The Moya View

Tag: son

  • Trying to Follow My Mother

    Trying to Follow My Mother

    This morning the ghost of my mother haunted me. There was just peace, calm, a blue-green shadowy crystal shimmering steady above my sleeping chair. She came at a time when only I can see and know her- before the last dream and dawn, before the others  awakening, she pulsated lovely and in proper motion through…

  • Father, Sin and Holy Ghost

    Father, Sin and Holy Ghost

    I squatter in the catacombs of remembrance. grinding my bones with pumice and chalk for a fine bone dust to clean the vellum bindings of my soul’s revisions.  The scars glitter the ground.   All the others with almost identical names, are around me, enough alike to make me doubt the date I was born.   Something…

  • I Can Never Write Like My Mother

    I Can Never Write Like My Mother

    Am I left loving what my mother couldn’t? — writing on patchouli scented paper — words doused in sweet musky earth — unsent letters, all sweet and spicyI laid the stems of letters across wet pages—but they did not take— failed to bloom—I tired of the scent— wished for the beautiful unadorned line— divorcedfrom all…

  • An Endless Telephone Call

    An Endless Telephone Call

    I knew this pulse had traveled thru spacewith a shivery speedto reach this felt sole,these five yards of ancient twisted wires that gave it sound-striking its bell three times in mournful was too early to hear the good news of friends.Yet, even not quite awake,I knew between the sounds of hello and goodbye my…

  • My Mother’s Sounds

    My Mother’s Sounds

    I am not your dying son, I thought, as my wife gave me the diagnosis, remembering my mom in her dying chair.   I will not pass into final memories watching the Pope in America. “Bless me, Papa”, will not be my last words.   I do not believe in my mother’s God though He…