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


The Day that Robert Newhouse Died by C.K.Baker

The news today this twenty-fifth day of July, Twenty Fourteen.

“Man”ing up in Texas

Geldof overdose

Needles at the bed stand

Starlet comatose.

California dreaming

Killer meets demise

Hurling in a taxi

Puke fee on the rise.

Fighting in the Gaza

Jordan’s Holy war

Rebels on a mission

Jihad underscore.

The North Korean riddle

Pales in grand design

Crisis on the border

Planes fall from the sky.

Cooking on a deadline

Tempting tapenades

Herbs are in the spotlight

Wines that give a nod.

Brewers fill the beast

With pork a starring role

50 shades of gray

A freckle and a mole.

Google maps the body

DOW at record highs

Uber hits the market

Corn is on the rise.

Apple on its earnings

Caterpillar dead

European sanctions

Banks have shit the bed.

Clippers threaten boycott

Longhorns follow purge

Lynch is out of training camp

James is on the verge.

Leinarts taking pot shots

Coughing up a lung

Lions take a licking

Fans are throwing dung.

Another day in Vegas

Primm from A-Z

Rolling out an ankle

A flying SUV.

Quiet tempting spaces

Made better by design

Multicolor pea coat

Silence fuels the mind.

Stabbing in the subway

Goat caught in a well

Apes are selling tickets

(but leave behind a smell).

Puberty on trial

A man without a head

Teachers feel alone

(Take them to the shed!).

Jonah’s tomb destroyed

Wreckage in Mumbai

“Sugar Daddy” sites

Freedom 85.

The immigrant debate

Russia’s mounting toll

Unions on a mission

“heads are gonna roll”.

Beaches for the nudist

Hotels are on the cheap

The best generic brands

A list you HAVE to keep.

Planning your estate

Questions from the camp

A mansion up for sale

Where once they filmed “The Champ”.

Midwives threaten action

Aboriginal act

Truckers want a “push”

That train has left the track.

Sharks are found in Fundy

A prized but perilous catch

Food we love to hate the most

An irrefutable batch.

A family on the brink

“I want my kids to fail!”

Politicians drains all hope

A ban on Israel!

Follow out each headline

Let media be your guide

All these things did happen

the day that Newhouse died.


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 


The Lost Mahout by CK Baker

the lost mahout

black cat in
a white wicker chair
pear leaves
the high wire
creeping vines
on the hedgerow
root ferns claw
the sun drench bank

picket wall stained
on cedar
sow bug jumps
the grated  worn step
four legs
on a foot path
biscuit brown
fill the pipe

spiders march
on dew web
knots and rivets
cut at the seam
maples wide
on the canopy floor
sap balls ping
the front gate

dandelions drift
on west breeze
berries plump
at shepherds grove
wood sill holds
the broken stained glass
letter box lined
by the shoe scrub

delft ware
on the snap line
numbers drawn
for the promising guest
junior poised
with mouth agape
birds and squirrels
whistle their jovial tune

gold finch
darts the sea ranch
mountain steam brisk
at lush green pass
crafters window
in the alpine
follies await
the days task

copper roof on a
mud wall
airedale set on
woven front mat
watchmen of the
earwigs and mites
scurry under
rustled wet leaves

frogs leap at corner creek
shutter bugs sit
at gryphons lair
still water ripples
at the deep pool
the folding tips
and fingers
on fishers bridge

brother bear
on the cut shelf
silver fish
come to life
whiskey jack high
on india green
elijah and xavier
pause at the days end



©CK Baker, 2013



“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.



CK Baker’s “The Organ Room”

 lady craighead

played the blues

on a stand-up samick

in the organ room

along side

the parson’s project

and squabbling dogs

and knight moves

the stairs creek

on the mezzanine trek

as wool sheets slide

on the finished floor

angels play late

in the 7th

(a closing match nearing

the midnight hour)

the phone rings

and clock sings

in the ruddy stall

a sleeman variation

of the ruy lopez

employed heartily

by the incomparable

master jack!

rooster calls

and wind squalls

rustle through the west screen door

chicken pot pie and rogue flies linger

the rocker chair placed

near the sepia face (coloured)

in a silver back frame

croaking toads

and crickets

in the blue moon

musty smells and mothballs

deep in the vault

the kettle boils

and cat coils

as the pump house turns

donkeys are called

and hoes fastened

maggie and her dreams

of green tambourines


and reflections

and whispering

gospel bells)

toast is burning

a wringer wash churning

the chris craft running

near the carp canoe

tractor pulls

and stone grinders trip

as horses lay

in the mid-day sun

the trump card is fingered

at the furnace click

(crosswords and puzzles

are next!)

while the sparrow prince

and that damn rabid fox

are drowning

deep in castles well



Copyright © 2013

CK Baker


By Jan James

I wish I could write the thoughts of my heart.

How different things might be.

To express myself in whole or in part.

For all my peers to see.


Some are skilled in the art of song.

Others sing naturally.

I could not hold a note for long,

And definitely not in key.


While many have talents seen clearly.

Others not easy to view.

Mine may be hidden by merely,

The shadow cast by you.




Untitled Oh about 30 years ago

Bells of tubular shape,
hanging by twine,
sounding and flashing in the distance.

They twinkle, those lights.

Gazing down I stare at,
a flickering candle.
Trying to peer into it.
But fading casually,
into one of your worlds.
Perhaps being somewhere you wish.

Someone announces,
that I’m a simple dreamer.
Within an echo I cry no, no.

The bells are fading.
The dreaming seemingly insane.
But as the guitar refrains,
on its final strum.
Go to sleep you.
And dream.