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You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there with
        his golden feet?
I reply, the ocean knows this.
You say, what is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent
        bell? What is it waiting for?
I tell you it is waiting for time, like you.
You ask me whom the Macrocystis alga hugs in its arms?
Study, study it, at a certain hour, in a certain sea I know.
You question me about the wicked tusk of the narwhal,
        and I reply by describing
how the sea unicorn with the harpoon in it dies.
You enquire about the kingfisher's feathers,
which tremble in the pure springs of the southern tides?
Or you've found in the cards a new question touching on
        the crystal architecture
of the sea anemone, and you'll deal that to me now?
You want to understand the electric nature of the ocean
        spines?
     The armored stalactite that breaks as it walks?
     The hook of the angler fish, the music stretched out
     in the deep places like a thread in the water?
    
     I want to tell you the ocean knows this, that life in its
        jewel boxes
     is endless as the sand, impossible to count, pure,
     and among the blood-colored grapes time has made the
        petal
     hard and shiny, made the jellyfish full of light
     and untied its knot, letting its musical threads fall
     from a horn of plenty made of infinite mother-of-pearl.

     I am nothing but the empty net which has gone on ahead
     of human eyes, dead in those darknesses,
     of fingers accustomed to the triangle, longitudes
     on the timid globe of an orange.

     I walked around as you do, investigating
     the endless star,
     and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked,
     the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.
The Moon and Sun shared Ecliptical Longitudes the night They murdered The child.

Beneath a stelliferous empyrean,
Like Sojourners among the quiescent Twilight, Mother and child, Ventured to meet the woman’s husband, the father of the child.

She, no more than five and ten years Old,
The child, a girl, of only months,
Lay swaddled across the Woman’s
*****, tucked inside a papoose.
A rustic device carefully woven
From wool and hide, in it contained a
Priceless world.

She cooed and clucked in the frigid
Night air.
The sound penetrated the
Spectral calm and was matched only
By the maternal soothing of a muted hum.
Together, they represented the
Heathen form of the wilderness,
The Tempi Madonna among the
Silver and shadow moonbeams that
Glimmered like the dust of diamonds
Across the river’s obsidian sheen.  

Ahead, where the river narrows,
The silence stirred and was broken.
Hushed voices rose from the outer
Dark.
The woman strained to listen.

(British Soldiers, she thought)

Foreign words...

        (Drunken and ravenous)

                         ...slithered from their mouths like Venom. Fear bloomed in the woman’s Chest.
Her heartbeat quickened.

        (Touched by the chill of terror)

Her eyes darted madly about the
Darkness.

         (Alone no longer)

Their  shadows manifested like
Smoke along the tree line.
Their
Features blurred in the darkness.
Their gestures muted.
Like birds of
Prey, they set motionless upon their
Perch along the stony shore.

I say, a man said. Indian children are natural born swimmers,
Capable at birth of swimming great distances.

Utter foolishness, old boy, another opined.

We will need proof of this claim, my good sir, an anonymous voice Quipped from somewhere in the dark.

She let escape from her full lips
The tiniest of shrieks.
Followed immediately
By
Sick
Regret.

(stupid girl, her mother’s voice echoed in the dark.
                             You always were too impulsive.)

Rage consumed her as
She struggled against the current.  
She tried to paddle for deeper
Water as the men broached
The black sheen of the river.

The moments passed by
In jagged surrealism.
There was no sound
When they pitched the woman
And child into the
Frigid abysm.

The splashing of water.
The gasping
For air.
The primal
Grapple and
Grunt of men.
The cold, pungent scent of
Fear and sweat mixed with the
Alcohol-stale air.
The twisting of
Hands that groped about the
Darkness.

         (Her rage now eclipsed by fear)

She inhaled.
Her body, numb.
Her appendages quaked.
Her body fading
As they fall upon her.
Their thick bodies
Blacked out the stars.
Their gaunt faces
Pinched and rucked in the
Moonlight
Reflected the fury, the
Hatred, and
The disgust for what would come next.
Their hands moved across her
Ravenous
Like demons as they
Groped at her small body
Beneath the choppy wash of the
River.

(A hand grazed her thigh and she shrieked in Terror. Another
         gnashed at her buttock. Another fell upon her back. Her mind
         reeled at the possibilities of what would need to come next.)

They tore at her clothing.
Her body jarred about the water as
She writhed against their grasps.
She clawed against the murk.                  
    
         (Escape the horror)

She released the paddle—

(Forever lost to the deep, useless to her now)

Hysterical animalistic thoughts
Trounced off their tongues as they
Laughed at her doom—

        (Like a pack of hyenas)

She kicked at them in nameless
Places.
She thrusted her hand into
The fabric where the child had been
Moments before cooing and clucking. 
Mere moments ago she had sang to the
Babe the same song her
Mother had once sung
To her.

             (she felt nothing where the child had been…)    

She struggled away from them.
Her mind frantic with pain, the cold,
And panic
For the child.
She no longer cared for
Herself, or what they would need to
Do with her body.
Her appendages
Flailed and churned in the dark water.
          
         (A single gasp of air followed by
              The burning inhale of water)

A shrill call to the child—

(a name lost to time)

Her voice cut through their maniacal
Laughter.
It echoed off the water and vanished,
Disappearing entirely
In the outer gloom of the wilderness.

        (like afterthoughts, lost)

She groped relentlessly among the
Water for the child.
The men, near
Frozen, lost interest and returned to
The adjacent shoreline.
It was more ****** that way.
They jeered at her,
Proud of themselves.
          
        (The seething lust of the mindless savage, she thinks)

Their mouths salivate
As they watched
Vicariously.
Her struggle
Became the current
For which she bore.
The impending death of the woman even
More satisfying than the feeling against their flesh of her cunning, wet crease that lies exposed between
Her brown legs.
They watch like wolves
Unable to reach their prey,
Desperate for fresh meat.
Despite the frigid cold,
Their *****, hard,
With the anticipation of death.

The woman clamored among the darkness
She searched for the child.
Heavy fingers fell upon woolen fabric
By chance—

(Hope bloomed in her constricted chest)

Her body finally beginning to seize
Exhaustion permeated
Her mind.
She freed the papoose
From the frozen depths and expelled
The last bit of energy she possessed
To swim to the far side of the shore,
Temporarily out of their reach.

The soldiers,
Quiet now,
Returned to the spectral woods.
They disappeared back down the
Black road from which they came.

She felt the blood as it began to
Return to her appendages, the pins And needles feeling erupting in them.
Her teeth clattered nearly exploding In her mouth.
Her body
Quaked Violently

         (The child, near in her mind, cried)

She reached for it.
Her chest,
Rising and
Falling,
Rapid like the river
As she inhaled the burning,
Frozen air.
The child let loose a cough and  
She clutched it
tighter to her *****.  

(Deny the river its prize)

A stream of consciousness,
Steadily slipped from her lips.

       (A great heathen prayer calling up some
                       Great Spirit
                                As she relentlessly brokered
                                            For a
                                       Life for a life)

The moments passed by like hours.
And the
Great Spirit, with
His wanton lust
For despair, did not manifest that night.

The child fell silent, then still.
The tears came now.
Blurred vision and
Angry sobs.
Darkness consumed entire.

The river flowed by her electric as if
Its lights descended from a place far
Beyond the black taciturn veil of
Night to reflect the merciless
Tragedies among the wretched souls of
The Maine Woods.
"I Think I Love You"

So swiftly these words, these human words
(so dense in Nature),
Ensconced--in a language,
Made an escape,
through those scrumptious lips of yours.
Not realising,
that these beautiful-eloquent words,
You doled out so uninhibitedly(in a single breath),
Had rolled themselves up,
And breached,
My opaque atmosphere
in the form of a meteorite;
Colliding with this surface,
and Cratering
this isolated heart;
Which
shall be forever visible
within the Cosmos--
of my eyes,
Which shall hence be named after your vivacious soul,
Which shall indelibly be located within the latitudes and longitudes
of Earth's time;
And,
Always be scouted--
by telescopes of ephemeral Love.
the shoes are imprinted with the paved streets
there is never enough time


our eyes sparkle
but the eyebags belied the many nights
whiled away

smiling at the stars
new maps every night

gazes change as the skies change
we traverse different longitudes

trees spill into trees
there never was a need to distinguish

our passports fading crumbling
paths always leading to each other

will we still be left with an identity?
Response to the (sensational) Belle B's poem, "(Want) a little recognition" which can be found at: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1025097/want-a-little-recognition/

Always taking this collection a step further. Join us!
JS Clark May 2017
A continent's scout
That once touched Pacific sands,
Has on the Natchez Trace
Taken his life at Grinder's Stand.

Such the news the Chickasaw
Agent bore
Telling President Jefferson
The great scout Meriwether Lewis
Is no more.

Five years prior, you were commissioned
To a quest,
Mr. Jefferson sending you forth
To explore the core of a new nation's
Enigmatic west.

The Mandan's song still warbles
In your ears,
While the mighty Missouri's current
Still rushes through your tears.

And now, on a porch of a tavern
In west Tennessee,
You look back in that direction
That has ever seduced thee--

You cannot seem to shake him--
That black dog of lassitude--
That murderous hell-hound what has
Shadowed you across majestic
American longitudes.

His image is there, in the polish
Of your piece
With every throb of your head
His moan ebbs at your peace.

During the journey, Clark was always
There to help stay the hound...
Knew how to handle him,
Knew how to keep him bound.

Perhaps that is why you are looking west
This time around.
Not for something new,
That, you have found.

No, you are simply looking yonder for
Someone to **** this **** hound.
It is thought by some historians and scholars that Meriwether Lewis had Bipolar Disorder
Danielle Jones Mar 2011
your mouth speaks like fountains,
gray and cold and hardened by
the cement in your earlobes,
like when latitudes cannot seem
to find longitudes and
how nothing goes your way.
but i can't seem to place
your complaints, like the satellites
can search for landmarks,
how the light searches for the dark,
i guess you have worries
******* into a bouquets colored in
unfortunate crime series,
similar to nancy drew.
i always knew i read those books with
patience for a reason.
negative comforts you with
its energies and wide open
grace,
having its own race that will
love you and love you all over again
because you are uncertain anyone
else will but
i can't give you a stable ground to
walk on or an idealist world
you know you cannot have.
everyone else has learned to live,
working with the works and hands
they've been dealt.
you just constantly ask for it,
you aren't a king,
hardly a man.

things like this always take time.
© Danielle Jones 2011
Marissa Cooper May 2013
Your body was once my atlas
The lines of our hands
Play the latitudes and longitudes
Across the Seven Seas of Sheets

The compass between your ventricles
Was once the brightest star
An eternal celestial sphere
In my constellation

Lover, be other worldly
Let your limbs run free
Like the roots of the Angsana tree
Down, deep and dark.
Kelly McCarthy Jun 2014
I want you
to be
the only
one
I’ll
ever
fall in love with.
The only one
to know
my
latitudes
and longitudes.
To memorize
my degrees
and geographies.
To
bask near
my
equator.
To
mark
courses
and
journeys
across
my skin
like ships
with sails
made of
your hopes – my love – our dreams.
I want you to
be my North star.
My guiding
force
to see me
safely to
your shores.
I want you
to never
let go.
Like the moon
as the
sun rises
in the
East.
I want
to be
your
Compass Rose.
To be there
when
you loose
direction.
To be
your
anchor.
Your
starting point.
To be something
beautiful
when
the world
has gone
dark and ugly.
Because
you are
all
that
matters.
You are my
Earth.
My map of my world.
The sun I revolve around.
My moon and the stars my fingers trace in the night sky.
The one I love.
And will always love.
Summer Edmonds May 2017
"Write one sentence, the truest sentence that you know."-Hemingway

So I took his advice.

I wrote it on the walls of your slumber and
along the spines of my favorite days.
I painted it on windows,
we turned into doors,
and doors we turned into walls.
I wrote it on your sharp tongue
and all it's favorite places to explore,
the latitudes
and longitudes of a truth unraveled.

I will always love you.
Lots of little leaves lend their thoughts through me, invasive, intricately they thwart thousands of flicking fluttering flapjacks that narrowly nest northwards in insightful intricacies.  My own correlation to the devastation of my excommunication comes circling psychotically through territory taken by thieves.  Listen to me.  Me,  the sea winding, crashing, lashing, smashing in the sand.  Shells wash shamelessly ashore.  Incoherent attitudes to the longitudes and latitudes of my bicameral mind melt biogenetically with generous gentrification and gratitude.  Knights that know nothing note notorious faults with the mechanical bull bellowing ballads of Bart Simpson's big brained battles.  Believing in a higher power that showers us with praise and rain and pain and flames is an astonishing attitude taken timelessly through history.  Histories mysteries made matching the mourning Mormons march maddeningly on netted walkways wandering wirelessly in the digital age.  Rage, sage, six billion constellations on one page, intuitive notions of nectarines and oranges that float directly through subconscious space into the place were the human race lost its face, bending backwards hopelessly heaving to find It.  Us, the story of story of stories.  Last but not least the golden fleece made by hand of the man who lost control of the audience blinking stupidly through the dim lighting in a Victorian era theater.  Money makes men mad, women whistle tunes on the rocks as the clocks tick down to our collective doom eternity falsity.  Lighting matches of the patches that reconnect the lashes lavishly lacerating loyal little people who dance dumbly and deftly as an affirmative acceleration of the Nation brings out the worst in us.  Millions marching miraculously on nation capital investment in the predicted earnings of what we can sell to the horribly under educated balding obese men with learning disabilities due to the undisclosed demonstration of lack of nutrients needed to make more mean men smart.  Lost at darts.  Joan of Arc.  Queen Diamond brings crime to silent Simon sitting on the dock of the bay.  We waste away.  Watching rivers rolling round the ******* bend that banishes blatant blasphemies of the self.  Sea me sinking seemingly shrinking in the distance of your one good eye.  Lost green waves washing worlds wary of the New Age.  But in my head it can't be said any other way than the way it repeats and relapses and redirects my attention to it when I try to sleep and eat and drink and sweat and sigh and sing and slink.  The twisting tangled thought that terrifies my tortured terrace (aka my also known as counterpart playing in the dark with lost fingers finding time to rhyme lines in the mosaic of my mind: my heart).  But I'll just tell you later.
7/2/2014
Broken Condom Feb 2014
A swivel of satisfaction
Staring through the windowpane of eternity

Envious eloquence

Cheap wine
Cold nights

Another minute, another hour
Another you, another me

Latitudes of love
Longitudes of hate

Past passions
Futuristic fatigues

That
is what makes up

You and me
I joust myself into jovial life
Jocose tatterdemalion and stygian salaciousness
Umbrage abrogating merit like swamping locusts
The mammoth chip on shouldered kids starving for life
I'm waiting on purgatory, and I'll wait for you with knives out
Cemetry of the artist stubbed beards and pubescence in the Phoenician Lands
He said she should have left the house
Tomahawks can still cut the vineyard, make my loquacity into beer-tap poetry
Flowery, murmur, kumbaya, kalimba de la soul and all thoughts aside
You're hoping music brings the song to my speechless heart
Your dance sounds light the motionless night, only the tapping of starry footsteps
Hob-nobs, more and more, knobs of heaven's doors open to every hippie with angel hair
Crossing the wires of substrates
Sonatas and partitas can be lugubrious, yet, elegantly examined
Nocturnes, from the centuries

Of ten old centurions
Came down to the Colosseum
Gladiator enthralled the chariots of fire
I was with ten ants, burning under the microscope
Tenants of this Roman Empire

Fighting for your rights
Fighting for the people who cannot fight
For the weak, requires peace and understanding
Shiny, homeless people lost the soul to the drugs and marijuana smoke under streetlamps stretching to infinity
This earth is an orchard of flowers
Slightly plump in the middle, it's mother nature
Not zaftig, it has latitudes and longitudes
Lavish life, garish fiefdom, stretches across the bent imagination of perverse minds
Looking for a kiosk in the peak of red skies that do not know blood and aggravation
New Year's Day, the cyka cry Mother Russia and SOS
Shooting flares into the sky
To reach so low, and to reach so high
Shouting slogans, written by the poets
Passion, prejudice, sensibility, comradery these are metiers of poets
Secrets strewed across the bloodless sky
Wishful thinking tantamount to head in the clouds
The clouds have different shapes and size, the fire of the greater existence lends us words in thoughts
Scarlet McCall May 2016
Day is done.
Gone the sons.
The daughters and the mothers,
the fathers and the others.
Tomorrow arises,
and more advisers
will give opinions
on the public’s attitudes
of which longitudes and latitudes
justify our intervention.
And which friends’ atrocities
we’ll ignore, and which we’ll tsk tsk.
But at what risk
do we apply our double standards?
And how many more standards will be borne
by how many ships and worn
by how many caskets?
Does not each double standard double the standards
covering caskets, arriving in plane loads?
Our politicians believe it’s better not to ask it.
Better not to ask that question, and bite the hand that feeds
the coffers and the coffins.
A Memorial Day poem I wrote about 5 years ago.
Marieta Maglas Jun 2015
Mary had nine cannons to defend against the pirates.
The passengers lived in large cabins having low ceilings.
This carrack was steered by Sam, the best between pilots.
Three decks and the crew's quarters made it look as a building.


Their quarters and the captain's house were on the upper deck.
With a long boat and a shallop, this carrack was safe.
The galley was near the cabins; no one was put in check.
Its food didn't push people against the restraints to chafe.

This vessel had hatches to be used between the floors.
On the lower deck, near the cargo, 'twas the gun room.
They stored there guns, powder and shot using some locked doors.
Their scent was blurred by the meats and by the ladies' perfume.


The waves and the missing light made this deck cold and damp
For flour, biscuits, dried meats and vegetables, water and beer.
The ****** entered there only using a small lamp.
One by one, Sam and Sulim moved the rudder to steer.


The capstan used to heave up the anchor, was at the bow.
The binnacle stood directly in front of the wheel.
Through the compass, to have a night vision it could allow.
The magnetic deviation they could see and feel.

The sailors used the hourglass to measure their duty time
An astrolabe helped them see the position of stars.
Their chip board measured the speed during the stormy clime.
The Cross staff was skillful to see those ships of wars.

''Give me the quadrant to see that dawn star's altitude! ''
Freddy told Sam.''Why did you choose to buy a carrack? ''
''Provisions for long sails, but I can't say with certitude.
It's stable in heavy seas and helpful during attacks.''

'Did you hear about der Eyck? '' Continued Frederick.
''His instrument for longitudes and latitudes is new, ''
Said Arturo, a Spanish passenger, '' not a trick.''
''I'll buy the Plantius' version for me and my crew.''

(to be continued..)

Poem by Marieta Maglas
Hoy me he tendido junto a una joven pura
como a la orilla de un océano blanco,
como en el centro de una ardiente estrella
          de lento espacio.

De su mirada largamente verde
la luz caía como un agua seca
en transparentes y profundos círculos
          de fresca fuerza.

Su pecho como un fuego de dos llamas
ardía en dos regiones levantado,
y en doble río llegaba a sus pies
          grandes y claros.

Un clima de oro maduraba apenas
las diurnas longitudes de su cuerpo
llenándolo de frutas extendidas
          y oculto fuego.
Tyler Matthew Oct 2019
Peering intensively through fog-marked mullioned glass
into a cool and conquering October sunrise
I am met with a profound and welcoming sudden awareness -
zephyrs breathing through each emerald green grass blade,
     brow of country hilltops, mountains materializing
with the passing of each era like wrinkles in a face,
clouds crawling the longitudes to reform over Pacific pools somewhere,
soil forcing upward making way for elm or oak or pine to tower,
rivers thundering wild down the backs of continents,
     cliff or crag breaking the maelstrom on occasion,
and all the while spinning, all of this and more, clinging to the frame of the earth
as it dances balanced on axis, pirouetting through the cosmos
in turbulent, beautiful, simply complex form just as I
back away from the window and extend an arm to brace myself.
Megan Sherman Dec 2016
Infinity – is made of atoms
‘Tis like an endless tapestry –
Stretching in all directions
In longitudes for Eternity

From solitary molecules
To entire superstructures
The building blocks of the cosmic scene
Articulating Natures

Without seam – or stitch
Or rip upon the textile
The matter of the multiverse multiplies
Making Eternity fertile
Elsie Jul 2016
Nobody seemed to care
i chewed a bubble gum,a priest was preaching
i ate banana in a st'k'ng bathroom
i dried my hair whilst sweeming
silent latitudes
attitudes in multitudes
very lonely longitudes
monosylable answer

Too many treasures in life
so many pressures...

made me wonder if anyone cares
Michael Briefs Aug 2017
"The world is WIDE and I travel it!
The world has a secret and I SEEK it!”,
Said I, as I sailed off one day
To follow tales of distant shores,
With untrammeled frontiers,
****** and pure!

Yielding to the demand of my disquieted soul,
“Voyage!” she cried, and I set upon my goal:
To stretch forth the extremities of my
Ambition -- to penetrate
The veil of all unknowing;
To heed to the heady lure
Of discovery,
Carried by the west wind, blowing!
The path I run will cost me years, and
I must try to go the distance.
But this is a longing for life undiluted,
Quaffed deep and savored
As a Barolo vintage,
Noble and intense.

Maps of her forbidding hinterlands were
Vouchsafed by Mariner Kings of ancient days.
I consulted the coded charts for clues, and
Configured the gilded astrolabe.
Obsession ruled my motives as I
Poured over sea-faring strategies.
The sagacious scrolls became a cypher,
Whispering exotic rumors
Of pleasures and possessions,
Steeped in rich antiquities.

My fertile mind was seized
By these boundless visions,
As the time came for our enterprise.
I shouted to my stalwart company,
“The road forward will not be forgiving,
But the rewards gained will outrageous fortune comprise!”

Our quest divided the latitudes as a
Scimitar separates flesh from bone.
My ship slashed the longitudes as we
Sought passage far from home.
My desire encircled her sensuous shape,
For she is a mistress, supple and warm.
This journey provided the means of escape, for
From the Tome of Glory these pages were torn!

Hence, joyously exulting, I made clear my claim,
“Wisdom is a treasure divine!
Adventure is the blood inflamed!”

My mad dream was unleashed and
I will always remember the day.
I was free to sail my heart’s tidal-course,
Venturing forth, far and away!
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10212660359399900&set=a.3726604559685.2161645.1113041505&type=3&theater
Amanda Zerilli Mar 2017
I’ve passed three lovers tonight
Their souls dancing like gnats
From the light in their eyes.

Their faces crisscrossed with latitudes
And longitudes
I can’t stop myself from trying
To pinpoint
Where their love intersects.

***
I collect ****** experiences
As if they are actually helping
Holding her head in place
Between my legs
And knowing that this full feeling
Is going to spill out
Just like it always does
And you’re going to look at me
And laugh
And I’ll be there laughing right back
Because it’s easier to do that.

I tend to create cravings
Tuck people into the corner of my cheek
Until I can figure out how to remove them.

You can be my bite to eat
Or maybe this time I’ll be the one consumed
Just make sure
You digest me properly.

Go ahead
Spend your time tasting me
And though my sweetness
Will never be dated enough
To expire
Know that my sugar
Would have blended perfectly
Into your cup of coffee.
Megan Sherman Dec 2016
I wonder - do I count at all?
Or am I just a speck
On the infinite tapestry of the universe
In longitudes outstretched

For looking in one could be forgiven
For centering the self
But such a vain obsession
Will put thee in bad health

Be looking outwards to receive
The beauty of the world
Dwelling within Nature's show
Her majesty unfurled
Glenn Currier Feb 2023
Slender and humble in its youth
the oak grew in moist earth near the bayou.
Roots pierced the dark land
ate the rich gumbo
silently morphed facets of soil
into a heart
with unexposed power and poise.

Across the bayou
on a screened porch
a young girl watched the new rain
make puffs of dust in the dirt
she daydreamed in the drifts of clouds
and wondered where they were born.

A young man and his friend
off the beaten path of their travels
found the town pool.
Swimming, he saw the beautiful girl
perched above the deep end
and across longitudes and latitudes
of loving, laughing, and weeping
they birthed and raised a family.

The bark’s ridges and gaps reveal
centuries of storms and floods
the oak’s long limbs laden
with life, wisdom, and altered environments.

These two entwined lives enriched
by learning and prodigious practice
their wine a vintage
of passionate enchantment
imbibed by thirsty learners
across decades beyond ordinary borders.

But she like the oak
with open arms
her strength born in good soil.
Hers is a rare power of gentle love
hers a courage born
of some cosmic connection
at the heart of her beautiful humanity.

Dedicated to my cousin Melanie on her eightieth birthday. Both of us born in the Durand line in southern Louisiana not too far from the Evangeline Oak near Bayou Teche. Our lives were seemingly divergent but somehow parallel and ultimately connected, I think, by a power greater than ourselves. If you are interested in more, please see: https://www.currierpoems.net/teche-series
On Rhodes the auroras could be seen retreating, to attract the new luminances crossing between the atmospheres of the old worlds, with stars that were ordered among others, descending at high speed from the Universe fascinating all Greece, coming from celestial bodies that brought from great Relative distances, proximity between the Duoverse and its satellite widening, allowing to grant life and pathways to the nascent species of Verthian sub-mythology.

The Sabbath energy Light is over breathed repair; here Saint John the Apostle influences through the Cinnabar conduit towards the Light of the Mashiach, with the intemperance of life on drops of crystallized water as gifts of Taphoric Light, with synoptic signs of transformation of all the green herbage growing like a beard on the slopes of the Willows, where Saint John the Apostle goes back to prayers; as in repetitive sentences and prayers towards the Universe, which were falling as it was on Mount Tabor in the Transfiguration. All this in fervor of the willow chins that fell from the galaxies, with their cascades one after another in orderly colophons of the fervor of making the sky a great source of Moshaic and Eliaic voices. (Moses and Elijah) to Christianize the holy oils of the radiant glory of the Universe that was complemented by the Heliac Ortho that was appreciated in different coefficients according to this new position of the parameter of Greece, observed from the Constellation of Pisces, being a piece symbolized as SOS, since Eratosthenes tells us about a fish that saved Derceto (Goddess of Assyrian mythology), after plunging into a large lagoon. Seeing therefore in the sky as Fum al Samakah, Arabic for "snout of the fish" (or Formalhaut from the Greek translation). Pisces being bright and of great dimension to mold it as an entire iris, which was rooted from the formal pelagic accent, towards a spectral related to the Duoverse, like leaves of Willow temperatures, on the reflection of the Multi-evocation. For the referendum against the Pleiades between light years that diminish behind the stars of the magnetic field and its exo planet. It is necessary to consider that in the wisdom of God, there would be his ordering consciousness, on each constellation, and then detach itself before each other that guards each one in centuries of light years and in each one of them children as light years of millions, but of numerical present time quantum; that is to say, all translation on average over ups and downs of spatiality and at remote ages, for zero or null numerals in the integrality of millions of non-existent light years, but accumulated and equidistant between the Universal Being and Multi-evocation. An example of cartographic observation shows us Greece at Latitude 39.074208 and Longitude 21.824312, influencing the Duoverse as a complement to the ortho of Greece with the latitude of the Heliac Ortho, being Sirius eleven days after Ekadashi and eleven days before the other at 10 °, Maximizing the luminous herbalism of the unconscious, to systematize the rise of the Universe imbuing itself into Greece. Radiant and small electromagnetic systems, led by the Divinity, are freeing themselves from all the units that bind them into the minimum Units that can be expanded with apostolic energy, rather than a trans-human receptor, in units of wave circulation, related to a Defined spatiality, Divine and with its own opening energy of small worlds of provision of light and radiation emitted by the deleterious convex of the invisible essences and properties that are released from overflowing stagnations of creation and from the skylights that are more distant than the longitudes of waves, that from a breath of creation, in the chemistry of a hyper multidimensional whole, live between widely displaceable energy frequencies, by lines of how many ..., in static energy of rest. Ultra colors intensify on the coasts of Rhodes, as a photoelectric effect of Cinnabar, formalizing mechanics in those sedimentary particles, which undulate in anticipation of the precise amalgamation of both universes, evolving towards the matrix of origin of physical and non-biological state and period, but of eternal divine inspiration, from the mouths of Vernarth, as a resurrected Electro vigorous Being, dwelling spacious and sinuosities of curvature and psychic spiraling, to appear from the differentiated tangential towards the core axis of body and spirit in the time of its impacted Being.

Verthian nature will call this phenomenon the Son, since it is the similarity of the halo in the Taboric Light and in its effect of the baptism of this Christian Universe called Duoverse, in conformity with the presence of Saint John the Apostle light, among the attending raptor white strangers, in arrival-departure and between the twinning nebulae of the gaseous cloud nimbus of the fields that could be heard towards each other recognizing each other ..., leaving only Saint John the Apostle in the perfection of heaven as something universal and Duoversal, above all being of light being baptized, crucified and risen-ascended, in metaphysical transfer of his body, as a universal body, as a quantum point between earth and sky, between the universe and the Duoverse as a complement of gaseous and spiritual atmospheric earth. Ministering in the judicious and prophetic occlusion, being part of the jurisdiction among the myriad beams of Constellar Pisces that supported the transfigured and converted prophets, before a brand new universe, "Duoverso", witness of amazement at the proximity
Being Universal multi-evocation:

— The End —