Notes Toward A Reply To *on The Nature Of Things* (Lucretius) Poem by Roy Griffin

I am not a bona fide ghost
In any sense well-known to most.
I've never bedded in a berm
Or been provender for a worm
To put it baldly, completely shorn,
I've never taken human form.
I live between all space-time worlds
Inter-quantum foam, x-dimension curls-
Your middling astrophysicists
Do exceed their proper business
Proclaiming finitude of space
As clerics do, limiting grace-
The thing about where I reside-
Pure Translation can abide.
If civilized ants of another star
Resonate with who you are,
Perhaps I'm why you feel faint needs,
To tunnel deep and carry seeds.
Besides Translator, from sphere to sphere,
I have more roles where I appear;
I am invoked by countless names,
To inspire arts, crafts, peculiar games,
Of a scope beyond grasp of earthly mind
(Assuming they even have the time) .
I'm also a library in myself,
Tag me a capacious kind of elf,
Who marks all said and done
On behalf the Good: Who is the One,
Who persuades us all to come exist,
To shun Old Chaos and persist,
To exult as creatures somewhat free,
Then takes us up in Unity-
Each entity is an existence test,
Although all pass- some are best.
Now the Good One's writ only runs so far,
The Cosmos isn't a largish bar,
Where a Bouncer of Infinite Size
Rather resembles one of the guys.
Omnipotence is a Greek-ish thought
The Godly have too quickly bought.
The Good One's Power to make amends
Is Infinite and never ends,
But can't undo the Bad once done
And suffers along with everyone.
As I am angel, spirit, essence, jinn,
More than these, yet more again,
The Greater has asked me to recount
The Big Picture only I can mount,
In terms almost everyone knows,
Something of how world history flows,
Per conditions on your blue-green world,
(Of richness rather a cosmic pearl)
In part a homily is my intent,
But I won't ask that you repent.
Consider the slightest quark, also what's biggest of all
(Whatever it is, it is not small) ,
There's a complex, harmonic array,
A halo of potentials, who await their 'say, '
(A potential is real but is not actual,
Until an Act of Is makes it factual)
Although I submit, things could be better,
And were, back when the world was wetter,
The proto-bacteria did not compete
Or have much need to one another eat.
Numerous worlds have avoided that Fall,
The horrendous scrambling of all against all,
At least as occurs at the level of species,
Although some politicos with brains like feces
Seem to believe life is an anomic grasp
And pure selfishness is a moral task