Nosopus

Design and development services for organizations that want a clean, high quality web presence.

▶ Speir Smith

About Nosopus

Meaning

Nosopus is built from Latin roots: nos for we and opus for work. Together it reads as we work.

Statement

Nosopus provides website design and development for small businesses and organizations. We focus on clear structure, strong visual standards, fast performance, and straightforward maintenance. Our goal is to deliver sites that look professional, communicate well, and support real business outcomes.

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Epic Poem

enjoy (:

Sing, Muse, of the man of many turns, who wandered too long and too loudly, after the high walls fell and the bronze gate drank the smoke of kings. He took the salt road. He took the wrong road. He took the road that was a road only because it looked like a road at night. The oars bit water like teeth in an argument. The mast creaked like an old judge who had heard every excuse. And the men, poor men, the kind the poems forget to name, counted jars, counted storms, counted their fingers again after each skirmish. I First came the island that smelled like warm bread and wet wool. A boy ran down the shore with a wreath too big for his head and shouted a welcome he did not understand. The captain nodded like a man signing a contract he cannot read. They ate. They slept. They dreamed of home. They woke and found the wreath had become a noose. The island was polite. The island was smiling. The island had rules written in invisible ink. It said, stay. It said, do not measure time. It said, let your name go and you will be fed forever. But the captain said no. Not a loud no. A quiet no, like a door that does not open. He took his men by the shoulders and pulled them toward the boats. Some resisted. Some wept. Some pretended to tie knots. The sea took them back with the sigh of an animal that has seen this before. II Then a fog fell. Not the gentle fog that makes fishermen sing, but the thick fog that tastes like iron and old lightning. In the fog there was a bell. It rang without hands. It rang without mercy. A voice called from the left. A voice called from the right. The men argued about which one sounded more honest. They chose the one that sounded tired. They rowed until the fog unhooked itself from the world and they found a harbor built from black stone and worse intentions. There were merchants there selling maps. All the maps were the same. All the maps led to the same cliff. All the maps were written in a language that looked like your own until you tried to follow it. The captain bought one anyway. He paid with a ring that still carried the warmth of a wedding. The merchant smiled as if he had been given a joke. The merchant bowed as if he had been given a kingdom. The captain walked away as if he had been given a problem. III Next, the winds held council. The East wind arrived first, dressed in clean linen, smelling of apples. The North wind came after, with a cloak stitched from winter. The West wind did not arrive, but everyone spoke of him as if he were just in the other room sharpening a knife. The South wind laughed from behind a curtain. They argued about the captain like bureaucrats. Is he brave. Is he stubborn. Is he merely loud. They passed papers of cloud from hand to hand. They stamped each page with a thunderhead seal. And finally they decided on punishment. Not death. Not mercy. Something between. They gave him a breeze that changed its mind every hour. They gave him a horizon that moved like a rumor. They gave him nights so long the moon looked bored. IV On the fourth dawn a whale surfaced, slow, enormous, wearing the ocean like a crown. It regarded the ship the way a mountain regards a fly. Then it spoke. Not in words. In weight. The sea rose under the keel and the men shouted prayers they had not spoken since childhood. The captain held the rail and felt the world tilt. The whale slid away, satisfied, leaving behind a spiral of foam like a signature. A sailor said, it is an omen. Another said, it is just a whale. A third said nothing, because he had seen the whale's eye and the eye had looked back with a human kind of patience. V And then, as if the gods had grown impatient with their own story, a storm came in without knocking. Rain fell in spears. Waves rose in walls. The ship creaked like a chair under a giant. Men were thrown across the deck like coins in a gambler's hand. The captain tied himself to the mast and laughed once, because laughter was the only thing not being stolen. In the lightning he saw the face of a god and the face looked annoyed, like a clerk whose lunch has been interrupted. The captain shouted a question at it. The god answered by splitting the sky again. That was not helpful. VI When the storm ended, the world had been rearranged. The stars were in the wrong places. The taste of water had changed. A gull circled overhead, confused, as if it had lost its paperwork. The men looked at each other and did not recognize their own fear. They drifted into a bay with cliffs shaped like teeth. On the shore, statues stood facing the sea. Not heroes. Not kings. Just statues of ordinary people, carved too carefully, as if the sculptor had been lonely. The captain stepped onto the sand and heard a whisper. Not from the wind. From the statues. Come closer, they said. The captain did not. He had learned that invitations are often traps with better handwriting. VII He found a hut. In the hut, a blind old man. The blind man smiled at nothing. You are late, said the blind man. Late for what, asked the captain. Late for yourself, said the blind man. The captain sat. The blind man poured wine into two cups. The wine tasted like cedar and regret. The blind man spoke of home in a way that made the room smaller. The captain felt the ship, far away, shiver like a dog left outside. Tell me how to return, said the captain. The blind man shrugged, as if the road were an opinion. Go west, he said, until the sea becomes a mirror. Then go east, he said, until you forget the names of fish. Then go north, he said, until your breath becomes a rope. Finally, go south, he said, and do not look behind you. That sounds impossible, said the captain. Yes, said the blind man. It is. VIII They sailed again, because the alternative was to become a story that ends early. They found an island where sheep grazed on purple grass. They found a cave where a singer kept jars of echoes on a shelf. They found a beach littered with broken oars and each oar had a name carved into it like a grave marker. One night, the sea grew smooth as oil. The ship moved without sound. The men whispered, afraid to wake the water. The captain stared into the dark and saw something moving under the surface. Not a fish. Not a shadow. A thought. It rose. It became a woman. It became a woman with hair like seaweed and eyes like coins. It smiled and the air tasted of salt and cinnamon. Stay, it said. No, said the captain. Why not, it said, as if the question were genuinely interesting. Because I have promised myself to a road, he said. A foolish promise, it said, and laughed with the sound of tidepools. IX Later they came to a city built on stilts, trembling above the water. The people there were always packing. They lived with one hand on a suitcase. They ate quickly. They slept lightly. They told jokes like men on a sinking ship. The captain asked, why do you live like this. Because, said a woman, the sea sometimes rises in anger. Because, said a man, the sea sometimes forgets the rules. Because, said a child, we like to practice leaving. The captain bought a loaf of bread. He ate it on the dock. It tasted ordinary. He nearly cried. X At last, an island of shining stone appeared, and on it a palace. Not a human palace. A palace built for arguments between gods. Columns like tree trunks. Floors like calm water. A throne made of something that refused to be named. A god sat there, barefoot, looking bored. He waved a hand and a table appeared. He waved again and the table vanished, as if it had insulted him. Why are you here, said the god. Because I cannot stop being here, said the captain. The god laughed. That is the best answer, he said. It is the only honest one. The god offered him a deal. A simple deal. A deal that came with a smile, and therefore should have come with a warning. Forget home, said the god, and I will give you peace. Refuse, and I will give you more sea. The captain looked down at his hands. They were scarred. They were strong. They were tired. He imagined them holding a doorframe in his own house. He imagined them holding nothing at all. No, he said. The god clapped once, delighted. Wonderful, he said. Then take your sea. XI They rowed through a passage where the rocks sang. Not a pretty song. A song that sounded like a promise being broken. The men put wax in their ears. The captain did not. He wanted to hear what the world said about him, even if it was ugly. The song called him proud. The song called him stubborn. The song called him hungry. It called him alive. He kept rowing. XII A shoreline appeared that looked like home, but was not. A dog barked in the distance that sounded like his dog, but was not. A woman stood on a hill that looked like his wife, but was not. The men cheered anyway. The captain did not cheer. He had learned that hope can be a mirage and still be cruel. They landed. They walked. The ground felt wrong underfoot. The trees leaned as if listening. A bird perched above them and spoke a word in a human voice. Turn back, said the bird. The men stared at the captain. The captain stared at the bird. Then he walked forward. XIII The land tried to bargain with him. A river offered him forgetfulness. A mountain offered him pride. A field offered him sleep that would last a century. A fire offered him a story where he was the hero and nothing hurt. He declined them all. Not because he was wise. Because he was stubborn in the way a nail is stubborn. He said, I am going home. The land said, prove it. XIV So he proved it. He crossed the river and did not drink. He climbed the mountain and did not look back. He walked the field and did not lie down. He sat by the fire and did not listen to the story it told. His men followed. Not all. Some stayed behind, tired of being characters. They waved goodbye like people who will never meet again. They were right. XV At the edge of the world, a door stood. Just a door. No wall, no house, no hinges that made sense. A door in the air, as if someone had started building and then decided not to. The captain put his hand on the handle. It was warm. He felt a heartbeat on the other side. He felt laughter. He felt shouting. He felt a kitchen. He felt a simple chair by a simple table. He felt the weight of his own name spoken by someone who meant it. He opened the door. And the Muse, who has been keeping score, looked down at the whole ridiculous journey and said quietly, finally. But the story does not end cleanly. No story that involves the sea ends cleanly. The captain stepped through. The door shut. The wind changed. Somewhere, a god sighed, disappointed to lose his entertainment. Somewhere, a wave rose and fell without anyone to witness it. Somewhere, a sailor told this tale badly in a tavern and was rewarded with a drink for his confidence. And the Muse, still singing, still unhelpfully amused, added one more verse for the sake of excess: If you ever find yourself lost, count the oars. Count the stars. Count the lies you have believed. Then choose a direction and keep moving. The sea respects effort. The sea ignores excuses.