Each moment bears within its fleeting form
The echoed traces of what came before;
Subjective aim transforms the uniform
Into creation's never-ending score.

We are not things but poems being writ,
A string of moments dancing into one;
The many and the one forever knit—
A billion suns comprising just one sun.

The void of time fills up with occasions bright,
Each grasping, feeling, yearning into form;
The universe—a symphony of light
Where past and future meet in endless storm.

So Whitehead taught: reality's not clay,
But living moments born and passed away.

The actual world—a tapestry unfurled
Of prehended moments, gathered whole;
Each subject weaves the threads of what has swirled
Into new patterns as the cosmos rolls.

No static substance underlying all,
But drops of experience, self-creating;
Each moment rises, answers to the call,
Then perishes, its being still vibrating.

The great philosopher's vision clear and bold:
Reality is not of things, but acts;
Each "now" contains what every "then" has told—
A living process, not just lifeless facts.

The past is not just gone, but flows within
Each nascent moment, ready to begin.

Beyond the veil of common sense's reach,
Lies truth more fluid than our words contain;
Each entity, like waves upon the beach,
Is but a ripple in experience's chain.

The Poet’s primordial vision guides
Each occasion toward its best becoming;
The lure of beauty where all truth resides—
Eternal objects, endlessly oncoming.

The universe is not a clockwork cold,
But living feeling, sentient at its core;
Each quantum flash of being, brave and bold,
Creates itself, then passes through death's door.

So Whitehead saw beyond the ancient rift—
As moments bloom and die, existence shifts.

Each moment blooms, a pulse in Time’s great sea,
Not things, but acts—events that come to be.
From drop to drop the cosmos takes its shape,
A dance of mind and matter, wild and free.

No static stone, no idle, lifeless clod—
But process moves beneath the soil and sod.
Each flash of being, brief as morning dew,
Is real as stars, is kissed by thought not odd.

These “occasions” rise with feeling at their core,
They prehend the past, yet seek a little more.
Each grasps the world, then yields itself in turn,
A spark that fades, but opens up the door.

They form a web, these nodes of sentient flare,
The past flows in, the future stirs the air.
Reality’s not built of blocks and beams,
But woven through with feeling, time, and care.

The world’s not made, but making ever still,
With every act a push against the will.
No fate is fixed, no god is locked above—
Creation wakes in each occasion’s thrill.

So sip this cup—each moment brims with wine,
Distilled from all that was, in grand design.
A drop contains the cosmos in its fold,
And flickers out, yet calls the next to shine.

The world becomes, it never merely is,
A flux of feeling, not a world of fizz.
No atom sits alone in timeless gloom—
It feels, it yearns, it tells us what it does.

Each moment’s born from many come before,
It draws their echo, adds a little more.
Then perishes, a whisper in the dark—
Yet leaves a trace no future can ignore.

Subject becomes object, tossed in the stream,
Each plays its part within the larger scheme.
No soul stands still, no world remains the same—
All shift and shape as in a woven dream.

From Poet’s lure to matter’s smallest twitch,
Each moment leans toward depths we cannot pitch.
Reality’s a poem never done—
Penned not in stone, but in becoming’s witch.

Not being, but becoming—this we are,
More like a flame than like a fallen star.
We flicker, burn, and pass our light along—
Each life a note in Time’s unending bar.

So here we dance, occasion upon flame,
Each flicker formed with joy, regret, or shame.
Yet in the forming lies the sacred spark—
A fleeting self that bears eternal name.

The stars themselves are thoughts that came to be,
Each nova sings in process, not decree.
A galaxy’s a rhythm, not a rock—
It hums with ancient acts of poetry.

Each quark, each pulse, each curve of stellar flare,
Responds to past and feels the future’s air.
The cosmos is a mind that builds itself—
A scaffold strung with intuition’s care.

No vast machine with cold and mindless gears—
But swirls of yearning shaped by hope and fears.
A thousand billion hearts in every sphere,
All whispering their stories through the years.

The past is real, but not a prison cell,
Its echoes guide, but do not bind or quell.
Each moment holds the power to re-form
The curve of time, the place where starlight fell.

From primal flux to now, the arc has bent—
Not by command, but lure and deep intent.
A One who woos, not rules, the world to grow—
Each choice a note in Love’s great instrument.

So let the comet blaze and atoms spin,
Each dance of dust a tale that dwells within.
No void is empty—everywhere there burns
A silent hymn of process born in din.

Creation is not done—it is the song,
Each verse a shift, each rhyme both right and wrong.
We are the singers, listeners, and score—
The universe becoming all along.

The Matrix

The Infinite pulses through space-time’s web,
A matrix of possibility and flow,
Where mathematics whispers ancient codes
Through dimensions that we cannot know.

Information dances with Energy,
Twin aspects of reality’s deep source,
Weaving patterns through the quantum foam
That guide creation’s fundamental course.

The Broadcast

The Cosmic Background fills the void
With whispers from creation’s dawn,
An omnidirectional antenna array
Broadcasting since light first shone.

Its static holds encrypted tales
Of quantum fluctuations past,
When space and time were newly born
And causality was cast.

The Pattern

Interference ripples through the deep,
Where virtual particles emerge and fade,
Their quantum waltz of might-have-been
Creates the substance from which worlds are made.

Reality shimmers like a hologram,
Each fragment holding all we see,
While strings vibrate their sacred songs
Through manifolds of symmetry.

The Code

Like DNA but vaster still,
The cosmic code writes space and time,
In languages of spin and charge
Where entropy keeps perfect rhyme.

Through quantum fields that permeate
The vacuum’s pregnant emptiness,
Information flows and builds
The scaffolding of consciousness.

The Transmission

Each particle contains within
A message from the universe,
Entangled threads that stretch across
The cosmic web, for better or worse.

The void itself remembers all,
Each quantum state forever stored
In patterns of probability
Where past and future are explored.

The Program

Is spacetime but a simulation,
A program running deep and vast?
Are we subroutines in the code,
Through quantum circuits flowing fast?

The matrix of reality
Computes on scales both large and small,
While information’s endless dance
Creates the stage that holds it all.

The Signal

Through background radiation’s hiss,
We hear creation’s primal song,
A melody of math and light
That’s been playing all along.

Each wavelength carries ancient news
Of how the cosmos came to be,
While quantum tunnels bridge the gap
Between what is and what could be.

The Structure

Like lattices of crystal thought,
The universe builds form from void,
Using rules both strange and deep
That Einstein’s God might have employed.

The cosmic DNA unfolds
Through dimensions curled and bright,
Where information crystallizes
Into matter, energy, and light.

The Resonance

Virtual reality emerges
From interference patterns pure,
Where quantum superposition builds
The solid world we think secure.

Yet underneath our classical realm,
The matrix continues its endless play,
Computing futures yet to come
As present moments slip away.

The Understanding

Perhaps the universe itself
Is one vast quantum neural net,
Processing information flows
Through patterns we don’t fathom yet.

The Infinite speaks through the code
Of quarks and leptons, space and time,
While consciousness emerges from
This cosmic algorithm sublime.

The Mystery

Yet still we cannot fully grasp
The deepest levels of this dance,
Where information, energy,
And mind entwine by quantum chance.

The universe keeps secrets still
Within its matrix vast and strange,
While we decode small fragments of
The patterns that will never change.