by one.

-Doug Garrett

Owens Move to Australia

(July 24 ,1971: Edmonton. Our friends, Tom and Helen Owen sailed to Australia, to return to where she was born. I wrote this song as a farewell tribute. It is sung to the tune of the Irish Rover’s “Unicorn.”)

A long time ago, when it all began, a red-headed Aussie came to claim her man.
It wasn’t long till she began to cuddle and coo, cause there stood Tom in blue.

So up they married and off they went for a 5-year stint on the continent.
But Germany’s cold, so word got around, “Guess whose moving to Barrie Town?”

Ontario was glad that they were sent. They made Tom District President.
They built Barrie Chapel with their might and main, but oh, those snows came on again.

Sometime later in the real Cold Lake, 50 below was more than they could take.
With 5 little kiddies and a few pets too, they looked like a walking zoo.

So here they are in the Klondike Town, to get an education and settle down.
But it didn’t take long for Helen to retort, “There ain’t enough sun here to tan my hide, sport!”

Now off they go to sunny Perth, clear on the other side of this silly earth.
Shouting, “Look what I brought you Maw, besides the kids and all – He’s out there in the hall.”

With his long-legged britches, both whites and blues,
Fuzzy white hair and white kid shoes,
His crazy ties attract the flies,
But sure as you were born,
He’s just the thing to keep me warm.

-Doug Garrett

Spunky Skunky, Ginger

(I wrote this poem for my grandchildren who had pet Guinea Pigs – that had a penchant for nibbling fingers.)

Ginger and Skunky lived all alone, two little guinea pigs,
Living in a grocery box and dancing Irish jigs.
But little fingers would appear from nowhere every day,
To poke and push, prod and twist. it caused them great dismay.

“We love our human beings.” they said, “Whatever shall we do?”
“Just close your eyes,” said Skunky, “And pretend it’s Irish Stew.
Those little things that aggravate, can be a special treat.
So close your eyes and think of them as something nice to eat.”

“Of course”, said Ginger with a shout, “ I’ll try it right away.”
He snuggled down and waited for a finger, gone astray.
It weren’t too long when one appeared- a big one, round and firm.
Ginger took a giant-size chomp, before it chanced to squirm.

“Spit it out, you nasty thing! I do hope it will mend.
You’re not supposed to eat it mate. You’re only to pretend!”
Oh, but it was quite too late. The damage had been wrought.
“Well if that was Irish Stew me boy, then I’m done. I’ve had me lot.” 

Now everyone has settled down, as pigs quite often do.
But never does one ever more, mention Irish Stew.
Even little fingers now, stay where they’re meant to stay,
And there hasn’t been a biting now, since Ginger ran away.

-Doug Garrett