Organs Poems (100 Words)

Images of various types of various organs, accompanied by 100-word text poems. 

lungs for website.jpg


One is not enough the genes decree. Utterly

dependent on the diaphragm. Their job to

gobble up the unseen molecules of oxygen

that waft their way to alveoli where they

sieve through through a wall that opens

Sesame. And too, their job to harvest from

the blood the gassy poison that would

anesthetize the brain were it to fester in the

salty plasma spew. Almost light as air. More

than the heart, the altar for the breath of life

but cannot flaunt their role — they load the

hemoglobin cars that would stand still, the

cells would starve, without the pump.

skin for web.jpg


Largest organ of them all yet only millimeters thick

—or thin, depending on the site or state of mind.

Water cannot penetrate but sunlight can, at least

enough to make the vitamin that gets the calcium

into the bone. And then there’s melanin—

polymerized oxidized tyrosine—three different

kinds—that give it color. How much better were

there none or only one. No Civil War. No, better

one, not none—for without it we’d burn too easily,

die early melanoma deaths. And then there’s all

its buried nerves, everywhere, but teeming in the

fingers, face. The feel of a kiss.

kodney for web.jpg


Stuck down below heart and lungs and brain,

stuck behind (you bang your back, the ache

you feel is them) ,relegated to the slimy job

of cleaning up the place. They monitor and

regulated the water level diligently—no sleep

at night. Hard wired to the white and gray

inside the skull but in a pinch can do their job

alone. Unbeknownst to most they spew out

juice that jolts the bone to make more cells to

carry oxygen. Found out last fifty years you

can make it if they die but only if you tie

yourself to sterile catheters.

AV Node for web.jpg


Guard of the gate leading to the ventricles. On

duty day and night, she never sleeps. Her job to

let enough but not too many charges through. If

drugged or old sometimes the gate slams shut.

And then some days she loses count, the hoards

race in. Beat too slow or beat too fast may be too

bad. She worries when the traffic’s slow (no fault

of hers) or when the road takes another route,

bypasses her. Big trouble when she goes berserk,

births charges of her own, spews them out rapid

fire. She must be stopped, but never fired.