The Moya View

Tag: fathers

  • Pushing the Needle

    Pushing the Needle

    My father wasn’t the kind of man to let his ashes just blow in the wind. He spent his life trying to push him-self through needles.At his celebration of life, I watchedas his ash drifted down through the smallest cracks.The poor manwould have been pleased.Then, the sea tasted his embersand scattered himamongst the waves breaking…

  • Fathers and Sons: Walking the Broken Road

    Fathers and Sons: Walking the Broken Road

    He took his boy along the path to show him all the things he killed.The rifles were left behind, not in the truck, but at home,secure in the gun case.He had his fill of all that.It’s been more than a yearsince he closed the shop and spent his golden momentsorganizing the nuts and bolts,the tools,…

  • Epitaph as My Father’s Son

    Epitaph as My Father’s Son

    There is no house that is not my father’s.There are no fixed stars,just shaken bits of misery, tiny disasters tethered to hope.From the house he loved,I feel the slap of his inner pain,fist waves hitting the footers.It was easy for him to fight back,(he had to do it to get anywhere)harder for him to forgive…

  • Opening Her White Parasol

    Opening Her White Parasol

    With the push of a button, the delicate porcelain releases lace ribs from the handle- little dove wings- shading her dreams, memories of father, creating this object to protect her from the shriveling sun.

  • We Dream Our Babies Dreams

    We Dream Our Babies Dreams

    Mother’s? Father’s? Which dreams will you acquire ?Heritage will whisper them to you. The universe its others.What you choose will steer future mothers/fathers.Just know, you will cry before you hope, will grasp for tomorrow and maybe catch a star or just dull sky.Throw the best out to the universe, the worst bury far.For now, sleep…

  • Fathers and Friends

    Fathers and Friends

    He cradled her from birth, first steps.And he carried her to death, last steps.One was once her father. The other was her life mate.After her funeral , on this bench,they talked and commiserated.Ever since, their bench talks grew tomore kids, sports, small memories of her. This poem has a mirror poem- She Supposes.

  • Taking a Train Ride

    Taking a Train Ride

    An old fashion steam train ride together is the only good way fathers know their young sons and sons their old fathers.

  • Childhood 3: Riding Dark Horses Bareback and Barefoot

    Childhood 3: Riding Dark Horses Bareback and Barefoot

    The boy wants a horse.The dad gets him a horse—a bronco he was told which use to be a thoroughbred,a black wind of a creaturewho barely tolerates the old, cracked saddlefrom the dad’s jockey days.It takes two track hands to hold the reins, to keep the stallion stillwhen the dad addresses him . In the…

  • Son of Monarchs

    Son of Monarchs

    The monarch flutters above the ash and in its black and orange beautyexists all day and night. It flies up to meet the sun,the gentle maternal hand of life lived in the light.Only the scent of milkweedlures it down to ground for the paternity of feasting and breeding.In its flight between earth and sky, I…