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Jonathan Moya Mar 2022
Bury  them with their Motanka,
doll tight in their hands.

Dress them in that  yellow
fleece wanted and put back on the shelf,

two wreaths of  roses and gerberas
adjacent their crypt,

filled with their birth smells,
the sandalwood,  jasmine of the crib,

a towel and a bowl of water
near to wipe their tears.

Flood the nave lightly  dark
so they may chase the path of birds.

Recite the names they gave
the fowl, flowers, everything.

Only you must remain ignorant
of the sun and the dark.

Only you would pray to re-turn
amniotic time to have them again,

nine months to split the seeding moment,
to be be flesh renewed, a new word within you.

Only you will thirst to
return drop by by red drop

the blood spilled from them
to the wanting womb.

Only you will drag their sled
from church to cemetery.

You will feast with others
on the third, ninth, the fortieth

day of their passing, feast again
on the sixth month and the annum,

for each one day past Easter
for another forty Provodies.




Notes on the Ukrainian funeral rites and rituals mentioned in the poem:

On the days of Ukrainian funerals, a bowl of drinking water and a towel are left for the dead as a spiritual offering. This is done because it is believed that the soul of the deceased drinks the water and uses the towel in order to wash away the tears along the way.

Moreover, Ukrainians abstain from drinking water in the presence of the body of the deceased.

Another Ukrainian traditions is to use a sled to move the body of the deceased from the funeral service to the burial site.

They have a feasting ritual in which members of the community join to feast on the third, ninth and fortieth days after a death has occurred. These feasts are also repeated on the six month and one year anniversaries of the death of a person. Ukrainians also commemorate the lives of their ancestors on the days following Easter. It is believe that this puts the spirits of their ancestors at ease so they can continue to rest in peace. This Ukrainian remembrance festivity is referred to as “Provody”.

The mainly faceless Motanka dolls can be found in every region of the Ukraine.  They are a symbol of women’s wisdom and family bounds.  In Orthodox Catholic regions of the Ukraine the face of a Motanka is made of a cross— a symbol of not only their faith but also sun and light, not only a good luck charm but also a symbol of well-being.
Jonathan Moya Dec 2024
He knows how to observe the heron
in the twilight’s lonely inclusion-
this blue dream that could vanish
in flight if drawn too near—
head, eyes, ears pulled forward
following the flow of fish ahead
until it vanishes from his sight
behind a screen of slender reeds.
Jonathan Moya Oct 2020
The cairns are mothered
by murders of crows—

four stones as black as raven eggs,
others sky blue with specks of black,

pointing this way to heaven,
pointing this way to hell,

or is it to Tecumseh’s grave,
the bones of all buffaloes?

But then crows are great tricksters,
erecting spoof vortexes, medicine wheels.

They see everything at ground level,
the new landscape under their feet,
the old air lifting their wings.

They revel in the unbalancing
of everyday things

the sun, the moon,
the earth, the sky.

They will flip flop when all are asleep
and flop right back in the waking dream.  

Crows know the cairn formed
where Cain and David’s stone’s fell,
where Jesus dare not cast the first one.

They know what happened to those
who stole the middle stone
causing the soldier to come,

the ones who rose when
their gravestones were removed,

the ones that mark where
the things of life are buried,

even the feather cairns that line
to the final game jump.
Jonathan Moya Jul 2020
It’s a fizgig, a gadding
of damp powder
hinting to explode,
assuming your surname
without any legal ceremony.

It flip flops you with trust
burrowing into the one
perfect position,
sleeping ahead of you,
waking you when you fall behind.

Not at all heavy, yet the
heaviest thing you’ll ever have.
Every breath heavy with airy death
that stunts your budding
wings from taking flight.

You measure the weight of
every thought until it always
pulls you down and your soul
takes flight jut to live…

…and you don’t t bother to chase it.

Notes:
a fizgig is both a flirting woman and a
firework of damp powder that fizzes or hisses when it explodes.

gadding is to go around from one place to another, in the pursuit of pleasure or entertainment.
Jonathan Moya Sep 2020
1.

If there is wild moving water
there is a trout in it
waiting for the cast,

the whip of line in air
splashing a weigthless fly
on the mirror surface

luring the rainbow fish
to break the heavy air
for the angler’s fantasia.

                    2.

The Rogue is flowing
with trophy size cutthroats,
chars and steelheads,

yet the angler only feels
the stillness, the endless  casting,
the motionless standing in place

until time is forgotten,
his scheduled life forgotten,
what needs to be done next forgotten

only the emotion is left,
the heart of spirit ferrules,
the casting, the rod

with its wheel seats
made of rosewood,
inscribe calligraphy

in golden ink, shiny agate
guides in bamboo,
its garnet threads and

extra fine brass wire
in a five weight
ideal for trout fishing,

the anglers long boots
planted firmly in the stream,
getting lost in the ineffable moment

until the closing
orange hues of autumn
are reeled in and stowed away.
Jonathan Moya Jun 2019
Catacombs are full of bones
snuggling in the disgrace of others.
Hipbones piled on top of skulls,
the absence of lower jaws
denying the departed a smile,
the eternal existential joke
of insulting the living
with the knowledge
of their ultimate end.

Femur, skull, femur skull
is the monotonous pattern
of the Paris catacombs.
Two hundred six reduced
to two, an afterthought,
ossein denied an ossuary,
even the unity of skeleton.

The Capuchin Crypts at least
grant a molecular dignity.  
The entrance mummies
are part of a gruesome holy décor
draped in the faux pas of passé styles,
yielding room after nauseating room
to the essential two of Paris,
femurs/skulls clustered
in paisley amoeba patterns
projecting snaking vertebrae
of dendrites, of life replicated
with the cross on the wall as
the ultimate center and end.

Did their former owners
know that death would
be the end of ****** control?
That for a ghastly and sacred art
they could be united forever
in indiscriminate unity
with their enemy or lover?
Would they have opted
for the grave knowing
that their ashes could
easily be blown into
the breeze that survives them?
Jonathan Moya Jun 2020
The hot night rain drenches me in sleep
opening a bow to prayer
amidst the lunatic birds swarming
in the dark heat.
Magnolias are split in dreams
heavy with bolts and tears,
flowing in the cascade
of cracked mirrors.
All is unmoored from my memory,
surviving on communion.
Dear Jesus am I not more profound
than thy mad swirl?
Jonathan Moya Apr 2022
Stardust,  
the hardest thing to hold on to,
forms our guardian  angels,
the ones that sway us
to our favorite tree,
settling each branch
in a sugary light.

We scamper
towards it,  all the dust
of sun and star reflecting
golden in our faces,
adorned in the
red and white regal robes
of our younger self.

God particles
surround us,
their soft collisions
cooling on our skin,
filling us with dreams
of things we may
never know again.

For now,
we fly on our
given golden wings
into our angel’s sway,
for they called us little birds
and we believe their very word.

We soared
with them in their heaven,
pausing only briefly
on a branch of sky
to sit and cuddle together,
whispering how they
value us in our ears,
their gift to us held tight.

From
the farm shed
our parents call us
and we settle on
the vernal, yellow
nimbus of earth for
one last celestial dance—

waiting
and knowing the empty pair
of red and white dance shoes
they gifted us, that are sitting
on the floor like a callus,  
will someday be given a
reason to move once more.
Jonathan Moya Mar 2020
Aye, chihuahua, canis familiaris,
land piranha nipping at Aztec heels.
 
Aye chihuahua!
 
Heart of a Techichi warrior
becoming yipping snarling *****,
eyes pulsating, patellas luxating
at the stench of **** erectus
US-es post-alus carrier-alopulus
approaching, adorned in
sky colors crowned in ivory pith.
 
She is fed on belly rubs and Kirkland’s
grain free turkey and pea stew
in the red can, served in a faux
Wedgwood bowl which she gently
mauls in her tiny maw with the
crooked right canine.
 
Queen Sharma is a diminutive avenger  
who brooks no men, except Daddy,
yet dotes in squealing delight
at the touch of women and children.
 
Her territory, a peed-on scent trail,
extends from Guinevere to Lancelot
to Tristram to Merlin to the end
of Camelot Lanes, Streets and Places.
Neither hated squirrels, rabbits
and other canine species are allowed.
 
She can neither jump on the sofa
nor forge mighty streams.
What she lacks in peripheral vision
she makes up for in astute echolocation
and good stiff sniffs of her nose.
 
Yet she has a deep dark secret
that stains her royal dreams.
The scruff under her neck to the chest
in the russet form and color of a fox,
which she struts with a rooster’s pride,
is the product of her Chi-Chi mater
cohabitating with a spritz of Pomerania,
making her neither chihuahua nor pomeranian,
but yes, an adorable pomchi!
 
Yet that neither bothers her nor me
as she paws at the bed covers draping the
leader of this pack, burrowing under to
be close to my side, and dream dog dreams
of walks and car rides and never leaving me.
of walks and car rides and never leaving me.
Jonathan Moya Oct 2020
It soothes me to keep
the clutter of the past
in picture albums
on my cell phone:
mother’s yellow dresses,
ashes in weighted urns,
brittle  
birth and death certificates,
enough heirlooms
to make a portable history,
things heavy enough
to resist memory’s drift,
for when
the hills blaze up
and I have to evacuate,
leave everything behind—
I am ready to
be an immigrant
once more.
Jonathan Moya May 2020
I never thought brick dreams could tumble in the wind.
My wife collects our scattered memories in a undersized bin
like a child on the tide line collecting beach glass and seashells.
She listen for the sound of blood amidst the dying wind
mistaking rustling pages for her breath cycling in and out,
her pulse beating on the surface of paper, cloth and wood.
She searches for artifacts that match/mismatch my cancer-
the progeny the tornado left scattered in the brick and wallboard.

I listen to the wind and rain ping on my ward’s windows
unaware of her scavenging, unable to sleep in the harsh light
that doesn’t erode the pain or the glitter of memory,
the constant Kabuki of nurses, doctor and blood drawers,
the chant of machines that make me mistake
the sterile for the sacred, the soundtrack for the profound.
I see my wife in the mud, inches from my eyes,
putting away the jagged, clear granules of our life.
Jonathan Moya Nov 2019
The bulldozers and jackhammers
blasted the concrete away
clearing it of water, aggregate, cement,
tearing it down to the soil
until it buzzed with reclamation,
smelled of loam and petrichor,
the release of geosmin in the stirring,
ozone expelling with first lightning and rain,
surface bubbles releasing aerosols
like fresh baked bread from the oven
through open kitchen windows.


Over the watchful hum of drones
circling overheard the first crop
of the community garden
was tilled and planted in nine wide rows-
beans, cucumbers, zucchini, pumpkin,
squash, melons, clover, mint and basil-
drawing only the attention of hornets,
the disinterest of the rain god
that let their tender love dissolve
back to the earth in a pool of rot,
that never allowed a harvesting or tasting.

The second crops were planted in five narrow rows:
tomatoes, peanuts, green peppers, sweet peas
and eggplants, offensive to wasps and immune
to the silly whims of an offended deity
that could not flood over their high walls,
their collective pride, red as clotted blood.
They reaped its first beautiful harvest,
thought it tasted of airy summer dreams,
sold it with joy in their farmer’s market
until the first secret taste spit it out
for it was nothing but sawdust and glue.
Jonathan Moya Mar 2020
My wife doesn’t allow me
to watch her when she cooks.
The dog is her silent admirer,
sitting patiently for crumbs.

So much of it is filled with the
aroma of her mother, Geri’s  cooking,
the recipes etched in memory’s stone,
rituals not shared with a family of men.

The scent of garlic and onions,
meat sizzling in a hundred previous
kitchens for fathers waiting at long tables
makes me regret that I am just a man.

My mother, Elsi was a lousy cook,
and my tias knew it, consigning
her to wrap the twine around
pasteles in their banana leafs.

Where Geri passed down her recipes,
Elsi bequeathed me her heart and
compassion sautéed in bitter-sweet
sorrow dusted with ‘Rican seasoning.

I think she saved a pinch for Krissy,
for succor is her strongest flavor,
and I feed off it ravenously when
I need the strength.

The scent of spaghetti squash
roasting in the oven fills
my imagination with the need
to eat, live beyond just sustenance.

I crave to know the secret of her kitchen
but she brings the squash to me
on a plate hot around the edges
and we eat it, contentedly on the bed.

One day, I will sneak into the cocina
and maybe cook a picadillo finer than
her great creations, doing it
like all men, strictly by the recipe.
Jonathan Moya Nov 2019
Those  who tread the thin blue line
knows it  follows through their lineage.

Strong boys become men,
then become cops.
The rest become robbers,
the devil that stares them
in the eye for the rest of their life.

If they  are good they’ll get
their shoot out
in the slaughterhouse.
Jonathan Moya Mar 2019
She was almost as white as ivory
and more valuable than ebony.  
A pale diamond of abolitionists dreams
draped in a plaid trimmed dress with lace,
curls surrounding her face like
any other plantation girl.

She exists at the edge of color
at the point when light
could be captured as day edges
into shades of night,
somber hues of black and gray.

The notebook on the cloth covered table
suggested richness and more
away from the whipped harvest gatherings,
something stolen away
to be the pride of a Boston heir.
The daguerreotype could never
shake free its sense of death caught still.

Mary Mildred Williams was her white name.
The black one died when she was sold
on the Virginia square for 900 dollars.
Senator Summer bought her freedom
and then enslaved her image
for the abolitionist sway.  The first poster child  
for black liberty, for the fugitive slave
needing an open air railroad.

She got her last white name, little Ida May,
(same as the imagined white girl
kidnapped and dyed black
to be put in peril for another white right cause)
to highlight the fact that Mildred’s complexion
was the result of generations of white ****.

She was paraded unshackled
from podium to podium,
leaflets of her face passed out,
as common as reward posters
for those who dared run and stray.

She was the next to last speaker
to Solomon Northrop,
also an ex-slave with a
best selling freedom story.

The passing of her image
was a political act,
for a swarming media  
enchanted by someone
who looked just
like them but wasn’t.

America loves black stories
that need white saviors
to be reassured of their
separate but equal vision.
Jonathan Moya Mar 2021
The clocks leap forward and I fall back
looking for you to return from dust
blessedly
at the stroke of two this night.
¡Despiértate!  (Wake up!)
Es muy muy tarde Madre Mia. (It’s very very late My Mother.)
Gather yourself.
School is over and it is time,
not too too late for you
to teach that old song
and stay forever.
Jonathan Moya Mar 2021
I did want to do it with dead flowers
the pressings of leaving here—
flowers made of truths held openly in front
from a  fallow field  left to nettles,
the broken pebbles hammered by a vengeful sun.
I plucked it up, plucked the good root
of all our great hopes and best dreams  
and watched my life parch, shrivel and die in my hands
and heard her cry out
as if this left her incomplete,
clutching nightmares in her small arms.
Jonathan Moya Jun 2020
What will happen
when we
stop writing poems?

What will poetry become
when we stop inspiring
and the beauty of words
is silenced or rejected?

We will leave the writing table
and descend into the valley
to find new sounds and laughter.

We will drink the last water
from thirsty mountains.

We will listen
to the resounding
music and laughter
of our own dark forests.
Jonathan Moya Sep 2019
I collect the death masks
of everyone I see,
many ready with their
mouths turned to  the earth,
eyes closed tight in hellish denial.

Except for L’Inconnue de la Siene
pulled from the river in utter peace,
lovely as Ophelia floating in the reeds,
the resuci Anne of two centuries
of death and resurrected respirations.

Her I grant the heaven she envisioned,
rescue her from the sterile pummel
of kisses and mechanical resurrections
for the body forever remembers its debt
to the devil’s dance of an aspiring life.

I am an exiled poet like Dante
finishing the Paradisio and Inferno
before the malarial last vision
and stone cold gasp reveals
the world and God as just a trick.

I witness the world pleading mercy
to the executioner before the beheading.
“No, no Madam you must die.  You must die”,
is the death mask maker’s answer before
the axe man takes his three swings.

I wonder, like Keats, before the wax
embalms his consumptive face
“How long is this posthumous
existence of mine to go on?”
The answer coming one year later.

I know the world will die, like John Dillinger
in a hale of bullets under a movie marquee,
its death mask ceremoniously displayed
next to its ***** pickled member
and the Sheep Child bleating for love.




Notes:
L’Inconnue de la Siene is a famous death mask created from a Parisian suicide.  Her death mask was a popular morbid collectible found in many French households of the late 1800’s and early 1900s. The Death Mask was also used as the face of a  popular CPR teaching mannequin known as resuci Anne.

The Sheep Child is a reference to the James Dickey poem about a creature that was the off spring of *******.

John Dillingers pickled ***** is rumored to be a part of the Smithsonian museum’s  hidden collection of oddities.
L’Inconnue de la Siene is a famous death mask created from a Parisian suicide.  Her death mask was a popular morbid collectible found in many French households of the late 1800’s and early 1900s. The Death Mask was also used as the face of a  popular CPR teaching mannequin known as resuci Anne.

The Sheep Child is a reference to the Janes Dickey poem about a creature that was the off spring of *******.

John Dillingers pickled ***** is rumored to be a part of the Smithsonian museum’s  hidden collection of oddities.
Jonathan Moya Sep 2024
As I get older I don’t dread death coming closer.
It is closer.
It will come as a newborn:
seeding so long in me,
that I would chide it for taking its time.
I will not scream when it head comes out my body.
I won’t even be amused by such a Hollywood trick.
And when its held before my eyes
trickling with all my blood
I will simply reach out and hold it close
to my chest,
run my fingers over its head
until it stops wailing,
grows silent-
and there is nothing left for me to say to it,
nothing left to do
but  kiss this  life of mine,
shed a joyful yet mournful tear
and wait for it and myself
to fall asleep.
Jonathan Moya Jul 2020
The moon was neither
voiced into creation
nor was it defined.

It was just parted
from the dark ink
of God’s voice.

Alphabets don’t
exist on dark vellum
just illuminated papyrus.

God doesn’t have the power
to banish those things
that have always existed.

He can’t create the perfect night
just pull crows out of it,
really, the simplest of magic tricks.

The small orifice below the cheekbones
exists to project the whiteboard
scribblings of the human mind.

Man is sad because he knows
that his words and thoughts
fall short of God’s magnificent language.

The moon witnesses what
is below and above its light
and keeps both their secrets.
Jonathan Moya Nov 2020
I plea for my mother’s spirit
to wait for me before the ascension
because I want to know more
beyond her sun, moon and stars;
for her to show me
the other colors
hidden inside her;
shades my crafted words
can only reflect in broken shards.

She draws me a symbol
for a word only
known to her and God,
a word so complex
I can never remember
how to draw it,
never define it fully
and can only stutter-
a seed stuck
in my throat-
whenever I try
to release its
sounds to the world.
Jonathan Moya May 22
Desire Lines

I have wandered every concrete, tarmac, grass, and dirt path near my house. And yet my dog Hurricane, or just plain Cane, knows their way better than I do. He knows when the scent of the trail must yield right, left, or straight ahead. When the desire lines must lead forward to greater passions or the stench of fear should force doubling back.  

Today, Cane is all forward momentum, following the flattened grass past the eroded foot trails, beyond the perfect registration of deer, into the warrens, stopping only in hesitation at the barely-there print of a broad plantigrade walker, its edges pressed into the damp grass, its weight undeniable.  

He knows it as only something bigger than himself. I think that maybe it's a bear, or even worse, something just as patient, just as watching.  

Cane’s nostrils flare. His fur lifts along his spine. Then, he shifts. His body contracts. He pulls inward, ready to turn. And he does turn, but not toward me. His head swivels sharply to the side. His ears cut the air, his body still taut.  

Something is there. Here. Watching.  

I see a figure slip through the brush—low, lean, measured in its movements. A coyote. Its fur is a patchwork of dust and hunger. There is a white, ripped-open kitchen bag in its mouth. Chicken bones and spoiled lettuce leak onto the ground. It stops shy of the clearing, its unblinking eyes fixed on us.  

Cane doesn’t growl. He doesn’t lunge. He knows the difference—how a thing that stalks is different from one that runs.  

But Cane trembles now. His muscles twitch under his fur, breath shallow, a guttural whine slipping through his teeth.  

The coyote tilts its head—slow, deliberate, testing. Then, a shift—a barely perceptible adjustment in weight, its haunches lowering just enough to suggest it is considering the space between us, measuring distance, gauging intent. Its jaw tightens, a subtle flex of muscle beneath the dirt-matted fur, the faintest parting of its lips as if preparing to speak in the only way it knows how.  

I remember my brother, the angler, advising me on what to do in coyote encounters. Hazing, he called it.  

With my free hand, I take my Boricua pride cap off my head and start waving its black shading-to-gray mesh above me. I tug Cane’s leash with my bound hand, forcing him behind me.  

The coyote stiffens but does not yield.  

I shout the most primal, profane thing I can recall in the Spanish I knew before English took over my thoughts.  

“Puta de madre, déjame an mí y a mi perro en paz. Vuelve al agujero infernal de donde viniste.”  

The coyote doesn’t move.  

I stomp at it. I lunge forward, kicking dirt, grass, and twigs into its face. Cane whimpers, tensing further, his weight pressing into my leg like he wants to fold into me, disappear into safer ground.  

Still nothing.  

I pray for a miracle, reciting the prayer my mother taught me for moments of helplessness.  

"God, my Defender, I come to You in fear and helplessness..."  

I pray beyond all the desire lines I knew. Praying to above, to everything, to anyone that can hear and save me.  
Then, the earth quakes beneath us.  

It starts as a distant but insistent hum, building into a growl that swallows the silence. The ground shivers beneath my boots. Then Cane flinches, ears flattening, legs coiled to flee.  

The sound comes first—the grinding roar, the violent protest of metal against stone. Then the scent—gasoline thick in the air, choking the breath from my lungs, mixing with the raw pungency of turned soil. Dust rises, catching in my throat, coating my skin in the residue of a world undone.  

Or renewed?  

The bulldozer bursts through the treeline with no hesitation, no regard for the delicate fractures of the earth beneath its treads. The clearing shifts before my eyes—grass swallowed, warrens collapsed, footprints erased in the wake of industry’s advance. The soft, worn trails Cane and I followed, flattened under the rhythm of our footsteps, are lost beneath metal weight.  

It grinds forward relentlessly, its blade shoving uprooted grass into twisted piles, its treads pressing deeper with each pass, embedding their mark where instinct once did. The scent of earth is overtaken now—by the acrid sting of oil, by heat radiating off steel, by the mechanical certainty that does not pause to consider what was here before.  

The coyote hesitates—just for a breath, just long enough to judge this new threat—then vanishes, a ghost swallowed into the shadows of the trees.  

Cane bolts first, his body snapping into motion, sprinting back down the path we came. I stand there longer than I should, staring at what remains.  

Desire lines—paths shaped by instinct, longing, and familiarity. Each marks an unspoken decision, a pull toward something known or unknown.  

And now, buried.  

The bulldozer moves forward, carving a permanence we cannot undo.  

Cane pauses just ahead, glancing back over his shoulder, his eyes dark and unsure. He does not whine. He does not wait for me. He simply watches—just for a breath—then turns away, retreating with more certainty than I can muster.  

I know I should follow. The path to safety is clear. But for a moment, my feet are heavy, pressed into the dirt like I might leave my own mark here, some proof that I existed before the machines came.  

Then, finally, I turn back, tracing Cane’s desire lines to safety—the ones that lead not toward curiosity but away from ruin.
Jonathan Moya Jan 2020
December 3, 2019

She was displayed before me
with her eyes closed
and mouth agape,
leaving me to wonder whether
she died in terror or awe.

Was her last breath
the honest gurgle
I’ve been seeing
for the last few days,
that I took comfort
in hearing restart
every time I called her name
between bouts of irregular apnea
(our last little private game)-
or the silence caused by Benadryl?

All I know is that
the call came at 6 am
and I spent one hour with her
and then walked into
the last of the darkness
and the first of the light.

My first breath outside the hospital
stretched back thirty years
and each tear was
full of joy and sorrow,
the ash of memory.

By the time I got home
the long movie
I had shared with her
was over.

January 3, 2020

Now, hope fails me.
Grief is my truth.
Yet, I refuse to be
deluded by grief
nor abandon hope
one month since
your passing.

Your death was your
greatest gift to me
and now I must struggle
with how to live with it
and accept it kindly
because in the end
you folded your life into my timeline,
fitting everything and all neatly
between my cancer and cure.

For 10,604 days-29 years, 12 days
I am grateful  for the
joy only you(I) can embrace
the sorrow
just only you(I)  can endure.
Jonathan Moya Jun 2020
The long way to heaven is to dig through the earth.
Walk with me.  Fall with me.
Be the helmet light in the tunnel.
Hold my feet less I fall into the abyss.
Shackle your friends to you,
foot to foot, arm to arm.
The long way to heaven is to dig through the earth.
Pull me from hell, while all the others
**** us to heaven’s salvation.
night drapes
day spreads
stars emit light
moons conceal dark
around the north star-fire
away from the south moon-water
stars journey
moons remain
in their wake
at their rest
stories extend
stories retract
Jonathan Moya Aug 2019
I like America’s Got Talent,

especially when they have dog acts.

I love dog acts.  I cry at dog acts.



I wish dog acts would bark and chase

those young kids and aspiring adults

who sing opera every year and

get into the semifinals off the stage;

chase the pretentious dance troupes

and acrobats; half-funny comics;

the children who sing lustily in adult voices;

the seniors with fading contralto dreams;

the day glow CGI artists who

illustrate on a big, dark canvas;

the magicians with their card slight of hand,

even the ones who just do regular magic—

right off the stage with a bark and

a push of their snouts.



Dog acts are pure.

They sit.  They heel.

They stay.  They obey.

They even sing, dance and draw too.



All acts should be dog acts.

All dreams should be dog dreams.



Every million dollar winner,

mongrel or pure bred,

should have a 100% canine heart—

even though they would trade it all

for a pat on the head, good treats

nice walks with you and belly rubs.
Jonathan Moya Jul 2020
Don’t take away my words
by not repeating my poems inside.
My poetry is revolutionary
as a floating feather.
Close your eyes and catch it
knowing the vision is in its flight
and not where it falls.  
Pick it up from the floor
and it becomes a Cobra
spitting, aiming to poison you.
Jonathan Moya Mar 2021
On the white dry limbs of the sycamore, disrobing
bark etiolated in spring flash, three doves roost.  

“Peace,” they coo to the desire of my heart
to calm the violent world so like
the Lord’s small ship in the tempest ere
the rebuke of wind, sea, the faithless in their fear.

I will be kind.  Spread soothing balm
over the skin once pierced by thorns and
the white scars opened in bath water, on sheets-
the unknowns, red under the sycamores.

The ark doves cast the waters, one roosts the cross,
becoming a miracle if watched too closely
until fluttering wings burst it beyond symbols.
The world exists neither parched nor flooded, only
benefiting when sun and rain fall in good time.

The message flies everywhere further than what
I gave, circling calm and slow in every breeze.
I watch the three doves return to the
hallow ease that prods them to make their nest
on the white dry limbs of the sycamore.
Jonathan Moya Sep 2019
The lightness of paper
soft enough to crumble
to a chirping palm ball
released into the air,
an imagined perfect pitch,  
too gossamer to float
to its ultimate arch,
unfolding in the web  
of alluring sunshine

aspiring to be
in its unfolding angles
a thread of silk
caught into the patterns
of a spun handkerchief,
flapping finely down to dirt,
flagging to human desires,
a reverse puff tucked black
into a left back corner pocket.

In its extending it is
****** wood pulp
culled and hewn
from rings of fine pine,
rising in its descent
to barely glimpsed evolving
beaks, talons, feathers
caught in the spider’s web
and shook down by thundering axe.
Flagging or the handkerchief code (also known as the hanky code, the bandana code,) is a color-coded system, employed usually among the gay male casual-*** seekers or **** practitioners in the United States, Canada, Australia and Europe, to indicate preferred ****** fetishes, what kind of *** they are seeking, and whether they are a top/dominant or bottom/submissive.

If you wore your hanky in your left pocket, you were deemed as more submissive, or a "bottom," whereas the right pocket meant that you were a "top" or more dominant.  A black handkerchief meant that you were into S&M- sadomasochism.

Reverse puff refers to a type of handkerchief pocket fold where the puff or pointed ends fold out like the petals of a flower.
Jonathan Moya Oct 2019
Dreaming Graceland or Zombie Land: Double Tap


When you think Elvis was a fraud,
a rip off the black man’s voice;

when you finally meet someone
who smells like candles
instead of gunpowder and whiskey;

who is comfortable with you
driving that pink Cadillac
all the way to Memphis;

who won’t
throw your pink stuff
to the side of the road;

who will kiss you
and hold your hand

until you arrive at Graceland
and try on those blue suede shoes
that actually fit;

let you gyrate your hips,
and for one moment,
feel like the King;

until you open your eyes
and really, really see
that you’re  in Zombieland.
Jonathan Moya Jul 2020
The poem rumbles in my brain
and wakes me at three in the morning
as if my devil branded me with his pitchfork
reminding me of our inspired bargain

My nemesis love calls me to the fiery sheet
his impish pride burning praise in me
that swears fealty with ****** words

Oh poetry
how your satanic verses
chum and shudder in me
sharking nightmares to dreams
and my words to the exquisite limbo
doomed to fall short of true divinity

The poem squatters in my mind firmly
fixed in the ninth circle of treachery
offending my soul
crushing my heart

It takes and takes and takes
and never gives not even
granting the guilt of ***** lucre

Words are my blood
Poems **** my veins
My quick-fire brimstone lines
are my epitaph

I am both cursed and blessed
to this addiction
yet I hope this passion never cools
only  flames and reflames

Oh Poetry immolate me
burn me to the purest ash
leaving a diamond legacy

The poem is not a song
but the fire inside the song
the sulphur mistaken for honey

Oh dulcet sounds why and thank you for
making me an exile from life and tomorrow
a lonely sad witness to the world

Why and thank you for
fating me to this fiery covenant
Jonathan Moya Oct 2020
It’s easy for them to slip into the ice,
the big crack of nonjudgmental water,
absorbed entirely in the joy of now.

First winter blankets them, then the frost,  
the quiet, until the last of their woolens,
the black and red squares of their scarves,
their blue and pink pompoms trailing down
become the final gender reveal, the last
memory of their life that skates grief circles
in the frozen lake of their parents’ memory.

The water will lift their lost children
back into their parents arms,
the only mercy the lake will grant them.

Some will replace the weight of
their grief with other newborns.
They will watch them put on weight,
watch them weigh them down,
always keeping their new ones
from the cold weight of water.

The rest will dream every night
of the white cloth that covered
their small and silent bodies.
They will leave a light on hoping
their children will open the door
and come home again—

not lost
in the dark water,
come home again,
not lost
in the eternity
of their blue life.
Jonathan Moya Sep 2024
The young can not write about dust.
They know only it accumulations
on floors, shelves, ***** panes.
Only the old know its subtle contours,
the futility that comes with just moving it around.
They know that the sun and stars are dust,
schools of ash that follow all life’s currents and
that blossom the new fields under Grandfather Mountain.
They bend with the promise of the long, wavering grasses,
and flowers with their variegated indigos,
everything pursuing joyously their singular futures,
swearing testimony to the power of dust’s bounty.
Jonathan Moya Jun 2020
From form  
vile evil
in the shade of hades
sire and rise
the lived devil,
the tornado donator
that is the heart of the earth.
God denying, dog hating,
it listens for silence, the license
to edit the tide to its whim
and sink man’s canoe in its ocean.
Jonathan Moya Jun 2020
The world is the ultimate trick
It grants man thunder yet steals his lightning
every time.
It makes him think he has the sweetest smell
of every thing
even that his **** does not stink
that taming fire was his best theft
of all time
that a caged dove heralds peace
in our time
the best of love
that time is a curse and not a gift
that the wolf is the enemy of pigs
that the world spins straight on its own axis
that he has a mind of his own design
that the red rose blooms for him to smell
that cancer is part of its mortal revenge
that nature taught man how to frown
that it would steal his nailed smile, if it could
The world is the ultimate trick
and it poisons him to think she’s his motherland
Jonathan Moya Jun 2020
When the giant bagel fell from the sky
everyone complained when it blocked the road.  
Even when children cut it into pieces
and passed it out, lathered with shmear and lox
the town folks refused to eat the manna.
A host of angels descended to clean up the mess.
The town folks rushed to the angels,
still neglecting the heavenly bread.
When the last crumb had reascended to heaven
and the angels began to flap their wings
and take flight, the town folks begged them to stay,
but they would not. Instead, they left behind
a talking chicken to remind them when the sky fell.
Jonathan Moya Jun 2020
Mommy, esta di descubrí el lenguaje de los fantasmas

Ghost talk? What are you talking about, Jonny?

Si mommy.  En serio descubrí.  Escúchame.

Ghost talk? What do they say?

Para saludar dicen: hoo hoo.

Para decir que sí, dicen: Hoo

And how do they say goodbye?

No lo sé.  They haven’t left yet.

Mama, today I discovered the language of ghosts.

Line 3:

Yes, mama. Seriously, I discovered it.  Listen to me.

Line 5:

To say hello they say: Hoo hoo.

Line 6:

To say yes they say: Hoo.

Line 8:

I don’t know.
Jonathan Moya Feb 12
In my late hunger I listen to the swirl of night traffic, until
it dies around the curb— recedes into remembrance,

to that melting space inside— the sound
matching the tempo of my lowest need,

getting lost in the evening’s reflection—
ice memories melting to water,

everything moving to my traffic flow—
to the single track of my inside voice.
Jonathan Moya Jul 2020
Everything’s broken, diseased, sold and resold.
The pandemic’s breath blows on us.
Everything’s is devoured in a hunger never filled.
So why do I see a glistening in the distance?

In the day dream, a forest appears on the border.
The scent of lavender and lilies exhales out.
In the nightmare,  the zodiac is ****** into
the black hole of a distant dissolving galaxy.

You wonder the miracle, if it comes,
will arise from darkness or dawn.
Will it arise from the first
natal nightmare or dream?
Jonathan Moya Mar 2022
Soon, all I know will die,
                be buried or burnt
                in the bonfire,
        lost to senses and thought,
                      become un-
                           known.

            I will fall to my knees
             and become a turtle
                carrying my home
                     on my back.

                    If I cry out,
              who will hear me?  
             Who will
                           know
                            me,
                     when everything
                           known
                           is gone?
Jonathan Moya Mar 2022
Soon, all I know will die,
                be buried or burnt
                in the bonfire,
        lost to senses and thought,
                      become un-
                          known.

            I will fall to my knees
            and become a turtle
                carrying my home
                    on my back.

                    If I cry out,
              who will hear me?  
            Who will
                          know
                            me,
                    when everything
                          known
                          is gone?
Jonathan Moya Jul 2024
Gray wolves howl invisible
on the granite shoreline
waiting for the sea’s answer-

standing tall on the headland,
against a wind that allows no trees,
signatures the stones with ageless storms—

howling to know why this once lush place
where endless fields of poppy intertwined with pine
is now defaced with crops of suburban homes.

Above, a falcon startled from its rocky perch soars
in its time- seeing in the shadows withdrawing
from clouds- the last glint of  beautiful stones.
Jonathan Moya Jun 2020
The tears fade in
the screaming inside howling brick.
It is our cancer
swirling around,
stone, flesh and home.
Our history is in its eye,
our profile in this wild night of carnage
slouching towards mornings. We turn
away and the brick frees us.
We turn back and are inside
our granite selves forming in the sculpting wind,
erring in the perfect sad light,
different, broken-whole.
Our names are erased from brick,
letters spreading like smoke
in the all defining wind.
It drops in the field of its birth,
a flash in the silent mud and clay.
It shimmers on my wife’s white blouse,
and when she walks away,
settles in memory.
The wind chisels a robin
falling, dying in my stare.
The cloud of my neighbor
floats towards me, pale eyes
trying to define me
but I am not a window.
Her face is lost in the brick
and the wind erases her,
the street, their signs,
the names of those in houses behind.
Jonathan Moya Nov 2019
In the rear view mirror
he can see the specters..
  
her upside down reflection
scatter when a foot
hits the puddle…

hear the notes
of a trumpet solo
popping thru the
open red door
of a jazz club…

remembers when they
whacked his partner…

and left their
footprints on his ribs..  

left his mouth
out of joint…

wounded,
in love with that
woman in the blue dress
holding him in her arms…

asking her if there
is anything else
he should know..

because she is
a major part
of the mystery…
Jonathan Moya May 21
Final Call  



The screen flickered in the hush of enveloping dark,  
Michael Douglas pacing, his fate unraveling—  
Fatal Attraction, a movie about consequence,  
its shadows pressing forward.  
But beneath the flickering flames, something was wrong,  
settling into my gut like a held breath,  
bending the air—quiet rupture, breath held too long.  

Five minutes home, five minutes into loss.  
Five minutes stretched thin and hollow,  
filled with the weight of dread and waiting,  
filled with the road wounding back to her—  
wounds layered in time, mapped upon fragile feet,  
circling through lineage, waiting in blood.  
Filled with my world shifting.  
My world already shifted.  

The neighbors had already assembled in solemn witness,  
most tight-lipped, others yielding to grief in sobs and silence.  

There was Bill Edwards, the neighbor across the way,  
broad-shouldered, his southern drawl flickering,  
caught between words. Marlene, his portly wife,  
her red hair dimmed beneath the porch light.  
Bernie, their next-door pal, shifting, too large  
for the doorway. Shirley, his second wife, thin,  
arms folded inward, already bracing against absence,  
looking like she had lost the most fragile thing in her life.  

Then movement—the EMTs carrying her body past them,  
in a white nightgown that ended primly just above her knees,  
not in the grandma style she hated,  
but with a quiet grace between youthful innocence  
and the dignified ease of womanhood,  
an elegy stitched into fabric, neither ostentatious nor meek,  
reflecting beauty that lingered, pride that refused to fade.  

The gown bore food stains but no blood. And  
as she passed fully before me,  
her eyes were wide open, lips parted  
in a smile caught between a gasp  
and the ghost of a smile—everything  
lingering between this world and the next,  
frozen, like her, in a moment that never completed itself.  

Ed, my stepdad, stands lost in the doorway,  
his shock sealing him in place,  
his body answering to nothing,  
his stare hollow until it finds me.  

And there—her beige Lazy Boy,  
its footrest still half-kicked from the final trembling,  
handgrips marked by the last imprint of her touch,  
the whole chair pressed with her final form in the fabric.  
The matching chair was untouched, still waiting.  

The television murmurs onward,  
Tom Brokaw, his voice unfazed, reciting history,  
the U.S. and Soviet Union signing a nuclear treaty…  

The world still carrying on.

                                       2

The ambulance pulls away, its lights dim,
not flashing, just retreating—
just driving away,
first a roar, then an echo, then silence.
  
The neighbors start to leave,
offering the usual condolences,
the usual earnest offers of help,
the gestures of grief  that
vanish with the closing of doors,

leaving my stepdad and me
in the almost empty house,
the quiet hum of the house…

And with my younger mentally disabled brother, Casey—
alone upstairs, unaware of mom’s death below,
the murmurs and hands clutching shoulders,
oblivious to the slow procession of mourning,
unaware of the neighbors streaming in and out
in shocked sobs that fold into the walls,
unaware that the one thing that loved him the most
is gone.

I want to call to him, to tell him—  
but the weight of it presses against my throat.  
How do you explain absence to someone  
who has only ever known unconditional presence?  
How do you break the world open like that,  
cut a line through someone’s understanding of love  
and expect them to move forward as if nothing has changed?  

I watch as Ed wipes the last streak of tears  
with the tips of his fingers,
then drag his hand through his forever-gray hair—  
gray since the moment my mother met him,  
gray for every memory I carry of him.
  
The tears have left his face shallow,
heightening his resemblance to Herman Munster
that my mom, myself and the other two kids-
a sister who lives in Alaska, and a brother
lingering between a move from Texas to Colorado-
would kid him constantly about.

The joke was effortless then—  
a source of warmth, an anchor of familiarity.  
Now, I see only the exhaustion in it,  
the quiet collapse of something once harmless,  
the way grief distorts even the gentlest things.

But tonight, the joke is hollow.  
the house, emptier than before.  
And within it, everything that laughter has left behind.

He stumbles into the next big concern,
letting every one know what had happened—
my brother and sister, his two sons
from his first marriage,
one in Chicago, the other chasing Hollywood dreams.

Yet, before he speaks,
he exhales—long, slow—    
as if steadying himself against the weight of it all,  
his hand hovering over the chair’s armrest,  
uncertain, unwilling to disturb  
what was left exactly as she had last touched it.  

Then, the decision.  
He reaches into the left-side pocket  
of her Lazy Boy, pulling out her old address book.  
Its worn pages, folded corners,  
the ink of her handwriting still pressed deep.

He stares at the first number.  
A breath. A pause.  

Then, he dials.  

                                   3

Her absence lingers, curling into corners,  
softening the edges of untouched cups,  
settling into the folds of sheets that will not be remade.  

Her scent—warm spice and detergent—  
clings to the hallway,  
woven into the fabric of the chair that held her.  
Not entirely gone. Not entirely here.  

Even in silence, she speaks:  
A pair of socks with grip bottoms under the table,  
Isaac Asimov’s Foundation left spine-up on a nightstand,  
a grocery list half-scribbled in her hurried hand—  
as if time had paused mid-thought,  
as if the world had allowed one last unfinished line.  

But time does not pause.  
The television hums forward,  
Tom Brokaw shifts to the next news report,
something beyond  the treaty signed,
ink binding nations to restraint.  

And yet, no restraint was given here—  
not to the body unraveling,  
not to the moment that collapsed too soon.  
In a world of precision, she was a miscalculation,  
a faltering equation wrapped in fragile flesh,  
a quiet failure against something too vast to undo.  

I wonder if  what I inherit is more than memory,  
something beyond the way illness carves paths,  
the  denying the way blood carries warnings.  
Each footstep echoes hers,  
each glance at my own hands  
reveals the future she left behind.  

All conversations we never had,  
All questions I never asked—  
Did she know?  
Did she wonder if I would carry this weight?  
Did she hold her own hands in the quiet and wish  
they were not the blueprints of mine?  

And yet, the world is unmoved.  
It does not ask. It does not answer.  

The road outside hums with motion,  
cars rolling forward into the evening.  
Neighbors retreating indoors,  
their grief folded into the rhythm of routine.  

And still—  

The world carries on.
  
                                   4  

Upstairs, the television hums—Baryshnikov gliding  
in white, his movements sharp yet fluid,  
an elegance sculpted in repetition.  
Casey mirrors him, his fingers tracing  
the weightless air, his feet shifting softly—  
a language of motion, untouched by grief.  

I stand in the doorway, the words heavy  
on my mind. The room is a collision—  
rolled up Disney posters on shelves,
glossy brochures of concept cars on his desk,  
beige ballet slippers folded neatly beside  
die-cast models of Mustangs, Corvettes,
on his bureau and nightstands  
the sleek curve of imagined speed.  
Each piece of his world, a fragment,  
a comfort—unchanged, unshaken.  

“Are we leaving soon?” he asks,  
his eyes locked on the screen,  
his breath syncing to the tempo  
of a dancer who understands flight.  

I nod, my throat tight.  
His mind is ahead of me,  
chasing movement, chasing the next step,  
the space between absence and understanding  
still unformed, untouched.  

He twirls his fingers, slow, deliberate.  
He smiles. “I want to show Mom my routine.”  
His joy untouched, whole.  

I inhale. How do you tell someone  
that everything has shifted?  
That love remains, but presence does not?  
That the shape of memory now holds  
all that she was, all that she’ll ever be?  

A flicker—his face tightens,  
a brief tremor, his brows furrowing  
as if the rhythm has faltered,  
as if something in the air has unsettled  
the shape of his movements.  
For a second, I see it—  
a shadow of understanding,  
a glimpse of absence—  
and then, the rhythm returns.  

His hands lift again,  
his feet shift, gentle echoes of Baryshnikov’s grace,  
not the jumps, but the hands,  
the sweep of fingers across invisible space,  
the pull and release of breath  
as if the dance itself could replace  
what is missing.  

And then: “I have rehearsal tonight.”  
His voice steady, matter-of-fact.  

The world is still moving.  

I nod again. “Let’s go.”  

The strip mall is quiet,  
the dance studio tucked between  
a dry cleaner and a bakery,  
its windows humming with light.  

Casey steps in—comfortable, certain,  
a boy in motion, a boy untouched by hesitation.  
The music begins, soft and nostalgic,  
not ballet, not classical precision,  
but something simpler.  
A slide, a rhythm, a quiet homage.  

His feet move with certainty,  
his body following something beyond technique—  
something felt, something known.  

The instructor watches, nods.  
"This is the best he's ever done."  

And I stand there, unmoving,  
watching him, watching the echoes of her  
in the way he lifts his arms,  
the way his posture carries an unspoken grace.  

My chest tightens.  

He is more than what they expected.  
More than the limits they imposed.  
More than the shape of words  
they used to measure him.  

The duet begins—the instructor guiding,  
Casey following,  
his body folding into something  
greater than motion, greater than memory—  
a love pressed into every step,  
every shift of weight,  
every breath between the beats.  

He danced for her.  

And will dance for her always.
Jonathan Moya Feb 2020
Ay, florecitas
clouds of white
frozen in sugary divine,
little flowers of my soul,
taste of sweet desire
of little boys in
San Juan, Moroves, Ponce,
exiles in Miami and the Bronx
tasting the beauty
of their mother’s youth—

knowing love by the rattling
of small blooms in the big tin,
the maternal hand scooping
pastels of confection perfection,
passions hard creamy diffusion
dusting her, making her
a florecita of love—

until florecitas became the way
they interpreted the sky—
there a lavender snail,
an erupting volcano,
a devouring whirlpool,
a burst of flame
a feeding octopus—

until all became
the florecitas
of their beloveds form:
her lips a strawberry florecita
splitting apart to his
first hesitant probing,
her ******* a pink florecita
waiting for his sweet consumption,
her *** a light brown florecita
gently swirling open
to his tongue’s taste,
*** a fleshy little flower
to be split in
his sweet embrace,
all of her earthy and ****
as a Neruda sonnet—

until all that is left
for themselves,
for my self,
is the fading scents
of all the florecitas
never tasted.
Jonathan Moya Oct 2020
The only choice
                        is blossoming
                                            in  the terra cotta
                                                   let the bright
                         renderings loom          
                                                a bloom
                                 too heavy
              for the stem.
Jonathan Moya Mar 2021
The eagle
brushstroked black
talons to beak
broke red blue  
in the white sky
tiny scarlet prey
fought and died
in once soft grasp
matron touch
a child freely
loved plumped fed and feathered
in aerie
tall safe high from
screech and whoop
the drop to the
loops of barbed wire below
Jonathan Moya Mar 2020
Good mothers make their children
fold and put away all clothes,
even hers after death.

Bad mothers make sure
they always wear them
for the rest of their lives.
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