STORIES ARE TOLD

Traditions of storytelling from thousands of years,

Around campfires and in homes in times of old.

Thought up from Imaginations or a small tale that grows,

Fables told by a Grandfather to a child in countries of old.

A bedtime adventure from a book to send you off to dream,

Around the world, many have listened, stories across the sea.

Stories are told that touch one’s soul,” listen child” they never grow too old,

Generation to Generation, within cultures of different beliefs, a tale that speaks.

Keith Garrett

THIS HOUSE

Standing along a Riverbank within years of trees,

This house so old has been for more than a century.

It has a story, secrets that remain inside its stone walls,

Built to withstand wars, survive the test of time.

Windows there are of many, windows that eyes have looked through,

Eyes that no longer see, lost in this house for eternity.

Some rooms can not speak fore if they could, horrible screams,

Those who have slept here never awaken from their peaceful dreams.

This house is not haunted as none of the dead have ever stayed,

It sits here quietly as all who have entered never go away.

Keith Garrett

CRY BY THE LIGHT OF THE NIGHT!

When there’s nothing left, only those who are of destruction,

They live, but they are without a soul, a heart, any love connection.

Hunt we do for food, water gathered by the riverside, I cry,

How for personal gain and greed can it all be thrown away?

We run from the day, dodge by the dark of an endless night,

Sleep is rare, with an eye open weapons are to be a trusted friend.

There’s no time being afraid when you’re running for your life,

The thought of what’s right or wrong lives in your weary minds.

Cry by the light of the night! run in the darkness, seek daylight,

The battle may be strong, the war will end, I’ll be with you again.

Keith Garrett

DONT CRY FOR YESTERDAY

We have our yesterday, a life growing up,

As a child, life can be the hardest lesson.

Painful memories, scars that carry into our tomorrow,

The good times with family, brothers, and sisters we know.

In our past, our close by yesterday as adults,

We have grown and changed, hopefully for the good.

So as children or adults, as long as we are alive,

There will be a today, a yesterday, and a tomorrow.

We dream of the future, these thoughts we have today,

Don’t cry for yesterday, remember it, cherish that part of your life.

You made through good times or bad,

Lessons that taught us, let us not today forget that which we’ve learned.

We are born, we have life, and ultimately we do die,

In between are given an experience to see this world

That we truly don’t understand.

So, don’t cry for yesterday.

Keith Garrett

SHE SITS ALONE

In her cozy little home, she sits alone,

Out of the window the birds sing, they wait.

A lady wakes to her day, she sees the sun,

A smile on her face as she watches.

It’s a beautiful day as she strolls out into the yard,

Into her garden with food for her flying friends.

Bluebirds can sense the table of peanuts,

They are most happy as they gather a favorite food.

She watches as the squirrels sit and eat,

She sits alone but never so alone.

There’s a peace within the trees and plants,

She thinks and dreams, quiet is the scene,

She sits alone with friends that roam.

Keith Garrett

WHEN THE CLOCK STOPS

It measures our time, an hourglass in our mind,

All are not equal, not the same amount of sand.

A timepiece which shows our days, hour by hour,

With the sun we plan our existence minute by minute.

Everything is measured from the creation of time,

When the clock stops we drift into a consciousness of another kind.

Keith Garrett

A COLLECTION OF TIME

From our first look, a picture, a baby book,

Pictures in school, pictures in the park,

Home movies and videos, memories of who we are.

A collection of time, scenes and images from a life,

A scrapbook of many filled and turned pages to see,

Photo albums created from places, times with family.

A collection of time, pictures faded, recalled faces that change,

All that which we hold onto, saved in boxes, dusty shelves of thoughts,

A collection of time, memories in our minds, treasures left behind.

Keith Garrett

WORDS AND MUSIC

A simple word, formed with others to create conversation,

A tune heard passing by, music echoing in the dark of night.

Words are every day, not heard from a deaf man’s ears,

Music is everywhere, there is nothing dangerous to fear.

Words can be scary, angry, sad, blue, words that are true,

Music can take you far away beyond your same repeated day.

Words and music, together become a beautiful song, a story loved,

An ongoing love affair, nothing has to go away or ever end.

Keith Garrett

SONGS AND LIGHTS

Season of songs, season of lights admired for a moment,

Lyrics and tunes played with a mix of Winter wind and cold.

Bright colors of beautiful reds, greens, blues, and others,

Lights lights spectacular and flashing all through the night.

Hark the Harold Angels sing, one of many songs the season brings,

From your heart sing out, with such a love it does create.

Songs and lights together, words and colors put into a dream,

This is the way that I feel from inside me.

Keith Garrett

THE OLD NEIGHBORHOOD

More than forty years ago out there among some hills sat a town.

Already quite old but new to another generation brought together.

It was a place where as kids we could run in the fields, explore the hills.

I remember an old stagecoach laid over in a ditch, why was it there.

Those hills were beautiful and a great place for many adventures I recall.

Now most of them are gone or disappearing with years of man’s destruction.

I will say that I have walked or passed through every street in my time there.

The old neighborhood is now much older as I have walked where once walked,

stood in spots whereas a boy once stood, shadows are now larger from trees

that was so many years ago young and now much bigger and older I see.

Watching streets form that was not there, houses rising from the ground

that never were there, now more than forty years have passed as they have aged.

Ghostly images remain of friends who did ride skateboards, talk at school,

Hang out at a doughnut shop that has vanished just as those special friends have

wandered into the future where today they rest scattered across many lands.

I remember when streets didn’t go through, when Boone’s Farm wine was cool.

7- Eleven, triple scoop for fifteen cents and pinball machines, streets of Yorba

were indeed a dream, the old neighborhood and all of you from back then.

If you’re still out there, somewhere around, let your voice be heard,

make a sound, the old neighborhood, my thoughts from a kid in a Yorba Linda town.

Keith Garrett