My boy Daniel celebrated his sixteenth birthday yesterday. He is one of the greatest teachers in my life. I have been filled with wonder from the first moment that I saw him. I love him to the moon and back. This morning we are on the road and I have not had time to write a proper post for this milestone but I did want to acknowledge this special time in his and our life.
Sun Kissed Days
Thursday, December 29, 2016
Saturday, December 10, 2016
Let Sadness In
Let sadness
transform you,
trickle down from
your head to your toes.
Let it widen your chest
and raise your heart.
Let sadness dance
in your veins,
a slow dance,
a deliberate dance.
Open the window,
let it sit for awhile.
Let it soak in your bones,
let it ravage you.
It will travel through
the chambers of your heart
and it will leave you weak at the knees
like a gentle lover.
It will dissolve like fog at daybreak
over the harbor.
You will grow
from the heartache,
you will weather the storm.
You will survive,
you will find joy.
Sunday, November 27, 2016
Her Hands
I don't recognize these hands
blemished and wrinkled.
These hands
were attached to my body
for twenty years
while I slept.
I awake to find them asking,
why I am reluctant to claim them.
They ask
why I pretend to be
a patient with temporary amnesia.
I don't recognize these hands,
they washed dishes,
changed soiled diapers,
turned pages,
and touched fevered foreheads.
Mom had beautiful hands,
even when she passed away
at eighty years old.
She rubbed them
with cream from Switzerland
after she finished
chores,
baked and cooked,
hung up her day,
like a coat on a hanger.
Mom caressed her hands,
as faint luxurious scent
floating in the air.
Mom had beautiful hands,
not mine.
Sunday, October 23, 2016
Grandson
Grandson,
I dream of holding your
sweet slumber in my arms.
Your hair wild,
your eyes luminous.
My finger laced
in yours.
My thoughts
swept away,
unravel with hope and wonder.
You are a mystery,
I have yet to discover.
My heart beats
with anticipation.
Grandson,
I await
to greet you,
to look into your angelic eyes,
to touch your tender skin.
We have not met
but I love you
your footprints are
engraved on my heart.
Your breath,
your life,
a celebration
of adoration.
We have not met
but I love you.
Thursday, October 6, 2016
Going Home
Her rivers pulsate in the veins of my mind,
her desert's wilderness on my skin.
Her land a piece of my narrative,
she thunders in the echoes of my thoughts,
in the geography of my being.
The soundtrack of childhood,
hopscotched into the present.
My roots tangled
with blurred lines
of self,
of quest,
of devotion.
Recently I went back to my birthplace of Israel. I was delighted and whole to be there,
to bathe in her beauty and to be with family that I love.
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
Poet United Interview
So honored to be interviewed by Poets United, my peers and my poet community.
LIFE OF A POET - AYALA
Sherry:
Ayala, it is wonderful to be chatting with you. I can't believe it has
taken us this long to find our way to your door. Tell us a bit about
yourself, where you live, with whom you share your life. And don't
forget that beautiful dog beaming from your banner every time we visit.
She is such a sweetheart!
Ayala: Hi Sherry, I live in
South Florida with my husband and my youngest son.
He just started his sophomore high school year. My older son and his wife live in Boston. I love to visit them during the spring and summer months.
On our recent trip to Vancouver
He just started his sophomore high school year. My older son and his wife live in Boston. I love to visit them during the spring and summer months.
My son's wedding
The dog on the banner is my sweet Daisy. She passed away, but I kept her on my blog banner. She was on it when I began in 2010 and she will remain there.
Sherry:
Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. She lifts my spirits every time I see
her photo. It is so hard to lose them. Where did you grow up, Ayala?
Ayala: I was born and raised in Israel, up until the age of thirteen . My father was a poet and he wrote in the Israeli-Romanian newspaper. He was a politician, an entertainment impresario, and an art dealer. There were always interesting people and conversations in my life.
My father was an inspiration to me. I
would listen to him recite poetry to my mother and, even then as a child, I knew
that I was privileged to be a witness to their love. When I was a teenager I
allowed my father to read my poems. He encouraged me and believed that I had a
gift for writing.
Sherry:
What a rich environment to be raised in - art, poetry and love.
Wonderful! I am wondering if the reason for the family's move to the
United States may have been political?
Ayala: My brother fought in the Yom Kippur war. After the war, there was chatter and political unrest which led my parents to decide to leave Israel. They sacrificed the life that they had built for their children.
Sherry: You had very fine and loving parents, Ayala. And, looking at your family today, we can see you all thrived. I am struck by how much you look like your mother.
Tell us about your writing journey, won't you?
Ayala: I was eight years old when I wrote my first poem. I began to write journals at the same time and I continued to write them throughout my life. I don't believe that I chose poetry, but that poetry chose me.
Ayala: My brother fought in the Yom Kippur war. After the war, there was chatter and political unrest which led my parents to decide to leave Israel. They sacrificed the life that they had built for their children.
My son's graduation from his
emergency room residency
Sherry: You had very fine and loving parents, Ayala. And, looking at your family today, we can see you all thrived. I am struck by how much you look like your mother.
Tell us about your writing journey, won't you?
Ayala: I was eight years old when I wrote my first poem. I began to write journals at the same time and I continued to write them throughout my life. I don't believe that I chose poetry, but that poetry chose me.
Sherry: True poets always say that. I know it is true. Would you like to share some poems with us? And tell us a bit about each?
Ayala:
Yes, I would like to share 'Unvarnished'. It is a part of my story. It
was a difficult poem to write because I did not want to hurt anyone.
It's about trusting, loving, betrayal and rising from the ashes.
Emerging better for having gone through the pain.
Sherry: My favourite kind of story, and poem! Let's have a look!
Unvarnished
The mirror shards,
sharp as the strands of
grey hair,
unvarnished
like the redwood trees.
You would not recognize
the resilient starfish
left on the shore
to die.
You were a stray dog
that followed me home.
I let you into
my consciousness.
You wagged your tail,
you licked my face
with adoration
before you barked.
When you bit me,
I put you down.
I was sober,
you were not.
I was not a munequita
to chew and spit out.
Blindfolded I was lured
by the darkness,
misery I mired in.
You set fire and scorched
our landscape.
I rose from the
ashes,
while
you
became a
ghost
of the past.
Sherry:
I resonate with the description of scorched earth. That is just how it
feels. Thankfully, we do emerge stronger from such experiences. This is
powerful, Ayala.
Ayala: 'Forgiveness' is about someone that I loved dearly and in return betrayed my love and my trust. A relationship that spanned over thirty years. I forgave her but she could never be a part of my life again.
I forgave her for lying
and trying to steal my
soul.
I forgave her for bringing
storms
into my days,
uncertainty in my steps,
and darkness in my hours.
I forgave her,
the sister I never had,
the confidante of secrets.
I brought her in from the
rain,
from a past,
embraced her brokenness
unaware of her bite.
She loved me,
betrayed me,
said it was her
illness.
She took my heart,
sliced it open
watched me bleed
as she stood motionless.
I saw her photograph
on the internet,
her eyes haunted,
a scar on her forehead,
a ghost of yesterday.
It was not her words
attempting
to crawl back into the
place
she ravaged.
It was not her pleading
voice
on the answering machine.
I forgave her
to crawl out of the gutter
she placed us in.
I forgave her as I battled
drowning in the outgoing
tide.
I forgave her
to forgive myself.
Sherry:
An incredibly strong and powerful poem, I can see her haunted eyes, her
sorrow, and feel the rightness in forgiving her, in order to free
yourself. Such good writing!
Ayala: 'The color
of my blood' was written out of sorrow and empathy for the victims and survivors
of the Orlando attack at Pulse nightclub. It shook me to the core.
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.
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.
Sherry: Diversity is majestic! I love "a beacon in the fiber of humanity". A fitting poem for those dark days, Ayala. Well done.
Would you tell us a bit about your blogging journey?
Ayala: I began my blog, a sun kissed life, at a painful time. My father and my mother
passed away thirteen months apart. I was mourning, I was depressed, I was
trying to live again. I was vulnerable. I was also afraid. My fear was to open
myself up to strangers and share my feelings. I thought about it and finally I
decided to take a leap.
Sherry:
Oh, Ayala, two such painful losses! How very hard. I am so sorry. And
so glad you began to blog. The online community is so supportive. It
really helps us through both good and hard times.
Ayala: I write for myself, so at first I was not discouraged
that no one else was reading the blog. One night I was drinking, one drink too
many, and I wrote a message to one of my favorite bloggers, Aidan Donnelley Rowley. She responded by visiting my blog and leaving comments. Her words
fueled me to continue. At the same time I met Belinda Munoz and
Brian Miller, on line. They were a constant source of encouragement for me.
What I could not imagine at the time was that my writing would lift me. My
writing blossomed and so did I. I began on-line relationships with kindred
spirits, other poets, bloggers, journalists and authors. The on-line community
was encouraging and supportive.
Writing helped me heal. I examined my loss. I
examined the ordinary and extraordinary moments of my life. Writing unearthed
the gratitude that I always felt.
"Writing unearthed the gratitude
that I always felt."
Sherry:
I am so happy you found good people. And I love your gratitude quote.
Gratitude is the secret of happiness, I do believe.
Ayala: Recently one of my poems was published in a book called Poetry as a SpiritualPractice. It's a collection of personal essays and poems by fifty women. My
words are alongside some of my favorite poet friends. The book was edited by
the lovely Catherine Gosh. The wonderful thing is that all the proceeds go to
WriteGirl, a non-profit organization that promotes creativity and self
expression to help empower girls. To be a part of this gave me great
satisfaction.
Sherry: It looks beautiful! And it's a wonderful cause, too! What things might we find you doing when you aren't writing, Ayala?
Ayala: When I am not writing I love to read, take walks, travel and visit museums in new places. I also love to go fishing with my husband. He is an avid fisherman and he ignited my passion for fishing. When we are out in the ocean we see so much beauty everywhere. I realize how small we are in the universe. I always feel humbled.
Ayala
My prized Tarpon catch
(It was catch and release)
Sherry: Me, too, kiddo. Is there anything you would like to add? Anything you would like to say to Poets United?
Ayala: I would like to thank you for inviting me to share a piece of my journey. We truly bleed on the page. Having other poets sharing their struggle makes us feel less alone.
I would like to thank my fellow poets for always lifting me up. Our community is filled with great talent and great heart. I am honored to be featured here. A special thank you to you, Sherry, for everything.
Sherry:
You are most welcome! Thank you for allowing us to get to know you
better. I am sorry it took so long! This has been such a lovely visit!
Wasn't
this heartwarming, my friends? It is wonderful, week after week, to
learn more about each other's lives. It gives more depth and
understanding when we read each other's poems. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!
Sunday, September 4, 2016
Redemption
Stripped of my vanity
I wear you like a crown
strands of white
downy floating on the
sides of my face.
Gentle like the wind,
gentle like my soul,
I am comfortable
in my skin,
unveiling scars of shame,
and unheard confessions.
The crows feet are seen,
I do not wish to hide them,
or erase them.
The mirror does not lie,
nor do I.
My narrative
is mine to tell.
We all have one,
or two.
How wild have you lived,
have you been afraid of your shadow.
I walked alone,
I did not need acceptance,
I did not fear the unknown.
Curiosity and wonder
were my companions.
I wear my failures
on my skin,
on the map of my soul,
in my dark eyes
and my enlightened being.
Thursday, August 25, 2016
Mom
There was a comfort
knowing that I could hear
your voice,
melt into your arms,
watch the shadows cast
on your face
and know how to bring
light into your eyes.
There was comfort in loving,
in living,
in a shared meal,
an anecdote,
in silent moments.
There was comfort
I no longer find,
the one I felt in your womb
or your gentle hand
on my burning forehead
when I was sick.
I have no church or synagogue
to find refuge in.
I seek the museums
of the world
where we once walked
together,
I walk alone.
In their splendor
I feel you like a gentle wind
beside me,
urging me to see the magnificence.
The art fills my soul
with curiosity and wonder.
I find you there,
loving me,
giving me the will
to find the essence
in the beauty of this life.
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
Unvarnished
The mirror shards,
sharp as the strands of grey hair,
unvarnished
like the redwood trees.
You would not recognize
the resilient starfish
left on the shore
to die.
You were a stray dog
that followed me home.
I let you into
my consciousness.
You wagged your tail,
you licked my face
with adoration
before you barked.
When you bit me,
I put you down.
I was sober,
you were not.
I was not a munequita
to chew and spit out.
Blindfolded I was lured
by the darkness,
misery I mired in.
You set fire and scorched
our landscape.
I rose from the ashes,
while
you
became a
ghost
of the past.
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Be the change
We turn off the news,
to survive the day,
yet the faucet leaks
through social media.
Senseless death
revisits daily.
we become the ostriches burying
our heads in the sand.
We become athletes
hanging up their cleats
to resist the temptation
to occupy the field
while we lay bleeding.
We harbor memories
of ruthless violence
that left a void that can't be filled.
Grace will fall
like dew drops at dawn.
Grace will emerge triumphantly.
Grace understands that
evil stalks the innocent.
Grace knows that evil festers
in the sewer of humanity.
Grace whispers,
may you be soft,
may you be malleable,
lean into the light.
Lean into the light
as we mourn,
as tears sting,
as the heart breaks open.
Be kind,
Love well,
dream of peace.
Sunday, July 10, 2016
Six Year Blog Anniversary
I fell into life's embrace,
decay crawling on my skin,
naked to be seen.
Utopia,
a place? a destination?
my soul scarred,
shattered pieces
healed by love.
My vessel fragile,
yet my spirit like a great oak tree.
How do I matter?
What is this journey
called life?
The past and the present,
side by side,
tied like a ship with a lifeboat.
Where I have been,
what I have done,
is written on my soul.
What is life, if not
for the love that I breathe,
for the love I have nurtured
for my boys.
Every breath they took,
gave me the will to be better,
to survive,
to evolve.
Love is the greatest gift,
it blooms in my heart,
it flows through my veins,
it saturates my being.
Six years ago today I began posting on my blog, a sun kissed life. It
was a difficult time, I had lost both my parents and I felt wounded,
tired, and vulnerable. A desire was sparked to write again and to stand
with an open heart and share it. The desire was mixed with fear of
leaving myself naked to be seen, my pain expressed for strangers to see,
but I took a leap. At first the posts remained empty of comments, and
it was okay, because after all I was writing to find happiness
within. As time went by, my blog blossomed, other bloggers that I
respected came by to read, which made me happy and grateful. I was
welcomed to a wonderful community of bloggers, poets, authors, and
journalists. We bleed on our pages and we share our souls. My blog
brought me back to the writing I had left behind. It has made me examine
ordinary and extraordinary moments of my life. To all my friends I want
to say thank you for embracing me with love and acceptance. I am
blessed to have you all in my life!
Monday, June 20, 2016
Poetry As A Spiritual Practice
On
this 2016 Summer Solstice Full moon, comes a collection of personal
essays, poems and meditations as we undertake to illuminate the powerful
role poetry plays in unleashing our spirits ...
I am honored and proud to share my words alongside my poet friends.
All proceeds from the sales of this book will be donated to WriteGirl, a non-profit organization dedicated to promoting creativity and self-expression to empower girls.
I thank all the sisters that worked and contributed to this special project sharing their empowering and inspirational offerings. A special thank you to my friend Ginny Brannan and the editor that brought us all together, Catherine Gosh.
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
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.
This poem is dedicated to all the victims and survivors of Orlando <3 br="">3>
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.
This poem is dedicated to all the victims and survivors of Orlando <3 br="">3>
Monday, May 23, 2016
No Boundaries
I savor the snapshots of our life,
a little boy's laughter
angelic and sweet.
We were two peas in a pod,
smiling as we welcomed the night,
books by the bedside,
your little finger curled
in the tangle of my hair,
as you pleaded for one more story.
I was your cheerleader
in games lost,
in dreams nurtured and sustained.
I wanted to see the world through
your eyes,
not mine.
You taught me lessons
in ordinary moments,
that gracefully were extraordinary.
You taught me that there is
no other option but
the naked truth.
I should have known
that your world
would become larger
and that mine would be smaller,
that life would be complicated,
a new path
mapped with boundaries.
The storms that I endured
would be kernels of wisdom
to let go,
to step back,
to watch you stand on your own.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Mom
There was a comfort
knowing that I could hear
your voice,
melt into your arms,
watch the shadows cast
on your face
and know how to bring
light into your eyes.
There was comfort in loving,
in living,
in a shared meal,
an anecdote,
in silent moments.
There was comfort
I no longer find,
the one I felt in your womb
or your gentle hand
on my burning forehead
when I was sick.
I have no church or synagogue
to find refuge in.
I seek the museums
of the world
where we once walked
together,
I walk alone.
In their splendor
I feel you like a gentle wind
beside me,
urging me to see the magnificence.
The art fills my soul
with curiosity and wonder.
I find you there,
loving me,
giving me the will
to find the essence
in the beauty of this life.
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
Women's Spiritual Poetry
I am happy to be featured here today
http://womenspiritualpoetry.blogspot.com/2016/04/fearless-by-ayala-zarfian.html
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
Your beating Heart
The black bird carried a twig
to the nest,
the shimmering light reflected
over the lake.
Spring entered our home
and our subconscious,
yet I have not stopped
to welcome the sounds of the
earth awakening
dreamily stretching
like a ballerina executing
a pirouette.
I've been nourishing
and nurturing
those that I love.
I have been sadder
than they can understand
and stronger than I can comprehend
I have been living in the past
more than in the moment,
feeling the helplessness
of how time floats through
my hands and my days.
Moments that we can't get more of,
days once wasted lost and gone.
I've been stretching my limbs,
my mind diluted.
the wind whispers in my ear,
"You are strong"
it says.
I scream,
"Have you not seen my tears,
heard my defeat,
felt the weakness of my wounds".
I run through the torrents of rain
listening to the uplifting guidance,
longing to hear
the sound of your beating heart..
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
A piece of ourselves
The sun honey colored
and brazen
gleamed through the door as he entered
clutching bouquets of flowers.
Daisies, Lillis,Ginger
wild and beautiful.
I reached out for one,
the thorns of the rose
pierced my skin,
reminding me that life
was not always this way,
soft and loud with beauty.
The flower guy
was away in a mountain cabin
writing his first novel.
I smile
understanding the struggle of
bleeding unto the page,
pouring our fears,
unveiling our truth,
weaving our words.
How softly we click on
the keys of our devices
writing feverishly.
Our minds holding boulders,
in the trenches of our thoughts,
fearful to leave on the page
more of ourselves than
we intended to.
I trim the flowers
on a slant,
place them in the
green and white crystal vase.
I cut my words
into shattered pieces of myself,
I place them on the page,
exposed,
quickly I
erase and
start over.
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
Forgiveness
I forgave her for lying
and trying to steal my soul.
I forgave her for bringing storms
into my days,
uncertainty in my steps,
and darkness in my hours.
I forgave her,
the sister I never had,
the confidante of secrets.
I brought her in from the rain,
from a past,
embraced her brokenness
unaware of her bite.
She loved me,
betrayed me,
said it was her illness.
She took my heart,
sliced it open
watched me bleed
as she stood motionless.
I saw her photograph
on the internet,
her eyes haunted,
a scar on her forehead,
a ghost of yesterday.
It was not her words attempting
to crawl back into the place
she ravaged.
It was not her pleading voice
on the answering machine.
I forgave her
to crawl out of the gutter
she placed us in.
I forgave her as I battled
drowning in the outgoing tide.
I forgave her
to forgive myself.
This poem was inspired by my friend Aidan Donnelley Rowley's new book The Ramblers. One of the protagonist had a mother with bipolar disorder. There was someone close in my life that was bipolar and ended up hurting me while claiming her love. She was family and it was hard. Aidan's book is beautifully written. You can find it here http://ivyleagueinsecurities.com/. It is so many things more than this, and it's about the questions of life and the struggles that we go through only to be end up better and wiser because of the journey. I recommend The Ramblers and I hope you pick up a copy today.
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