Alteration of the Generations

Photo by AS Photography on Pexels.com

Alteration of the Generations

Flowering plants give birth to their grandkids,
Two generations on.
Between them, a haploid stage in birthed,
And breeds, and dies in a matter of hours.
It’s evolution at play, and history,
Old ways still acting upon –
The hidden generation,
That is lurking deep within the bowers.

The parent cells, barely ten in total,
Died at the point of conception –
But isn’t the same as true in animals ?
Well, yes…and no.
The thing is, they have further stripped their gametes down
To uni-perfection –
No longer build a multicellular form,
They have no need to grow.

But mosses and ferns, they still do it old school –
Separate independent stages –
And algae can even be free-living –
Single, double, single, double…
So botanists have marvelled,
And have filled their textbook pages –
But have drawn the line at animals,
To spare them family trouble.

Yet I suppose there’s one more diff’rence –
If the egg and sperm that made me
Were my parents…well, that means,
My parents are within me to this day –
They gave their lives, and gave their haploid matter
To upgrade me –
So my generation has it easy,
Born with twice the DNA.

Botanists like to point out how the ancestral condition of alternating between haploid (one set of chromosomes) and diploid (two sets) each generation still exists in flowering plants, but in a very reduced form.  And it is true that pollen contains two-to-three cells, and the ovule seven, making them both technically multicellular.

And yet zoologists never seem to mention that the same is true for animals, only here the haploid generation has been reduced even further – now both gametes are single-celled, and their entire mass is consumed by the emergent zygote rather than withering away like all of the haploid plant material bar the two nucleuses.  I guess they’ve got to draw the arbitrary line somewhere…

Spring-Bringers

Photo by Plato Terentev on Pexels.com

Spring-Bringers

When the daffodils go over
Then the Spring is on the way !
And though it’s sad to see the yellows wilt,
At least they had their day.
Once the clover is in clover,
Then the bulbs are all long done –
But Springtime has been built upon
Their early yellow sun.

When the bluebells have stopped ringing,
Then the Spring is truly here
And though it’s sad to see the mauve-lings fade,
At last they gave good cheer.
Once the tulips have stopped singing,
Then the bulbs have done their work –
And it’s time to let the first watch fade
And once more softly lurk.

Sun Bulbs

Sun Bulbs

The daffodils are blooming
In my window-box again,
Just to show that Spring is looming
In the face of icy rain,
They sprout besides my sill once more
In planters perched on high,
As they cheer my second floor,
And bring a garden to the sky.

The daffodils are blooming
In my window-box again,
But they turn their heads from booming
Through the gloomy window-pane.
Instead, they stare at Winter Sun
Where all their real focus is.
I think next year, to stop the shun,
I’ll just grow crocuses.

Spearleeks

Eleven Garlic Scapes by Sheri Farabaugh

Spearleeks

The only way to dine on garlic
Ev’ry day or two,
Is to only visit friends who dine on garlic
Just like you.
So lace that bolognese another clove,
And stir it in that fry,
And then be sure to bring your friends around your stove
To have a try.
And don’t be so afraid to say très bon
When sharing peppy dips –
And don’t be shy to relish it when tasted on
Another’s lips.

Pioneer Species

Photo by Andrew Patrick Photo on Pexels.com

Pioneer Species

We’ll still grow trees on Mars,
Under the domes,
And rooted in thin soil –
We’ll take nuts to the stars
And distant homes,
To shade our fervent toil.
Beside potato fields,
And stands of wheat,
They’ll ease the barren crag –
Not for their timber yields
Or fruits to eat,
But just to plant our flag.

It only takes an acorn,
That’s not too much weight
To build a tree.
And ev’ry sapling born
Shall grow up great
In lower gravity.
Yet forests don’t get lush
Till many years
Of Martian peace have been –
I guess we’re in no rush
To clothe our spheres,
And turn the red to green.

Which trees, though, all depends –
Can pine withstand ?
Or deserts raise a beech ?
We nurture ev’ry friend
In ev’ry land
Our giant leaps shall reach.
And thus, we’ll leave a trace
From overseas
That shows we once came by.
We’ll still grow trees in space,
Because the trees
Have reached-up to the sky.

Acorn Margins

Photo by Artem Makarov on Pexels.com

Acorn Margins

I’ve heard that oak will make a hedge
If planted it in a row,
But I’ve never seen a single stretch –
Perhaps it’s just too slow.
Or hedgers baulk at pruning oaklings back
To make a wall,
When ev’rything about them says ‘Don’t hack,
But grow me tall.’

Parasites

Photo by Macro Photography on Pexels.com

Parasites

Out there in the wood
Is the old oak tree,
Just lapping-up the sunshine,
All of it for free.
But there in its branches,
There lies the mistletoe,
Just sucking-up the sap
Of its clueless host below.
And there on this shrub
Is a little caterpillar,
That’s munching on the leaves
Like a cute and stealthy killer.
And inside of the bug there lurks
The grubling of a wasp,
As it chews-through the organs,
Squatting like a boss.
But inside the grubling
Is another, smaller maggot
Of a teeny-tiny wasplet
That will wear it like a jacket,
And inside of the maggot
Is a nematody worm,
And further inside that
There is a microscopic germ…
So they each are chowing-down,
And they each are getting fatter,
Till they burst-out of the body,
That they leave in such a tatter.
But the enemies of enemies
Don’t turn-out to be friends agen –
Just ask the plague that bit the fleas,
Then bit the rats, then bit the men…

Of course, inside of every cell in every multicellular-body’s body is the remains of a possible parasite, in the form of mitochondria.  But over time, evolution tends to find that the healthier a parasite can leave its host, the better the tenant does as well.  But bacteria can get in on the act as well, with their viruses that would co-opt their landlords into making a sex pilus to infect other neighbours, and accidentally carried across some of their host’s DNA with them and thus enabled the unintended spread of antibacterial resistance…

Swamm-Lore

Photo by Ashish Raj on Pexels.com

Swamm-Lore

Humans have been farming fungus
Since the old days of the Tang –
The jellied-ear perhaps was first,
And up the mycoculture sprang !
Shiitake and enoki,
Grown on logs and straw and bran,
Until in damp Enlightened France,
The button mushroom crop began.

Strange, the Romans loved their fungus,
Yet they never learned the knack –
And the monks were so productive,
Yet they only gave the yeast a crack.
Although, it proved quite tricky
Unless sterilized for pathogens –
Far easier to forage in the woods
That mess around with pens.

Meanwhile, folklore had been busy,
Earthy names for ev’rything –
Observe the toadstool and the stinkhorn,
Bird’s-nest and the fairy ring.
But where were all the memory-rhymes
On which ones was it not worth risking ?
Or how to tell a puffball
From a death cap or a poison pigskin ?

Perhaps there are no generalities
To indicate the vicious –
One-by-one, we learn how white gills, say,
Are deadly, or delicious.
Ugly textures, noxious smells,
May sometimes show vitality –
Their looks do not align at all
With fairytale morality.

These days, though, the urban myths
Are more concerned with mould and spore,
And in hallucinations,
And the nuclear clouds of war.
The time of the destroying angel’s
Shrouded in mediaeval mist,
Or from genteel whodunnits,
Or a pith-helmet nat’ralist.

Humans have been farming fungus,
Fascinated with their fruits –
Not really understanding them,
Yet sniffing truffles out of roots.
These days, it’s all commercialised,
To keep safe ev’ry cassarole,
Without an unintended killer
In our toadstool-in-the-hole.

The Chinese appear to have been farming Auricularia heimuer (aka the Black Wood Ear Mushroom) since the Tang Period (10618 – 10907 HE). They local name for it is ‘heimuer’, subsequently used as the species epithet.  However, I have been unable to find any guide as to how this is pronounced.  I think it may be something like high-moo-er, but that sounds more like a cow who has been feeding on a rather different kind of fungus…

Floating Arums

Photo by Petr Ganaj on Pexels.com

Floating Arums

Walking along the canal,
I see the duckweed is in bloom –
Bank-to-bank, a carpet
For the mallards’ living room.
The moorhens leave a wake of clear
That slowly zips together,
The swans have clumps upon their prows,
And flecks on ev’ry feather.

Rivers are no good, of course,
They hurry up their flow –
But out on the canal,
It teaches how to take it slow.
The coots are scooping mouthfuls,
And the geese are busy working –
But beneath the green and stillness,
I can sense there’s something lurking…

Cactus Practice

Photo by Quang Nguyen Vinh on Pexels.com

Cactus Practice

My cactus is in bloom,
It feels so wrong,
It feels so out-of-line –
It’s job is just to loom,
All decade long,
With no intent.
It always seemed so stoic
Old as yore,
With little outward sign –
But was this shy heroic,
Waiting for
It’s chance to vent ?

My cactus is in bloom,
What should I do ?
It’s out-of-temper’ment –
It just sits in my room,
All decade through,
In stalk and spine.
It always seemed so zen,
So green and squat –
But this is decadent !
Was it just waiting, then,
Until it got
It’s chance to shine ?