On My Father’s Tomb

Share

at the town’s public cemetery, I light
three candles to celebrate his life.

Their flames are tiny suns that flicker
against the dusk. His name on the wooden

cross is fading. When was my last visit here?
I look into the horizon unfurling like a worn

map of our journeys and there—our memories:
climbing mountains, feet on loose stones,

the wind pushing us upward, as if urging
us to conquer more. And, there—in the fields,

his hands moved like waves across the soil,
turning the earth into promises. We planted

dreams in furrows, corns sprouting like green
prayers reaching for the sky. The air is thick

with the scent of candles yet my heart breathes
the smell of his sweat and hears his laughter.

Again, I look at the cross. The words we carved
in grief are no longer clear. But even if his name

fades, he remains in the ridges of the earth,
guiding our hands through the fields.

And amid the rustle of the leaves,
I hear him singing his favorite song to me.

Raul G. Moldez

Raul G. Moldez writes from Cagayan de Oro, where he has worked with the city government for three decades. Known for his contributions to regional literature, he attended the Iligan National Writers Workshop (1997), the University of the Philippines National Writers Workshop (2000, 2014), the UP VisMin Panagsugat Creative Writing Workshop (2004), and the IYAS La Salle National Writers Workshop (2025). He was published in various national and international journals and magazines, and won awards in various writing competitions for his fiction and poetry. He has two collections of poetry, A Day in a Poet’s Life and Other Poems, and Mga Taho Gikan sa Akong Uniberso.

Table of contents [hide]

Read More

Back to its Roots

The virus made everyone cower inside their houses—windows taped shut as if air and light were poisonous and doors locked tightly as if to shut out more than just a robber but...

Essence

On her windowsillMother keeps a small garden.A patch of many shapes and colors.Old twigs coaxing unborn leaves.Subversive thorns caring for vari-colored blooms.Plants and essences that cureToothaches and loneliness.Here, she wields the power.She...

There Will Be Poems that Escape Our Catching

Grace The many tremors comeunannounced, but we knowthey are coming. The old earthgives way and soft papayasare on the ground. Lemongrassfills the air and everywhere there isa steely edge to the way peoplecall...

Where the Missing Things Go

“What the—?” Sky’s hand stalled inside the bag, fingers grazing the lining like it might bite.  The leather was a tired brown, the kind that had once been pretty in store lighting and...