Fencing Bear at Prayer

[Revised from original post] I'm not sure what this meter is. It's supposed to be iambic pentameters, but I'm struggling with hearing the beat: da-dum. Maybe it's dactyls. Poetry is hard! You all know the story, how Descartes read In Harvey of Caius that the heart pumps blood And came to insist that that's all it does. For ages now, we've believed this about Our hearts, that they were just muscular pumps, Nothing to do with our feelings or souls. Now it turns out that patients with transplants Tend to begin to resemble their donors Harboring hopes, thoughts, memories and fears Not their own, almost as if the hearts told Them their secrets just by pumping their blood. Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. Perhaps, after all, all those pictures of Christ, baring his heart for love of the world Are more than just metaphors. What if the Heart really is the seat of the soul that Bleeds when we grieve for our loved ones and Clots when we cut ourselves off from t...

Another exercise in iambic pentameters: Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. My father used to say that cutting hearts Was not an intellectual endeavor. You'd think to hear him it was easy, standing Wrist deep in another's blood, holding life In his hands; nowhere near as difficult As designing engines for his hot rod. But then cars are just machines, instruments Of our own making. Little wonder that The laws of thermodynamics must apply. With hearts, there's nothing we can do but pray That if we break them somehow they will heal.