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