one hundred and eleven

The small parchment-shaded globe,
that of an ancient cartographer,
rests agelessly upon 
a green-painted 
(like the dark olive, forest color)
retable of oak, but maybe cedar.

One hundred and eleven 
names, places, odd scribbles of 
sailors' lore 
languish amidst bloated and
defective continental shapes.

The Antipodes,
an imaginary land 
where none have traveled
(for it was far too near the sun).

The Northwest Passage
(odd how the mythological 
sun-land resides on the same globe
as the mirage that drew Hudson to his exile)
outlined in simple easy to follow instructions and
surrounded by Sirens, Mermen, 
and even King Neptune, with a cadre of 
Chimaerae.

Cathay, Chosun, New Granada, 
New Spain, the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, 
the Holy Roman Empire,
(not encompassing Rome, 
not a Papal State, and ruled by a King),
Muscovy, Spanish Hapsburgs 
ruling over Holland, and
one hundred and one more,
all evaporated 
like Lowell's Martian canals.

All time, taken pieces 
and half-truths where lands that time separated 
were drawn together by 
a patient, subtle, and mistaken hand. 

One hundred and eleven names
cast as a shadow through a back-lit
distorted parchment-shaded sphere,
meant something to someone
at some time, I trust.

©1997 Timothy A. Clark