” THIS LIFE”

The sun rises to an unforgiving day, what preys’,

Sympathy has no smile, It does not walk my way.

Faces of lies speak to me, satan In their eyes,

Spirit In the sky takes a grip of my hand, strength.

This Is a mans’ land, not of pure and good,

This life, this life of mine Is an alone adventure.

Words’ pour out of their mouths’ like water so dirty,

Only sounds’ do I hear, unrecognizable to these ears.

They try so hard to take this heart, they cannot steal,

I’m reminded of the hurt they know I feel, not unreal.

This life, this life takes If It sees a smile and happiness

When It knows It’s In 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 where as a boy once stood, shadows are now larger from trees

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

Watching streets form that were 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 whom 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

THE NEIGHBORS

Appeared did they to be a peaceful, also a mostly quiet couple,

Smiles on their faces as their days were filled with fun and activity.

Barbecues on weekends, sitting on the porch in the evening air,

Mowing the lawn on a Saturday, planting flowers in the garden.

They would come and go as they pleased, two different cars of color,

A hello as they passed you by walking down the street, they had names.

Laughter from their house at times even an argument or two I’ve heard,

It appears they get along very well but then nothing in life is perfect.

The neighbors are basically like everyone else, differences in all though,

I remember them well, I came home from a trip and they were gone, the neighbors.

Keith Garrett

THE EMPTY HOUSE

Behind a set of pine trees, so big and tall they are,

Where the sun shines through the branches up high.

There is a house, an empty house that’s old and weathered,

Around it are shrubs and a pond that rests for many years.

I can feel there is a story here, one to be told from long ago,

A cabin like home where once lived someone, a family gone now.

Wood so old, cracked and worn as if a hundred years ago,

Made of brick and stone, a chimney where fires for warmth were formed.

I walk the grounds where once walked a lonely man, children were born,

Echoes of a fiddle played in the early evening light, listen to laughter from a time.

The empty house has stood through time, imagine this land and what was going on,

Cobwebs where once life walked around, not a sound, the empty house, alone.

Keith Garrett

THE WRONG BOOTH

Innocently he walks in, a quiet night,

His thoughts are of the moment, he sits.

A cup of coffee as his eyes wander this place,

He is not comfortable as he watches those around.

There is little sound as he rests his weary mind,

Eyes are upon him but he will not understand why.

Approached by one he does not know, he reacts quickly,

Injured as he runs away, the wrong booth he found today.

Keith Garrett

THESE BOYS OF SUMMER

They come to play, these men of the field,

All dressed the same for this game they don’t fear.

Nine men with a number and a name on their backs,

The goal is to defend and conquer this enemy who will attack.

A crowd will gather in support of these warriors well trained,

They’ll cheer till the end of this battle of power that has its own name.

One by one, each stands at the plate,

As one lone attacker throws his weapon their way.

With a bat in his hands he defends his ground,

A crack that echoes can be heard if he strikes back

At him what was thrown from the mound.

They dive and they jump to stop what’s sent their way,

To hold back the attack of nine men here today.

These boys of Summer who fight to become,

Champions of the game to be remembered for what they have done.

Keith Garrett

SOMETHING SO STRONG

For so long now a crushing pain, out of the darkness I find my way,

The sky I see above rests over the mountain i must climb.

A glow of light finds me as I make my way up the endless giant,

There’s a faith that guides, I am not afraid fore many will stand with me.

Inside this body lives a spirit of never ending fight for survival,

Something so strong, it conquers the force of doubt in another man.

I may not reach the top but I will try, I will get there, I’ll touch the sky,

Lost was I this man of many sorrows, a change in myself is discovered.

Such a long road on my own to follow, travel it with me now and forever,

I’ve seen the mountain, I’ve climbed high with blood and pain, to the top.

Many have come to watch my flight from the morning’s light into the dark,

With me they stood strong, they helped me climb when I weakened.

Keith Garrett

Something so strong as I would not fall, their strength gave me courage,

The mountain still stands, again I will climb stronger each time.

Keith Garrett

WORLDLY GOODS

We leave it behind, go only with that which we were born,

Over a lifetime we accumulate many possessions of love.

Material belongings come and go, of use for but a moment,

Why we treasure items made by another, there is a value.

These things we use in our everyday, tools, things of help,

Material things are not what rates us as human beings although

To some it is the measure of success of a man, sad as it is.

Worldly goods are sometimes earned and at times found,

Good in a person much more precious than gold from the ground.

Keith Garrett

TALE OF AN OUTLAW

Sit back and listen as I tell you this tale of an outlaw,

As a child his future was uncertain as both mother and father were killed.

Hungry with no one to turn too he begged for food,

Slept wherever might be shelter, survived as a thief.

As he grew he then met those whom lived as he lived,

Without skills of his own he set out on a stolen horse.

He now was a thief and an outlaw, listen further,

With a gun he did not own he now robbed from those whom did not steal.

Finally he faced one who did not wish to give,

Murder was now his ultimate crime.

Hunted down by a sheriff and a posse, he was then caught,

Because he could not travel a road of good,

He now layed in the dirty street, dead.

Keith Garrett

THERE ONCE LIVED A MAN

Many lifetimes ago there lived a youthful man,

He worked hard, he did all that a man can.

On his farm, awoke when the rooster said,

Watched the sunrise, breakfast began his day.

A simple man who worked hard on his land,

Crops in the field, a little money in his hand.

He had a wife with a pretty smile,

She was there when the day was done,

As he walked in from the setting sun.

Supper on the table, tired was this man and wife,

A warm fire and some conversation till sleep set in their eyes.

Children were grown, an adventure of their own,

A mother, a father, in a home now alone.

There once was a man who loved all that he had.

Keith Garrett