Close Cosmic Encounter Poem by Harley White

A barred spiral galaxy in the Giraffe
has one of the arms curled in front of its core
where dust laden lanes in the grouping outpour
as Hubble has shown it for earthlings' behalf.

Some sort of encounter perhaps came along
for bent NGC Two One Four Six once took,
which lent it that loopy anomalous look,
engendering forces colossally strong.

So lively in midwifing star births is it
that this galaxy earned the term starburst kind
like clusters of blooms Mother Nature designed
in tropical gardens terrene to visit

or namely the clerodendrum called starburst
which effloresces in a canopy bright
as do starburst galaxies at cosmic height
with budding sidereal young being nursed.

The galaxy's less large than Milky Way's size
just slightly, they say, to astronomers' eyes,
with starry creation in lavish supplies
thus adding to worlds in stelliferous skies.

What habitants will these celestials see fit
to bring to fruition as creatures, to wit,
allow them to flourish as features permit
then blossom as lifeforms evolved bit by bit?

About eighty thousand light-years end to end
it lies ninety million light-years from our place,
this mortal abode of humanity's race
that's wending its oft wayward way round the bend,

or so it seems, though there are stargazer dreams
as reveries reaching existence's plane
whence deeper dimensions of being may reign
embracing the whole of reality's streams

in sensory oneness with all great and small,
beyond unenlightenment's treacherous thrall,
a doomed irredeemable fate to forestall
which sadly might ever more likely befall.

We dwell in a realm where delusions benight,
enraptured in spell making wrong appear right
with vision too blurry to notice our plight.
Such times find it vital to seek out the light.