gargouille, throat, gullet (dragon) from Latin gurgulio,
gar, “to swallow,” gurgling sound of water
from this grotesque spout conveying rainwater away
from walls and mortar, always turned away
from spire, prayers, hymns, smoke and fire.
Gargoyle, Notre Dame, Paris
some of Vincent van Gogh’s irises
It’s early for irises, Stanley. But today
daffodils are shouting yellow and white calls
to me from my garden, “Come outside!
Leave that poem for tonight! Touch blooms!”
Maybe it was you, Stanley, calling me.
The new green is amused by raindrops.
How they plop, roll, sit and soak.
One droplet magnifies the leaf veins center.
A star, a circle, coming together and
radiating out with the Sun’s bright energy.
Latin vaccinus, from vacca “cow” because of
early use of cowpox virus against smallpox.
I remember the massive Sabin oral vaccine
for polio first developed by Jonas Salk.
Vaccines stimulate the production of antibodies
provide immunity against one or several diseases
using disease to treat without inducing disease.
“Our greatest responsibility,” said Dr. Salk Vaccine,
“is to be good ancestors.” We too
use our life to inoculate against life.
A 1963 poster featured CDC’s national symbol of public health, the “Wellbee”, who was encouraging the public to receive an Sabin Type-II oral polio vaccine in campaigns across the United States. (via Wikimedia)
spring thoughts to poetry as if poetry
needed a month or only a month.
One American poet (turned British) said April
is the cruelest month but we remaining
make it 30 poetic lines, some rhyming.
