Author: dgarrett

Jim Fleming: Reviews Movies and Videos.

(I wrote this poem in 1999 in honour of Jim Fleming, who worked at  Parentspreview.com)

Across the wide expanse of space, in some exotic webpage space,
A lonely figure “cuts and pastes,” appealing to our higher tastes.
As we enjoy the endless sight of previewed pictures on movie night, 
Do we stop to think of him whose back is bent and eyes are dim?

Each week we check his website page for wisdom from this wizened sage.
May his chilly, bony finger always on the key board linger.
All hail to him who Rod appointed, who never us hath disappointed.
Forever may the news contain these words: “Jim Fleming strikes again.”

-Doug Garrett

The Spider and the Silverfish

The spider said, “Oh Silverfish. It’s cold down on the floor, 
No doubt your hands and feet are damp, your rheumatism sore.
If you’ll come up onto my web, and share my net with me,
You’ll find it dry with lots to do and share the scenery.”

The Silverfish, though slow and flat, was not your common bug.
She’d twice been featured on “Nature Show” since marrying a slug.
“You Tegenaria Domestica! I’ll not by you be caught,
Go back to your slimy web page, you  triple  W.”

-Doug Garrett

Saga of the Mixed Soup Mugs

Tomato Soup and Scotch Broth, opposing tastes of brew.
One mug coloured brilliant red, the other placid blue.
One mug featured, tasty Herbs, savoury flavoured dipping.
The other bragged of beefy stock with barley, leaks and dripping.

Smooth and creamy, spicy hot, chunky lumps, or garlic paste:
Both distinctly opposite, everything including taste.
Both mugs at the China shop, waiting, wishing to be sold.
One could fly to someplace hot, the other someplace cold.

It happened as predicted, at last the two could sever.
But shock, they sold both off at once, and off they went together.
Proudly on the kitchen shelf, glaring ’til they almost burst,
Trying to outdo themselves, each one vying to be first.

Tomato soup was first to go. Oh the ecstasy and joy!
Could this possibly be true? Instant wanton soup with soy?
Scotch Broth’s fate was even worse, grabbed from off the counter top.
He got filled to overflow with sticky, fizzy, sugar pop.

Oh, embarrassment and shame. Each new fill was ripe with fraught.
Nameless, tasteless and yet worst, never cold nor barely hot.
Worn and stained they finely sat on the dark and dusty shelves.
Differences in taste seemed mute. So did pity for themselves.

Standing close so long together, colours blended, letters blurred,
Recipes and numbers jumbled, as it was with herbs and word.
One dark eve, the old maid searching, finding what she fumbled for,
Took two mugs with recipes she had never used before.

But by now, just purple mugs, with half a recipe on each,
Still she would try to rescue, what survived the age and bleach. 
Savoury herbs, she read slowly, garlic cloves with chunks of meat,
Two tomatoes, leeks and barley, mix together then add heat.

Never was such flavour tasted. Large the crowds who came to see.
Scotch Tomato Broth, she named it. Queen of Soups it came to be.
Now, when royalty consumes it, only purple mugs will do.
And they cannot be divided- never one, but always two.

-Doug Garrett

The Custodial Lament

(When I retired, after working as a custodian, I wrote an ode to my job and fellow employees. It is set to the music of “I Did It My Way“.) 

I came. I played the game, I grabbed a mop, I did the hallways.
I knew, not what to do, I was brand new, and not in small ways.
My hands were chafe, but I felt safe, for there was Delva in the stairway.
But more, much more than that, I did it their way.

Day after day, I followed through, eight hours when five, would surely do.
I folded my wings and learned to walk, counted T.P. rolls or dusted chalk.
But through it all, I still recall, I did it their way.

T’was long before, in ’94”, spring break had not, quite yet been broken,
In some dark hall, by someone tall, I heard the word, PMG spoken.
A Ms. Maclean yanked at my chain, but in a loving and a care way.
Her sweet soft voice , said “Take your choice, but do it their way.”

What could I do? What could be done? Go to your book, read chapter one,
Paragraph three, explained to me, what a good boy I’d better be.
We love you more than we can say, So do it their way.

So soon, I settled down, by someone else, my chores were chosen. 
I shoveled snow, in parking lots, until my little buns were frozen.
And then all spent, my old legs bent, flat on my back beneath God’s skyway, 
There’s Richard’s call. Well dang it all –Just do it my way.

What could I say? What could I do, open your book read chapter two. 
And in small print, too small to read, is all the info, you will need.
Just be smart, Just do your part and do it their way.

But then one day, they took away, all the outdoor machinery.
I kid you not, some other clod, did all the shrubs, the lawns, the greenery.
I laughed out loud. I shunned the crowd, but in a civilized and fair way.
It was the trend, so in the end, I did it their way.

What could I do? How could this be? Open your book. Don’t look at me.
Please forgive, when I confess, I can’t recall, my minds a mess.
The only thing, that I can say, is do it their way.

And now, I leave the ranks, and join the cranks and weird dissenters.
Where once oppressed, I’ve now become, another one, of your tormentors.
Don’t count me out, or laugh and shout, as I appear upon the stairway. 
Just read the text, you could be next, so do it their way.

What can I say? What can be done? Go back and re-read chapter one.
You’ll understand it all one day, but not before your old and grey.
As long as they give you your pay, just do it their way.

– Doug Garrett

Christmas Time, Hotline

‘Twas the week before Christmas when all through the Wards
The members were coming to parties in hordes.
The rooms were all filled with leftovers and ware,
In the hope the custodians soon would be there.

The P.M.G Hot line was bristling with chatter,
Isabelle said she’d look into the matter.
Richard, of course, had just settled down
From a trip to the Island or somewhere around.

When out on the hallway there arose such a noise:
Unusual shouting from Bob and the boys?
Darrell on a lawn mower was gnashing his teeth,
Colin was shouting, “A legitimate beef.”

Clutched in Wayne’s hand, was a blue ugly box –
 A homemade grenade from used urinal blocks.
Placards and posters read, “Enough is Enough.”
“Whoa!” said Richard,“ This is manager stuff.”

Then right in the middle of this chaos and dread,
What should appear but a man dressed in red.
His pants, oh so baggy, coat tight as a fiddle,
He looked like a garbage bag tied in the middle.

Oh such a sight we had never beholden,
We knew in a flash, it must be Mead Coleman.
His head was all shiny, his cheeks how they glistened.
We all stopped our fussing to stare and to listen.“Well now, what’s up guys?” He reportedly asked.
Richard was quicker and used to the task.
“Hold on,” he said unusually astute,
“Put down your mops and your buckets, don’t shoot.”

“What we have here, as strange as it sounds,
Is our own Tooth Fairy (give or take a few pounds).
Then laying his finger at the tip of his nose,
He said rather cunningly, “Here’s what I propose.”

“Leave it with us. We know what to do.”
And grabbing Mead Coleman, down the highway they flew.
To the Abbotsford Stake, to the great halls of Surrey,
Dash again, dash again, to Vancouver. Hurry!

To and office marked clearly, “Enter who Durst.”
Went Richard, Lion Hearted with Mead Coleman the First.
To the High Council Room, without any airs,
To talk to the men in the black leather chairs.

Mothers will weep telling children the story,
Of Richard and Mead and their great oratory
That caused grown men to cry with delight,
“Yes, yes we believe, and we’ll do it tonight!”

Within the hour came busloads of troops
To all the buildings, in singles and groups.
Members and families, old folks and friends,
Each carrying gadgets with things on the ends.

Right through the front doors like birds how they scattered,
Scrubbing and cleaning like nothing else mattered.
They polished the handles and scrubbed up the doors,
And when they had finished they polished the floors.

In no time at all each building was gleaming,
And each little face of each family was beaming.
Then dancing and singing as each one withdrew,
They blew kisses to us – the custodial crew!

Angels were singing, a harp I was strumming.
I thought this is surely the second great coming.
As the vision began to break up instead,
 I realized it’s only a dream in my head.

But I never forgot as it faded from view,
The things that I saw that members could do.
But until we behold that Celestial sight,
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

-Doug Garrett

The Custodial Ghost

(I worked as a custodian for several years, and wrote this poem about my I boss and fellow employees in 1998. It is inspired by the poem: The Cremation of Sam McGee, by Robert W. Service)

There are stories told in bathrooms cold, in the land of the pale blue sun.
And I wouldn’t swear, on the book for most, but I sure would for this one.
It tells of a grey ol’ grizzled cuss, not hell nor heaven sent. 
Hard work had long deployed his joints, his bone-racked back, long bent.

Most of the time his “Q’s” he’d mind, and you’d never know he’d been, 
‘Cept the endless halls and graffiti walls were washed and spotless clean.
A custodial ghost, one could say at most, with a cold light in his eye.
A hint of scent where ‘ere he went, let you know he lingered by.

The legend goes, if you catch the ghost and wrestle him to the ground,
You could force a wish from his cursed lips, he’d grant it, and he was bound.
But the ghost was smart as a stripling fox. His temper as mean as sin.
Many a man had tried, but failed, to hold or take him in.

Well me, and a couple of P.M. boys, while out on the grounds one day,
Was talking it up, when it came over our minds, like the smell of new mowed hay.
We’d have him on, our will was strong, without a fear of dying.
We’d tear our wish from his dust clogged lips – or perish in the trying.

So there we dreamed while we hatched our scheme, the nor’ lights flashing bold, 
Four fools crazed with the plan that blazed in our mind like the lure of gold.
We laid it out from stem to stern, with warning wires and lights.
Said good-bye to kin and settled in, and stocked for a hundred nights.

On the chapel room rug, where the noise of a bug, kept our nerves as tight as a drum,
We was scarce half-awake, but sure that our fate and our future life was all done.
When Bob’s piercing scream warned it wasn’t a dream, so we took in our last long breath.
“There he stands me boys, in his hobbledeehoyes, as cold and pale as death.”

There in the light, stood a terrible sight, I’ve barely the wit for recalling.
His face was stark, his eyes red dark, his breath down right appalling.
I was froze to the spot, and believe it or not, I would have run but I couldn’t.
It was, “Grab him now or forever give up,” and that’s when I vowed that I wouldn’t.

“Grab him Quick” responded Nick. We exploded from our post,
With fists and feet, we’d make mincemeat of this or any Ghost.
Our muscled cracked, our joints we fracked, he threw us off like burs.
But one by one, we grabbed, we hung, till awful was his curse.

And there we stayed until he swayed of strength and power divested.
The prize we sought, we claimed our lot, our nemesis we bested.
Then closer in his darkened face, we gasped as we did stare.
The unmistakable countenance of Richard R.J. Haire!

We knew he prowled the Surrey halls, and dabbled now and then.
But this was it, the profile fit, WE HAD OUR GHOST, AMEN.
I clutched his throat with vise like grip, we’d come too far by now.
We couldn’t let the rascal win, we’d cook his goose somehow.

Ice hung upon his every word, we’d mine them too, with sluice.
“You’ll have yer chance to dance, me lads, think hard before you choose.”
“I’ll take looks.” “For me it’s books.” And then our breath we caught,
“Two wishes from four , you’ve just two more. You’re easier than I thought.”

“Let’s all relax in Cadillac’s, where tropic warm winds blow.”
With a flick of his hand, we was in Caribbean land, with only one wish to go.
Now I’ve watched the way the ice worms play. Been snookered by the best. 
Seen fortunes tossed and fortunes lost, seen cards on a dead man’s chest.

“I’ll take this wish, ” almost feverish, says I anteing up the game.
“And for these mate, this wish I make, all get the very same.”
All mouths aghast we stood at last, no one breathed a breath.
We had him bound, with no way round, he’ll pay us or face death.

Here’s the wish: We want a niche in a nice warm place, to choose.
Whether come or go, sun or snow, or whether we read or snooze.
Some chores to do, but precious few, with space and trees and grass.
Not a shabby shack in the way out back. A big one, with lots of class.

Where money appears, with no arrears, in a bank with our own account,
A stove and fridge, both ’bout average, to hold food of any amount.
Now if you can find some thing of its kind, then make it a place for four.
With a sneer and a twist of his gnarly old wrist – we were back on the chapel room floor!

In total surprise, we assessed our demise, how we’d come to this paradox,
Where we’d been had and brutally bad by this crafty and cunning ol’ fox.
In a flash is was clear, cause his motive I fear, had a devious predisposition.
For the things we had asked, totally matched, our “custodial job description.” 

There are strange tales told, in washrooms cold, in the land of the pale blue sun,
And I wouldn’t swear on the Book for most, but I sure would ’bout this one.
So here I stay on custodial pay and I pray I never hear more,
Of that crafty ol’ host, the custodial ghost, and that night on the chapel room floor.

-Doug Garrett

Becoming Perfect is Like Making Diamonds

The Diamond is one of the hardest materials that is found in nature. To cut, reshape or polish a diamond then, requires tools and methods that are gruff enough, and tough enough to make the required changes. But most critical of all to the process is the skill of the Master Diamond cutter. Without that great skill, the Diamond could be sheared, cracked or rendered less valuable. It could be completely shattered altogether if the hand of the Master should make a mistake or an incorrect cut. It is his skill, experience, unwavering hand and eye that in the end unlock and reveal the beautiful gleaming diamond that only he knows is there.

Everyone has seen a finished diamond with its smooth, round, polished surface reflecting brilliant shafts of pure light from its multiple cut symmetric edges. But if you were to search for such distinguished and desirable gems in the open pits of kimberlite ore bodies and lamproite pipe systems of long dead volcanoes in the corrosive magma where they’ re found in nature, you would not be able to find anything at all that resembles them. These rough diamonds that are located there, are dirty, rough, uneven, reflect little light and look to be of little or no value to anyone. What it takes for a diamond in the rough to metamorphose into a beautiful Diamond of great value, is a process called “Polishing and cutting”.

The Master that created us knew that if we were to be more than Diamonds in the rough, with our great potential, talents and capacities still hidden by imperfections, dirty grim and rough edges that could not reflect light, then we too would have to go through a process that would remove our impurities, scale off the clinging deeply etched habits and the corrosive and toxic attitudes that we had embraced through ignorance and fleshy desires. This life is a process that we go through under the hand of the Master Polisher and cutter to bring out, reveal and expose what even we did not know was there. By resisting the will, experience and guiding hand of the Master, we run the possibility of being sheared, cracked, chipped, reduced in value, or shattered all together.

On the other hand, from our most inner soul, can come a gem of such exquisite beauty and value that even we will agree, the difficult buffetings, the oppositions and the cuttings, were in the end, well worth the while.

Doug Garrett

Anomalous Anomalies

Definition of Ignorance: A state of mind in which, when you are in it, you are the last to know.

Definition of Arrogance: A state of mind in which you do everything within your power to convince everyone you know, how ignorant you are.

Definition of Pride: A state of mind in which you have both ignorance and arrogance simultaneously.

Definition of Humility: The only known cure for the most common of human maladies, ignorance, arrogance, and pride. It is found in abundance and can be consumed in its natural state. Consumer reports indicate however, it has the least effect on those who are known to be suffering from ignorance, arrogance or pride. 

– Doug Garrett

————–//————–

How do we become successful?
Answer in 2 words: Right choices.

How do we learn to make right choices?
Answer in 2 words: Gain Experience.

How do we gain Experience?
Answer in 2 words: Wrong choices. 

– Doug Garrett

————–//————–

Experience changes our thinking.
Thinking changes our behaviour.
Behaviour changes our success.
Success changes our choices.
Our choices determine who we become.

– Doug Garrett

————–//————–

“You can lead a horse to water but you cannot make him drink.”
A horse will only drink when he is thirsty.

If you want to make a horse drink, first make him thirsty – 
Then he will come to the water by himself.

You do not have to make a thirsty horse drink.

————–//————–

– Doug Garrett

Help With Addiction Recovery

For several years, my wife and I volunteered as leaders in an Addiction Recovery Program sponsored by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The following writings chronicle my thoughts and impressions as I assisted others to work through a healing process adapted from the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous.

Perhaps the most interesting thing I learned as I taught the 12 Steps is that they really apply to everyone, whether an addict or not. Life is about learning, growing and improving. The principles of these programs, if followed, provide a chance to change and become our best selves.

-Doug Garrett