Dying Alone

Modern day warriors

on the front lines of big cities

and small towns.

They walk the narrow path,

their minds wide open,

their hearts stretched.

The scrubs,

masks and gear they adorn

do not shield them from 

the vulnerability of the moments

hanging in a haze.

 The shifts are long,

days stretched into nights.

Hours that wear on the mind and soul.

They watch the sick,

the fragile,

those 

that want to take a breath

but can not.

Those that fade away dying alone,

alone,

alone.

The room empty

no love whispered,

nor prayers.

Poetry on their skin

as their eyes drift.

The ventilators stand guard,

voices heard through the corridor walls.

There is no parole from this prison,

no furlough.

There are monitors and screens
displaying vital signs 

and humans in spacesuits.

There are memories that play with the mind

in and out of awareness. 

A nurse holds a phone

to witness a last goodbye

to cherished ones.

Fragments of a conversation,

amends for words unspoken,

for dreams unfulfilled.

One more day,

one more night,

if only...  

Video of The Color of My Blood

The Color Of My Blood

The shape of my eyes,

the sound of my voice,

the shade of my skin,

my sexuality.

The color of my blood

the same 

as yours.

If you saw the light in my eyes,

if you saw my mother's tears,

if you felt her fears,

grief engraved on her skin.

Would you have yanked me

like a weed from the
garden of life,
Would you have shattered
me in pieces
 leaving me
to bleed out in the dark.
Ideologies differ,
dreams unalike,
my diversity
makes me
unique,
beautiful,
majestic,
a beacon in the fiber
of humanity.
The shape of my eyes,
the sound of my voice,
the shade of my skin,
my sexuality.
The color of my blood
same as yours. 

 

 

I am re-posting this poem that I dedicated to the victims of the Pulse nightclub. I want to share it for Tuesday Pride. We must have a voice for all the voiceless. 

The Next Genertaion Indie Book Award

Golden Dragonfly Press

6 hrs ·

🎉 Congratulations Ayala! 🎉
"Second Chances: Poetry from a Sun-Kissed Life" by Ayala Zarfjian was selected as the WINNER of the Next Generation Indie Book Awards in the POETRY category.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
All proceeds donated to charity.
Learn More:
https://bookshop.org/a/8366/9781732577299
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
For more Award Winners & Finalists:
https://bookshop.org/lists/award-winners-finalists

Golden Dragonfly Press

Sophia Brianna

Little darling,

your crown shimmers in the light.

How gentle yet fierce you are.

No traces of defiance on 

your face,

only evidence of clarity and courage.

A fearlessness that is born

from knowing in your marrow,

your identity 

and your purpose.

The trees sway as you walk

among them.

They whisper sweet lullabies

in your ears.

The moon dances

to your inner light.

Your body flows.

Your heart expands with love.

Your crown lighting your way

like a lantern in the night.

My sweet granddaughter was born March 19 in the midst of the pandemic. Both her parents are doctors. It's a challenging time. There are so many wishes that I wish for her during these blurry and uncertain times. The day she was born she brought her light into our dark days.

Juden

Tolerance,

compassion,

inclusion. 

Don't be fooled

by the words uttered,

by the words articulated.

We are slaughtered in the streets,

blood stains on the pavements,

in the synagogues,

in our neighborhoods. 

Tolerance,

compassion,

inclusion,

don't be fooled by the chatter.

Hatred is sprouting,

growing,

flowing,

igniting like wildfire.

My father threatened to sit shiva

when I left.

I made him into Tevye. 

Grandma warned me

that one day my love 

would call me a dirty Jew.

She said it would come on a day

when life was grey,

and hard words are exchanged.

Words that wound.

Words that leave scars.

My father was a boy,

with hazel eyes

and black wavy hair.

He laid on the ground and drank

from puddles,

while frogs watched him 

and rifles were pointing close by.

He was just a boy...

I made him into Tevye .

I wore a cross in my heart,

he looked away.

He did not sit Shiva when I left.

He did not rip his clothes in mourning.

Instead, he just loved me. 

Memory resided on his skin,

in his eyes,

in his voice.

It was handed down in my veins,

in my blood.

In dreams that I dreamt

as a child.

I am bathing in the breath

of all that was

and all that remains.

Amid all the noise,

I stand,

a yellow star on my chest.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fiddler_on_the_Roof 

What If I Forget