Category: Poems

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

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