Tag Archives: poetic legacy

Destination Unknown ©️

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Months passed and the nights of smoke and prophecy gave way to mornings of permanence. She stood at the helm, the sea blazing with sunlight, her hair caught in the wind like a banner. My arms circled her as they always had, but now her body carried more than beauty—she carried the future. The curve of her belly was a promise, the visible shape of continuity.

The yacht was no longer a cathedral adrift in solitude; it was ark and altar both. The sky bent open above us, not as a vault to be sealed but as an inheritance stretching forward. I looked at her and saw not only the woman who had yielded to me in the night, not only the muse who lay in the ruins of our pleasure, but the mother of a world that would outlast us.

She did not drift away like the others. She stayed. She bore my lineage. And as the Mediterranean flared with light, I knew the truth was no longer mine alone—it was ours, and it would move forward through her.

The Field Between Them ©️

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Two trees grew in a field where no man prayed, Split by a stone that the thunder obeyed. One sang of heaven in bark and bloom, The other drank deeply from winter’s tomb. Both bent to wind like prophets in sleep, Their roots clasped secrets the river would keep.

O mountain mother, hush not thy voice—For wolves still yawn and the elk rejoice. The stars hang drunken on fir-lit pines. Where the dead breathe fog in the faulted lines. And under their branches, frost-wrought and bare, Lie hoofprints nailed like hymns to prayer.

One tree leaned westward, one toward the sun, Their shadows braided when day was done. No saw, no axe, no farmer’s grief, Could split the vow in bark and leaf. They grew not tall for man’s delight, But to whisper to moose in the lantern night.

Beneath them lay the bones of snow, Where blood once melted, then ceased to flow. Not war, but silence had torn the skin—Of a land where breath is held within. And the trees stood still as if they’d known That God rides bareback through pine alone.

So rage, green giants, and swing your boughs—The storm is just the world’s old vows. Though cabins rot and ranches fall, Still you stand, and still you call. And when my time comes, make me this: A voice in wind between roots and abyss.

Two trees grew in a field where I lay down, One bore a crown, the other a frown. Yet both were true, and both were wild, And both remembered me—as child.