Tree of blood

Sadness evokes memories,
morning dew on leaves forsaken.

Light penetrating,
piercing the morning

with a new promise

.A moment held through time
threads of our tapestry
that were unraveled

 and forgotten.

Where have we gone wrong,
lost our keen,
and our desire to know our blood.
Am I the only one to celebrate
the roots of our tree
that had spread
to different lands
planting seeds
and building new worlds
only to forget the ones
that spilled their blood
their desire for us to live and escape
hate and oppression. 

The threads frayed,

the threads in desperate 

need of repair.

I am the one consumed

with the tales,

the history,

the need to remember.

My heart 

like bruised grapes,

beating in anticipation.

I am the weed left behind,

resilient,

seeking the light. 

This poem is about finding new family that I didn't know existed until this week. 

Through the fog

The wind carried the sound

 of my weeping,

scattered dandelions floating

away.

My grief broke me open,

brought me to my knees.

My thoughts,

 waves of despair

and sorrow.

I was told that I should numb 

my pain with pills,

with wine,

with life.

I refused

I soaked it in,

I drowned.

 The grief 

let my heart bleed,

the blade deep and sharp.

 My thoughts consumed me,

I surrendered

 to my anguish. 

Every morning the sun rose

and I learned to walk through 

the sorrow unhinged,

undone.

I slept on a bed of thorns,

the darkness draping me.

I walked the path,

on shattered glass.

Moments, 

hours,

days,

months.

One day the sun rose,

my burden felt lighter.

I chose to rise from the ashes

and find glory in the morning light,

in the love in my life,

in remembering that you

would want me to live and

breathe again. 

I chose to live

among the glory that 

is in a new day,

the only day that's promised.

Marina at dVerse is having us write about the things that make our world shatter, what it needs and what we do to make it whole again. I wrote about losing my parents.

Here

The city vibrant,

 loud and familiar.

The moon watches over us

knowingly lighting our way.

A homeless man,

laying on the ground

holding a cup

while he recites poetry

about a yellow canoe.

Schizophrenic or prehaps

he is saner than all of us.

His voice loud and clear

yet gentle.

I am filled with emotion,

tears well up

 of old wounds

I have forgotten.

At the museum

we explore the beauty,

 a little boy

weeps

while he hangs on his mother's arm

as if he was drowing 

and she is his life preserver.

My thoughts drift

 to sleepless nights,

restless days.

I look away and

fight the tears

because I love you more

than you can ever understand.

Our time brief,

this is where I want to be

in this beautiful city that

you call home. 

You work from ten to seven

all night

caring for humanity

while the moon crawls to greet me

through the window.

I sleep and dream 

of my wide eyed boy

tending to those never cared for

uprooted and lost.

The past is calling

but I choose today

I choose this moment

bittersweet yet glorious.

At dVerse Abhra has us writing about places around the world where we want to be, for me it was Boston for a brief visit with my son and my future daughter in law. I am sharing a link to my interview with the lovely Laurie Kolp at dVerse yesterday. http://dversepoets.com/2014/06/16/pretzels-bullfights-spotlights-ayala-zarfjian/

The Apple Tree

 

Dad wrote mom poems

that he read to her.

 I listened

while they thought that 

I was sleeping.

His voice filled with passion

and love.

 Dad wrote me stories

about a horse with a broken leg.

It was published

 in the newspaper.

Life was art to him,

and art was life.

I watched him mesmerized at

how he was bigger than life

    and how an entire room

would be captivated by 

his conversation.

Mom said that the apple

does not fall far from the tree

and that I was like him.

I wanted to write poetry like

him

and love like him

his flame burning.

His thirst of life,

never quenched,

his hunger

never satiated. 

 He never followed anyone

he always followed his instinct.

His seeds of wisdom

ingrained in my being.

His life was filled with sadness

and despair during the war.

The obstacles never defined him,

he rose and overcame

to build a life that was well lived.

Mom said that I was strong as steel

when I went through my journey.

I told her that 

I was not strong as steel,

the strength was born out of necessity. 

My bloodlines rich with struggle

and endurance.

I think of them

and honor the place that

I come from,

and the apple tree I fell out of.

This is written for dVerse where the lovely Grace is having us write about our ancestors.

An Olive Branch

The canopy of trees 

layered,

the leaves sway to an 

invisible symphony

dancing,

wearing crowns

like the layers of my heart.

In my green peridot field,

in the orange grove

I planted seeds of hope,

seeds for peace.

I found the walls and distance

between us

all the reasons why we are

the same instead of different.

I planted seeds with my bare soul,

the words that sprouted were hopeful

like an olive branch offering.

You half smiled and half mocked

my hopeful dream. 

Verse sprinkled with

wonder and destruction.

Layers of life risen from the trenches 

soaring to enlightenment.

The leaves are dancing

in the breeze,

like words of truth that I stuffed

into my soul.

Bleeding unto the page,

soaking my bones,

like the water soaking 

the seeds I left behind to 

saturate and grow.

Words that liberate,

words of peace.

Peace may seem like a foreign concept for many of us. The peace within, the peace in the world. Peace is ambitious and necessary yet it seems like a dream that we can't reach. I still wish for Peace.