April 10th, 1950 – Happy 63rd Birthday by Owen Kavanagh

Hello Inquisitive readers,

Here is the latest poem submitted by Owen Kavanagh, of Victoria B.C. If anyone out there pens poetry, and would like it posted onto site, please submit through “Comments” and I will gladly publish it for you. As to articles, opinions and essays that I usually post, on what was a fairly consistent basis, I’m a bit behind, as since September much of my time has been filled with work (apartment manager), which keeps me fed and housed, and another passion of mine, coaching Midget level (15-17 yrs old) hockey here in Victoria. I find hockey is a great team game to teach life lessons, especially with the age group I work with. On the other hand it can also be said that it gives me practical experiance to challenge a Physcology degree.

Thanks for stopping by, and I hope to be posting new stuff soon.

Peace.

Now please enjoy Owen’s latest, “April 10th 1950 – Happy 63rd Birthday”

 

How trying for the centipede to tie-up all his shoes

once laced into the hundredth pair it’s long past time for school

so off they come and put away, the busy work is done 

our centipede can rest his feet at setting of the sun

 

Humans have a hundred pair of thoughts to guide their day

each to inspire the when & where which carry them away

to wander barefoot down some path, to crunch on stone to peak

to splash about in muddy pools, to hide beneath the leaf 

 

Each thought is stretched along beside its fellows of the toe

some count right and some rub wrong, a tumble of a row

the human mind a wonderment to make out something clear

with each toe pressed against the rest, no single voice to hear

 

By ear & eye we conjure up some meaning as we can

what course to take amid the rest, where to lend a hand

its less our choice that matters here but more to grasp a hold

to plant our feet in fertile ground, to learn as life unfolds

 

Outside ourselves, its strangers all, talk up their mighty storm

we look to them for ways to grow beyond imperfect form

We know their sounds, but not their words, its meaning that we seek

so time and time and time again, return to hear them speak

 

How trying for the centipede to tie on all those shoes

and for man to walk the path which brings him somewhere new

the pattern of our lives dictate such quantities of time 

that by day’s end its comforts sought in cadence of the rhyme 

 

Next morning it all starts again, this lacing up of life

minutes passed at pleasant work, hours clear of strife 

and at day’s end, accomplishment, the busy work complete

but no transforming thoughts to guide us on our weary feat

 

The world is made anew each birth, each death clears out a path

its move on routes drummed into heads, ordained, a pattern cast 

we walk this road from start to end before the sun may set

we move as on a racing course, just time to catch our breath

 

Life so short (it seems so long), it lasts from here to there

what meaning can we comprehend, what lessons can we share

and now that I am old and grey and struggle with my laces 

no cares have I for grander schemes, nor dream of other places

 

No, I’ll leave you and fair centipede to scurry on your way

I wish you luck but won’t partake the challenge of your day

I’ll sit at home and read my books, I’ll smoke and drink a cup

I’ll hope that when my path has cleared, you’ll find your way freed up 

 

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