Words

 Words

 

There are words here:

lengthy, brief,

antiquated, modern,

enunciated, mispronounced, 

abbreviated, lengthened,

extended, contracted,

drawled or clipped:

their very sounds add to their meaning.

Backyard slang, drawing room formality,

with or without gesture for explication.

Communication in evolved or primitive form,

face to face and meaningful.

 

What wonders words are!

Gathered in clouds around us all,

a world of choices to speak,

to write, to imagine...

Be silent a moment, though,

and listen...

There are poets here

and they have ways with words.

Dandelions

 

 

Concrete cracks and median strips,

slivers of dirt between crumbling bricks:

anywhere a seed can blow, can land, anywhere it can squeeze a thread of root

in its search for sustenance.

That’s where a dandelion grows.

 

And somehow, it thrives.

It sprouts a ragged crown of green;

it sports a hollow stem, 

and issues forth a sunshine flower

beloved of children, creating

grubby bouquets in a water glass.

 

It’s a lot like hope: 

hope that sees the possibility,

the potential in a tiny crack,

that needs only a drop of water,

a teaspoon of soil,

and faith in the power of sunshine.

 

And with that shred of hope,

a sunny flower becomes

a star-shower of seeds

whose boundaries are the wind,

who travel farther than imagination,

who transcend expectations and grow.

 

We should all be dandelions.

Password Blues

 

I’ve got the password blues:

can’t remember what I’ve used—

hardly know what to choose

deep in the password blues.

 

I’ve run out of children,

I’ve run out of pets,

used up old addresses..

What’s more, I forget.

 

Is it alphanumeric, or simply generic?

Keys to accounts? Anxiety mounts:

Too much to remember, those user IDs—

I’ve got more passwords than my dog has fleas.

 

Password for the internet, password for traveling,

Password for payroll..my life is unraveling.

One for my messages, one for my mail,

One for my bank account, one that just fails.

 

Elephant memory is what we need,

or a list, if I pay the experts no heed.

Turn on the computer—my heart drops to my socks.

There’s always another log-in box.

 

It’s a bad, bad feeling, 

like rain in my shoes.

I’ve got no memory—

and the password blues.

 

 

 

 

Poetry: A Definition

 

It’s not just words, it’s words as art.

The shape and sound and texture of language:

not meaning alone.

And that’s where people miss the boat.

 

“Express yourself” they say...

but poems are sculpture and music and vision as well:

structure and vacuum,

the whole AND its parts—

what’s missing, what’s implied:

a workout for the mind

strengthening the muscle of invention,

bulking up on vocabulary,

improving on creation.

 

Perhaps a way

of playing god.

Memories and Visions

 

The white space that refreshes the eye.

The oasis in the desert of the workday world.

The pause in the ticking clock of everyday.

The reset button on our mental computers.

The splash of color in the black-and-white columns

Of the day’s events.

 

Art: renewable and renewing in lives

that are not; turning the everyday

on its head, giving new perspectives

on the ordinary.

 

Vibrantly focused, bent by visions

Reflected, distorted, embellished

By a human lens,

The light of living fractures

Into a million crystal shards.

 

We are the prisms

through which the world bleeds.

Born out of storm and sunlight,

we are the makers of rainbows.

We build our visions.

We make art.

Hopkins

 

I was twenty when

I worked at Johns Hopkins;

the medical school, a lab,

mentored by professors,

research funded by

an assortment of sources

(mostly federal.)

 

I saw basic research.

I learned techniques.

I was educated in the what

and why and how of research:

how what we did each day

fit into the jigsaw puzzle

of medical research.

 

That research, that mentorship,

depended on funding

that is being taken away.

Without that start, I’d not have

gone to grad school, 

met the man I married,

had a job in California.

 

Where I worked  

toward a cancer cure—

on federal funds.

We moved the ball a little

toward that goal. Who knows

what we might achieve

if those funds were still there?

 

A poor bargain for us,

for our modern Judas:

trading our future 

for a few pieces of silver.

 

 

Memory

 

Memories are mysteries:

a song, a sight, a sound

prompting a sleeping nerve cell

toward a synapse

harboring the past—

resurrecting, restoring

an emotion, a response, a re-creation

of another time and place,

re-visiting, re-living my life

again, and yet

again.