Part V

In the windswept islands of New Hebrides,
Surrounded by mighty and dangerous seas,
Lies a pristine island of ancient paganism,
And the first monastery of a by-gone schism.
It is ever and now that same place still,
Once known to Celts as ancient Icolmkill.

Home to the last Druids’ spiritual predominance,
They met here in stone circles until the final dance.
Supplanted by the first post-Celtic Christian monasteries,
The Druids gave reluctant way to the “Dei cultores.”
These “worshippers of God” within fair Iona’s holy fane,
Were, in turn,  pillaged by Viking and Danish rovers, their bane.

Site of Fingal’s Cave and the grave of mad prince MacBeth,
Burial ground of Norse, Irish, and Scottish monarchs at death.
From the stone circles to circular cairns, it’s spiritual history
Preserved in pristine isolation the spirit of ineffable mystery.
It was the home and source of the illuminated Book of Kells,
Miraculously preserved from marauding Viking vandals.

Its sacred sites were inhabited by man as far back as 4000 B.C.
Its bedrocks were forged deep in the volcanic dawn of prehistory.
The breeze bears a fragrant gift; soil itself is considered holy,
Burial there is an honor kept for those few deemed worthy only.
A far-off past of unsurrendering pagans, saints, and warriors,
An elemental place where rocks and stones sing heather flowers.

In the face of its gale-force winds the soul feels cleansed,
Ready to make the historical pilgrimage again and again.
The mighty reputation of this holy isle does still flourish,
For the simplest reason it continues our spirits to nourish.
Each day is a diamond, reflecting brilliant color elusive,
Yet life here is eternally peaceful, slow, and reclusive.

The air is pure and provocative as a kaleidoscope of light,
Casting over all a breezy supernatural veil so starkly bright.
The aqua sea embraces and hoards all that is deemed precious,
A pervading sense of reverence supercedes all other reference.
Time is uniquely different in Iona’s unspoiled pastoral beauty,
Which allows us to feel the depths of our daily spiritual duty.

Dream a journey back to when that circle of stones led to rapture,
And the pagan spirit of those ancient days perhaps we can recapture.
The fertile Druid spirituality of seaweed, mistletoe, oak and yew,
A deep love of cosmos, nature, and mankind did instill and imbue.
Festivals of bonfires and wickermen began each year with Beltane,
And carried through at harvest time with the fire of peace, Samhain.

Observing Full Moons, their history was sung by many Bards,
Who were endowed with powers and inspiration of earth and stars.
In the Sun’s face, beneath that massive revolving eye of light,
They inspired legends as they thronged on plain and height.
“Whose piety would not grow warmer amid Iona’s old ruins?”
Nature’s voice might seem to say, here she speaks in mellow tunes.

So come to Her here and sit beside her salty seaside,
And the natural purity of that briney breeze imbibe.
Enjoy the sanctuary and serenity of this island idyl,
And the unceasing surging of oceanic rhythms tidal.
Dream of her sanctified past while you tranquilly sleep,
And perhaps many changes of the past silently beweep.

In the long lost mists of the hoary Neolithic past,
The awesome tone of this ancient atmosphere was cast.
Once the native Celts and Druids here became adept,
At survival and flourishing, kept from extinction exempt.
Then came genocidal Christians, a cruel medieval relic,
But posing as the true God’s minions, acting so angelic.

Soon, pillaging by Vikings and Danes induced uneasy panics,
Which couldn’t keep these intruders from seizing another annex.
Then the isle became sole property of the Lord Argyl leige,
Which only contributed more to his already substantial prestige.
Alas, he fell on hard times; fair isle Iona was sold cheap as a theft,
Its forced sale left him lesser, and his soul was moreover bereft.

However, in olden times its first saint, Columba had gazed with awe,
At a prophetic vision of the distant future he himself vainly foresaw:
“When all the world in another deluge is destroyed,
Iona will miraculously float like an ark by God buoyed.”
In this sense its sacred soil is holy, numinous, and talismanic,
The primal source of its naturally arcane mysteries are ante-oceanic.

The mad Dane deeply buried in Iona still patiently lies,
And the tortured spirit of the usurped Druids still cries.

The powdery effect of a resin scent as soft as pure angora,
Emanates from the opening of legendary magic box of Pandora.
Benzoin and sandalwood, fragrances of flowers most exotic,
Produce odours that can raise the dead, magnetically hypnotic.
If you think new-mown hay is evocative of memory and emotion,
It has nothing over the power of an olfactory love potion.

Crisp citrus scents are bright as silvery crystals of antimony;
Frankincence and myrhh, pure hallowed odor of sanctimony.
Lighter than air lily of the valley and liquids thick and viscous,
Heavy honey-notes like Tupelo, the nectar of seductive hibiscus;
Narcissus bases, gathered in poppy-flowered fields Elysian,
Deeply stirred and eternally merging in a singular divine vision.

Fiery hot odors fragrantly sparkling like mexican fire opal,
Compound with smokey notes, heavy with the scent of copal.
Perfumed leather retains a unique element notably pristine,
Civet and musk add another dimension that is amethystine.
Spanish leather comes with spices and a dash of excitement;
Neroli, rose, sandal, lavender, verbena complete the enticement.

Whenever inhaling natural scents deeply of our own volition,
We are forced into relying solely on our olfactory intuition.
On it, we base romantic decisions judged without reprisal,
Carried out as cool as Carerra marble, so purely paradisal.
All imaginal kinds of godforms are real to the pantheistic,
The airy worship of many at once is dramatically ritualistic.

The palette of perfumes in the most flowery language is written,
Reflecting the scented echo created by love’s arrow-smitten.
Cupid isn’t the only essential ingredient of our mating ritual,
The language of flowers tells us falling in love can be habitual.
Tenderly hold and enfold the scent of the alchemical fixer,
Preserve the delicate compound of the quintessential elixer.

Evoke the dream prophecy of Aeone, drenched in mystical mimosa,
As enchanting as a delicate jasmine-scented night in old Formosa.
For deeper elemental appreciation on each note keenly focus,
To capture the different ingredients of this floral hocus-pocus.
Eternally Drunk on planetary intoxicating lunar drink, soma,
We notice in the hanging atomosphere a certain vital aroma.

Though precious nectar and golden pollen is by the bees stolen,
It ever only comes from those rare flowers so already swollen.
Wearing nothing much more than a multi-strand pearl choker,
Tattoed, and all painted with liquid henna and yellow ocher.
Heavy musk, like an enngram of the languid scents of Bali,
Lingers in the folds where it has lain since odiferous finale.

In this quintessence, the high notes come quick like an eloper,
Slightly later, the middle notes linger like an interloper.
Longer lasting low notes come on warm, slow, exotic, and foreign,
Ambergris and fixatives are expensive and cost many a florin.
Oriental elements combine to create a scent so ambrosian,
That its aura irresistably inspires an olfactory explosion.

However, most potent of all attractants is human pheromone,
An influential ingredient in concocting a Philosopher’s Stone.
Natural chemistry competes well with a royal rose attar,
To nasally call in from the heathery wild a roving satyr.
There is no contest between any known essences or colognes,
And the maximum potent effect of our very own hormones.

Empathically interlocked within romance’s aromatic bliss,
Is the timeless tender excitement of that first rosebud kiss.
And the smells ever-linked to emotions a floral hieroglyphic,
The primal source of a rapturous gnostic transport, beautific.
The anticipation rising as high as an erect Egyptian obelisk,
And even the stinging pungent ordour of the desert tamarisk.

The art of blending and compounding of beautiful oils essential,
Carefully mixed by ancient oriental recipes properly sequential.
Extracted and kept as a pure rarefied liquid in a crystal vial,
Gently distilled with no more heat than falls on a royal sundial.
Oil of abramelin can’t  be contained by a mere magical amulet,
Even though fully consecrated under the moon on a high parapet.

Many odiferous materials come from the deep mossy forest,
Others are from the province of the herbalist and florist.
Keep and age all kinds of basic essential concoctions embryonic,
Until they find their perfect convergence in love most harmonic.
Elements merge like the citrus and spice of an aged pomander;
More majestic pleasure was never had by the Great Alexander.

Who could ever have imagined a transporting experience botanic,
Could create an outrageous response so incredibly galvanic.
Rich with Oriental opulence, all gilt enameled and Byzantine,
Absolute is kaleidoscopic like a lustrous diamond, adamantine.
As enticing as a florid, incence-smoked houri covered with henna,
Whose silken skin exudes sweet smells and is the color of siena.

Woodsy green scents capture the air of dancing, wild Bacchante,
Orientals the arching, erotically graceful dance of Ashanti.
Light florals echo the bouquet of many a diaphanus enchanter,
Animal scents evoke the volatility of blood-engorged implanter.
All recall memories as intoxicating as a poem by Lord Byron;
Consecrated oil is a perfect compliment to any sensuous siren.

A vast catalog of the tricks and arts in the chest of Pandora,
Rival and equal those of chaste Diana, or Aurora, and Flora.
In well-crafted bottles shapely as a molded Grecian urn,
Are kept hopeful antique recipes in a musky-scented deep cavern.
A scent-organ with many notes, multi-colored and chromatic,
Whose elusive qualities are always so ultimately enigmatic.

Seek the source of that odor by following the thread of Ariadne,
Even while knowingly embodying the clear wisdom of Athene.
Some can find within that cavern many a healing panacea,
It contains the sensual pleasure of ages and the magic of Medea.
This art has been the trust of many a magician and the wizened,
And from it a method and a tantric tradition has always arisen.

The material of this holy art is purely physical and existential,
But its astral form is spirit-bound and purely quintessential.
Contained in attar, base, or absolute, nothing is extraneous;
Effects of all in isolation or together is totally instantaneous.
We become instantly helpless when inflorescence evaporates,
We convert them mentally into memories’ essential  sublimates.

Return now to your calmest innermost center,
You are a third-eye opened, soul travelling experimenter.
Concentrate to create the “little death” of the ecstatic,
“Know Thyself” is the first step of life and death Socratic.
Eschewing life and examining death is for the stoic;
While defying death and enhancing life is for the heroic.

To work means to practice and empty the mystic,
Of any and all conceptual notions, gross or theistic.
In the wee hours after midnight, silent Hermetic loner,
Calls on God much as the cantor or sacred names intoner.
This sacred contemplative practice requires daily time tithing,
Two and a half hours of mind-bending, itching and writhing.

If our attention falls and fails, we can only beg His indulgence,
Hoping for a glimpse of His supremely brilliant and radiant refulgence.
But, that radiant form shows its face only by divine injunction,
When your face and His join in a heart and soul-merging conjunction.
We aim toward this end as the most-worthy ultimate allurement,
Its procurement is possible if we persevere, once freed of obscurement.

Just look and listen, the upwelling flow of vital energy is lavishly fluent,
All of the aspects of our Opus fall into place, each to its own pursuant.
Finally we know what it means to be fully alive with spiritual ardor,
To retain that meaningful radiant form we can only strive even harder.
We “die to live,” and meet the divine at the pure lotus feet of Charan,
There we offer up devotion and love as delicate as the Rose of Sharon.

I write the story of my life upon the sand, signing my royal cartouche,
Even though the shifting sands of time surely my efforts shall reduce.
And across that starry desert track I crawl like an ancient scarab,
Never resting from its appointed task, nor mistaking sundisk for carob;
Bound by a vow more stringent than the oath of an Oriental Templar,
To reach the goal and emulate the perfect model of my spiritual exemplar.

Around my inclined neck, suspended light, a fragile magical pendant,
Reflects my spiritual essence and moonstone of my astrological ascendant.
As many as the stars in the sky is the number of my journey’s milestones,
But I remain a true No-Body, still concealed within, completely Unknown.
Sometimes I am coy and fresh and full of life, or feel like being naughty,
And getting all puffed up, accuse myself of being inflated and haughty.

Within visionary dreams we can project to the Pyramids near ancient Cairo,
The center of the world then known, the central compass point of its gyro.
Like Mohammed, in his spiritual flight across the desert in a hejira,
Would that I could, I might fly on a carpet away as far as balmy Palmyra.
There to feast and bathe and share eternity with Solomon, Orpheus, or Aion,
And bodily flee into immortality within the domain of Sirius and Orion.

Extend your mind far beyond there to enter yet another strange dimension,
Experiences of parallel universes of ourselves are just another easy extention.
Don’t let beating heart fail you now, should you find this all too momentous,
Remember, it lies in the future still, that potential which rings so portentous.
For Now,  you are here, there and nowhere, merging into the void or plenum,
Take care you return with the boon of the Kundalini serpent’s anti-venom!

Cross the borderland between worlds, skirting over the threshold of limerance,
The rewards and treasures in that realm beyond contain unthinkable opulence.
Try to imagine the dazzling vista of a myriad of sparkling pools so limpid,
The waters of that world are always of a perfect warmth, never slightly tepid.
So be blissfully reborn in the eternal spring of that other world’s renascence,
And to the Lord of the Supreme and all the planes, we give our own obeisance.

We might just find, it could be possible, that we are even possibly human;
Fully developed potential, plausibly evolving from Sapiens to Homo Lumen.
What can be said about a process so rarified, it defies any attempt at elocution,
But deeply reflects, as sure as can be, the direction of mankind’s evolution?
It forecasts true metaphysical transformation, and the dawn of our renewal,
Which allows us to flower and reach our potential in the lotus as the jewel.

Free at last from our trammels, no longer trapped in the worldly melee,
Now, from our path we cannot be led astray or by anyone get waylayed.

The call of the Silence sings to us in a voice that always gently beckons;
It never sleeps and always dispenses our fate the way our karma reckons.
Find your firm foundation in strength, mercy, beauty, glory, and splendor,
Give in to the bliss of sweet release in the cult of the ultimate surrender.
Just let go and float downstream, feeling that inner penetration grow so phallic,
It swells and grows, until it is writ large in flaming Hebrew letters, bold and italic.

Cool your soul, and pray to mother Isis, whose astral home is the dog-star Sirius,
And dive deeply within yourself, imagining corporeal body as only a sarcophagus.
Arise from that Osirian crypt and mortal tomb, and jubilantly sing a holy paean,
To the Lord of All Worlds, and all the hierarchies of the golden inner empyrean.
Praise Isis, the eternal mother, and Nuit, the fabric of the entire subspace matrix,
Rest gently in the arms of the divine High Priestess and archetypal mediatrix.

Then relax completely as if in the sanctuary and harem of some sultanic emir,
And always remember, these images only reflect reality; you are a mere dreamer.
Listen to the call to prayer, emanating from some far off spiraling minaret,
Though in the streets you hear the clamor and percusion of tambourine and castinet.
Realize the powers and abilities for trancendence within us all are always latent,
But to arouse these within yourself you must practice: be patient, bold and blatent.

Sometimes we try to storm the walls of heaven, acting crude and slightly brazen,
For we would write our name so high, that across the sky it would emblazon.
But this futile gesture can only be seen as an act so crude, executed so obscenely,
While in truth only His grace helps us penetrate by entering us so serenely.
In the quest for God there is an urgent sense, and a feeling of our soul burning,
That fries away the dross of illusion and karma, while making us more discerning.

In this pursuit, the role of love looms large and devotion is far from Platonic,
With love so strong the yearning just grows, not even close to fraternal or Masonic.
For the closer we get to our true home, the keener our desire for true belonging,
And more acutely we feel the sting of separation and the agony of that prolonging.
We long with building desire for the consummate merging of sultan and sultana,
The union of which makes the soul shed its veils in the dance of primal hosanna.

Travel across unfathomable trackless wastes on that enduring spiritual camel,
Let what you have writ large never be completely expunged nor trammelled.
If your essence you can constellate, your life is written upon heaven’s gate,
And left for others to see at the threshold where you and the spirit interpenetrate.
So it has been since the dynasties worshipped the ancient Egyptian god Ammon,
And so it will remain for the length of our exile in the physical realm of mammon.

Once and forever, eat all the Tree’s fruits -- those qabalistic pomegranates,
Each of which is the essence, sign and symbol of the astrological planets.
Join consciously in the Work to perfect and bring back the magickal revival,
And resurrect forgotten lore that has been submerged in an Atlantean archival.
Consciousness can range far and wide, from the  microcosm of the sub-atomic,
To the highest heights of the inner regions, macroscope universally astronomic.

In the fossilized realm of academia, the dusty old professors slumber,
Safely convinced there’s nothing new to learn about the nature of number.
Number theory is an invented concept inhibiting facts beyond that theory,
“But this is the way it has always been done;” why are they always so leery?
Numbers will not do what they cannot, not even for a number magician,
But it doesn’t take any tricks of the mind to go beyond a simple logician.

Just suspend all narrow assumptions of the dinosaur mathematical orthodoxy,
Revision some terms and find a grand unfication that removes all paradoxy.
Even before Alexandria’s burning, the enigma of primes was debated hotly,
But, in our own era, it has already been silently solved by The Fool, in motley.
By calculating various forces and vectors in tetrahedron and not quadrangle,
We find Her design in geodesics and in the ratios of the Pythagorean triangle.

Encrypted in the past in alphanumerics in many ancient systems calligraphic,
It is always contained in the numbers themselves in a geometry holographic.
Syndex is completely synergetic and real, not a theory nor literary allusion,
But a living inherent factor of nature, the prime mover of elemental fusion.
Somehow it took the stylistic efforts of a couplet writer and therapeutist,
And the transpalindromic untutored eye of a numeronomist and pharmaceutist.

With the right graphics and mandalogs, this revelation is not so cryptic,
Most ancient humans knew the Precession and even calculated the ecliptic.
The 360 degree circle was not the universal result of mere reasoning abstract;
And, the holotomes are no less arbitrary, and are really reliably exact.
Some answers are bound up in cycles of time revealed by sundial gnomon,
Ancient literature and astronomical monuments provide us with an omen.

The psychophysical aspect of natural numbers is interdimensionally nimble;
Is each number a living reality or only merely a manipulatable symbol?
In the basic commitment, math is based on assumed truths and mere supposition;
To reveal the truth in nature, we don’t need a philosopher or metaphysican.
For it is hard to deny the great archetypal truth that God is a geometrician;
In nature he has placed each quantum of matter in exact aligned juxtaposition.

In the basewave and rhythm of prime numbers is an arithmetical recursion,
But to see projection via reflection requires a numerological conversion.
Numeronomy and Synchrographics is not a theoretical postulatum,
But a graphically displayed fact and the only mathematical ultimatum.
Transpalindromes reveal the distribution of primes as completely coherent,
9/11 Cycloflex helped us discover the basewave in number is eternally inherent.

Dive down deep and deeper into the azure blue Aegean,
Raising submerged lore relearned from an ancient Chaldean.
Just look around and find your soul’s inner guide and mentor,
Who grants you the mind/body harmony of the noble centaur.
Enter the primal darkness without any visceral fear or stigma,
What you find there was, is, and ever will remain an enigma.

You may wonder what can come of an archetypal rendezvous,
Chosen from a cast of thousands in the wake of a celestial retinue;
We are instantly seized by the dreamy image of many a heart’s captor,
That thief of hearts for whom we willingly learn to redefine rapture.
No resistance now, it’s futile as if kidnapped by dedicated Hashishins,
Whose drug-induced dreams seemingly fulfill all diabolical schemes.

Light a distant fire at the twilight edge of the utterly unknown,
Keeping constant vigil while skirting the edge of this danger zone.
Deeper inside are a thousand dazzling diamonds, pearls, and lazulite,
Pearls like you, with scintillating eyes as blue as deep blue azurite;
Cradled within crystal-clear pools full of a potent healing panacea,
Their trails cast far and wide as the stars of constellation Cassiopeia.

So, tear down stoney fortress and inner walls for this emotional breecher,
Who, foresooth, is more inherently loving than any amourous beseacher.
Love may be wounded if attacked directly, subtle approached obliquely;
But met in the middle ground, each is absorbed within the other, uniquely.
Hidden within the sacred mysteries of other-worldly mystical concealment,
Is the star-crossed tale of ages; heaven-on-earth is its empirical congealment.

Drunk on the sweet liquid savor of the succulence of a full lip’s bee-sting,
Drink deeply of the ambrosian emulsion, tasting full measure and feasting.
Take your fill of blissful pleasure over many languid hours of leisure;
Such loves have their real home in the palaces of true spiritual treasure.
By knotting together the threads of His holy Name, become God’s weaver,
And co-create your life as the consummation of a great arcanum believer.

For you, Beloved, are my silent center, apex, and mystical perihelion;
I am merely the reflection of a most precious shape-shifting chameleon.
Exiled for years of lives and loves amid Doric temples, and columns ionic,
Now resisting the twists and turns of karmic whirling winds cyclonic.
To be and eternally remain your truest love and your biggest adorer,
Since you are my only redemption, my Beloved and heavenly restorer.

Arise! Embrace your universe as a spiritual advancer;
Live the immediate passionate life of the avid romancer.
Let yourself be stunningly seized by divine seduction,
Then perpetually entangled in a voluntary abduction.
That transcendent kind of mystic transport takes us away,
Revealing us totally naked, unveiled by even filmy negligee.

Within the heart’s cauldron those tender emotions seethe;
She patiently longs for him his embattled sword to sheathe.
Just the loving touch of a precocious digit or prosaic dactyl,
Can be infinitely risque, consuming, and sensuously tactile;
To all the nerve endings of the smoothest skin of alabastor;
Nothing more highly charged since the good vs. evil of Zoroaster.

The aura of love itself creates an atmosphere so sultanic,
We dream of revealing self, removing volumes of veils, diaphanic.
This divine drama takes place in many a heavenly mansion,
Each a discrete state with myriad rooms for consciousness expansion.
The union is like jasmine-scented high priestess, slightly mantic,
Fused with ziggurat-building Babylonian priest, hierophantic.

In the fertile trading crossroads cultures of the era Hellenic,
Arose legends of the mythic realm whose source is psychogenic.
Way back when, we hear the gods did mere mortals chasten,
They to our sides, and we to their devout worship did hasten.
Inspired by their emergence many a soul would hearten.
Even though a victim of love, strong and bold as a Spartan.

Wash away all doubt, “Lavabis me;” we all seek ablution,
In that sparkling holy water without the minutest dilution.
That most essential element in the alchemical formulary,
Represents the luscious Moon, that illustrious luminary.
In a low-heat oven whose lustral fire is gently alchemic,
Is produced an Elixer whose value is not even academic.

We love to tend that smouldering fire immensely,
Watching it catch and burn even much more intensely.
It has been the secret goal of many a wiley contendor,
To let the lizard in the torrid fire completely surrender.
And then enjoy the fruits of that spiritual ascendance,
Which brings in its calm wake a passionate resplendence.

Never doubt the corporeal reality of that great rapture,
Which can always come back, but never love totally recapture.
In constant dynamic motion are the basic elements of the equation,
Which must be balanced equal powers before the final persuasion.
Then you may find you casually want to drop your shielding armor,
To win and posses your natural kin and kundalini snake charmer.

We know that life at the edge of both worlds is precarius,
As a wild hunt in the woods with the archer, Sagittarius.
The way of Art, Trump XIV, the Path of the Arrow,
Is even quicker than the spiritual ascent of the pharaoh.
No need for dreams of the remedies of arcane apothecary;
Our best cures are psychophysical and largely imaginary.

It is the impetus of panspermia that keeps creation so fertile,
A potion of Aphrodite, blended with Damask rose and myrtle.
We all know “Life Stinks,” as strong as a perfume-soaked houri,
Treaure chest of the odor of Eden captured as herbal potpouri.
The voice of nature rises high as if Appassionata had a lyric;
Eternal dance of life and immortality sing a praising panegyric.

The timbre of that song is softly swelling and melodic,
And reflects the history of aeons of lifetides episodic.
This sound is echoed in microcosmic life lived symbolic;
Intertwined fates’ twists and turns are hyperparabolic.
Symbols of change are synchronistically respondent;
To the right eyes are, vis a vis, qabalistically correspondent.

We can finally join it all together in a universal embrace,
With the entire cosmos and the brotherhood of human race.

Let there be life; at least on this bluegreen Earth,
Throughout the whole foundation of Her girth!
Seeded by interstellar dust, microbes in space,
Bacteria in the hard vacuum, flung all over the place.

Did life here originate in the oceanic abyssal plain,
Or arise just anywhere lively meteoric showers rain?
Panspermia, universal life, the means to seed them,
Providing all the raw essence of the aroma of Eden.

In the planetary version, an orb of largely rust,
Gave rise to the perpetual flowering of earthly dust.
A brave Martian microbe through orbital space rode,
And carried to distant Earth the tiny treasure trove.

Carried in a clutch of suspended animation,
Freeze-drying protected spores from radiation.
An unacountable myriad of spore-forming bacteria,
Form the backbone of the theory of Panspermia.

Deep in the life-harboring heart of a bygone meteorite,
The blueprint of life was once locked up safe and tight.
Microbes alive in a dormant phase, dried out state,
Pretend to lie without sleeping or restlessly hibernate.

Heated by friction under a frozen comet’s fusion crust,
All freighted life could be shattered, leaving just dust.
Mercilessly hot on the outside, but still cool on the inside,
To save some of Her vigorous creation, Nature thus tried.

Some rudimentary seeds kept within the survival zone,
Their planet-seeking future still Destination Unknown.
Comets and asteroids, source of organic molecules,
Directed earth to terraform her oases into lively jewels.

It is true that random life’s generic chemical ingredients,
Could and did produced many unadapted genetic deviants.
However, the right mix of carbon-containing molecules,
Provided the structural strengths and all the right values.

Space provides the materials for nucleic acids and growth,
Carbohydrates, and the proteins of amino acids, both.
Thus, life emerges and follows the first living structures,
When the dead silence of Infinite Space gently ruptures.

These organized nucleotides can reproduce themselves,
As almost anyone notices who systematically delves.
Space provides interstellar dust as elemental material,
But what about the blueprint of life, cyclic and serial?

Another gnostic theory suggests heat-loving microbes,
Living deep underground as life’s first embryonic probes.
Hyperthermaphiles live near or around the boiling point,
Constantly sponsored by deep core heat in an effort joint.

Living only by primitive chemosynthesis, no seen sun,
A strange heat-loving ecosystem of volcanic vents undone.
Hotsprings and deep aquafers are biology’s new frontier;
They explore this geothermal subterranean biosphere.

When energy, vaporous water, and organics connect,
They always have a remarkably lively symbiotic effect.
Coming from a zero-gravity, deep space environment,
Life rode in on a comet in the last heavy bombardment.

Sweeping up frozen bacteria from interstellar clouds,
Incoming missles bring the boon that dispels the shrouds.
For the entire cosmos is positively teeming with life;
Though the dilemma of survival confronts us with strife.

In the primal spermatic Yod, bacteria predominate,
Making up the bulk of life, terrestrial and interstellate.
All life has structure and obeys the same physical laws,
Of which spermatic matter is the archetypal First Cause.

Life arose from biotic stew stirred by processes cosmic,
And now has led to variations, abundance orgasmic.
It evolves through stasis punctuated by creative explosions,
A wild, improvisational dance of chaotic natural selections.

DNA is an unbroken  record of ultimate perseverance,
Mitochondria and microtubules harbor little resistance.
The search for life leads us now to seek for another Eden,
To find the origin of all species and dawn of our kin.

But where is evidence of such primitive life to be found,
In outer space, deepest ocean, or miles underground?
There were once many abodes for life in the habitable zone,
Sanctuaries for more species than those of flesh and bone.

Ferried around the vast cosmos by pristine transfer,
Space dust interchange may provide part of the answer.
Self-organizing life grows in sunless extreme conditions,
It is a natural consequence of newly created renditions.

Common life is the same everywhere in this island universe,
No end in sight, all possibilities of life repeat and rehearse.
This is the source of all life as we know it, the aroma of Eden,
Panspermia means we were star-seeded by a meteoric daemon.

We used to think evolution began on Earth in primordial soup,
But it was always here, part of the original molecular group.
Life thrives in icy cold and hellish heat--conditions rough,
Therefore, no matter what, “Life isn’t fragile; it’s tough.”