Leaving – a poem by Owen Kavanagh


I’m a romantic to the depth of my soul
profound is my loss for unattained goal
dreams of sharing life with a mate
all I can manage is living with fate

I’m fatalistic – life’s passing me by
caught in a muddle of stuff that I try
like so many others… alone at my core
not even seeing the world at my door

Reincarnation may be the best hope
back to the future just hoping to cope
I’m not actually planning to die on this day
but when my time comes I’ll be thankful to say

“I’m leaving now, for places unknown
I trust you’ll continue to do well on your own
I’ll call when I get there … wherever it be
I’ll send you a postcard when I’m actually free”

You don’t seem excited but didn’t before
you’re not a believer in fortunes of war
somedays may be lonely may even regret
all the years that we lingered after we met

Life has many facets you proudly proclaim
then back to ignoring the love that you shame
you don’t know you’re hurting or being unkind
it’s narrow horizons that make you half blind

When love is so foreign it must seem too strange
when joy’s unfamiliar it’s not in your range
perhaps the kindest thing to be done
is to leave
and good wishes for your life thats to come

twochairs garden


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.


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 


“Alzheimer’s” by Owen Kavanagh


Words from the heart. Written about the author’s 93 year old former College professor, mentor and friend, who unfortunately now lives under the fog of Alzheimer’s disease, and who now needs to be reminded of his past, and how wonderful a man he was and still is.


I know a man who lost his way – his dearest things were gone

He searched the pockets of these clothes, given to put on
he scoured his mind to find a route back from his foreign war
scorched earth was all the proof he had of what he’d been before
he wondered at this place he stood and what he’d come here for
weights hung down where memory should recall
only space where once his pride would hold up every wall

Each face along the road he searched, “are you family?”
some said straight out that they were not, some pretend to care a lot
but one young fellow saw the man he’d known from long before
remembered him as one who’d walked the cliffs by park by shore
a jaunty chap with yapping dog, then arm-an-arm his grey haired wife
and finally in those last few years, hobbled, cane and hunched up life
Youth had yearned to know him then, this teacher from all time
but never had they passed a word, their seasons out of line.

Now chance, the youth reflects to show respect upon this day
so walks beside that bent old gent reminding him his way
oh what great tales lie so near, what happiness may dawn
if eyes be bright to see again, if voice be raised in song
Youth took one wrinkled hand in his as lurched along the street
toward the elder’s home, their passage to retreat

That night was as a prodigal son returned to kith & kin
rounds made, cups raised, the photo passed, stories roused within
that night each youngster crept from bed as first the tales begin
none left to feel alone that night, not when their gramps sat in
his start was slow but soon he spoke the secrets of their birth
stories only he would know, a life full-share of worth

He spent his youth in far south lands where folks drawl out their speech
recalled both the kindness done and cruelty of their reach
remembered child’s thistle wound salved in a black man’s spit
once hid his friend behind the sacks when Ku Klux Klan had hit
and all those tiny black girls in church basement bombed & burned
recalled he’d joined the walks for them, the peace for which he yearned

But stories and the night must fade as all are half asleep
youngsters carried off to bed without a single peep
The rest of us reflect on what our elder had to say
the worth of a man, is strong as the stance, he took along the way
and crystal clear it came to us who hear just why he hurt
why need he be amongst us here, so far from southern dirt

Next morning deformed hands to move, groaning and with sighs
shook out his snowdrift locks and glared from rheumy eyes
“I went to sleep back on the farm … with mule’s rein in my fist
… sister guiding plow’s deep bite … the cracker dirt adrift
and yet I wake in stranger’s house … with no one that I know
I’ll dress and leave you here in peace and trouble you no more”

I know a man who lost his way – his dearest things are gone.