Levi Nathan

Levi Nathan

His eyes glisten,
absorbing the laughter surrounding him.
He is held, carried, and handed over from one
person to another,
like a treasured Torah scroll,
celebrated on Simchat Torah.
On holy days, I gripped my grandmother's hand,
When we walked to the shul.
Her quiet strength was palpable.
I was conscious of her grace.
Grandma urged me to kiss the Torah mantle,
blue velvet embroidered with golden threads.
Make a wish, she whispered.
Grandma would have loved this precious boy,
sweetness flowing from him like rivers of milk
and mountains of honey.
He coos with delight when he sees his siblings.
Blessed days are made of these moments,
they are a prayer to be lost in. A melody that awakens from within. 

Sally

Sally

 

I no longer remember the sound of her laughter.

I no longer remember the scent of her perfume.

Did she bake challah for the Sabbath?

Did her hands form a perfect braid?

The wind whispered her name. 

Her hair flowed when she walked. 

Darkness, illuminated by her smile.

She embraced her husband for the last time.

The memories of their newlywed days sustained her.

Their faces beamed when they found each other in a crowd.

Their hearts beat as one.

Their unconscious flowing tenderness was seamless.

A dance of life, filled with beauty and kindness.

Sally mourned my beloved uncle’s death.

Devastated and alone she returned 

to reclaim their home.

The villagers that pillaged their possessions 

took her life. 

Her body was dismembered. 

I might imagine all the places where 

the parts were thrown. 

Patches of beautiful lilies grew there. 

(This poem originally appeared in A Corner in the World: 

Holocaust Poems for My Father.

 

The Laceration

The ache is not a discomfort.

It’s anguish.

A laceration,

Piercing into the core

Of what I believed to be true.

I mourn who we were

Before the distortion 

Led us to who we have become.

Going To The Moon

I am so honored to be a part of The Lunar Codex. The Lunar Codex is an archive of contemporary art, books, music, poetry and film, launched via NASA’s Artemis partners to the moon.

One word comes to mind gratitude, gratitude, gratitude.

I Am Water

 

 

 

 

 
I am fluid
as the river
flowing through a canyon.
I am not stagnant water
standing
still in a bucket.
I am rippling,
rolling,
unbroken.
I am free.

The Sun

 

The darkest hours

will unravel the light.

Waiting,

questioning 

the conundrum.

Disentanglement 

will be late coming.

In Mariupol, the smoke

is rising.

The land is ravaged.

In the steel factory

the girl has sheltered

52 days

underground.

All she wants is to

see the sun.

The Rubble

 

The Rubble

The rubble stained.

The rubble cloaks shame.

Innocence taken.

Innocence lost and forgotten,

as if it never existed.

Once, there were children playing,

their laughter echoing through these streets.

Their faces beamed with joy as they ran free,

playing hopscotch and hide-and-go-seek.

Once, fathers and mothers tucked their children into bed.

Teeth brushed,

bruises tended to,

bedtime stories told, as

the moon and stuffed animals listened.

Once, there were lunches made,

homework examined,

board games played,

holidays celebrated,

music played.

Once, there were grandparents conversing,

tending to the children,

bridging the present to the past.

The sun rose.

The sun set.

Life was lived.

Love was shared.

Underneath the rubble,

bodies are buried.

Hope ravaged.

Laughter silenced.

Life ended.

The promise of tomorrow stolen.

 

Praying for the people of Ukraine

A Corner in the World: Holocaust Poems for My Father

 

It’s out and available! 

As difficult as it is to remember,

the history and sentiments will remind us

that we can never afford to forget.

I am proud and I feel honored to share

these poems, 

these stories that I will carry with me forever.

Book Reveal- A Corner In The World:Holocaust Poems For My Father

 It's been my honor to write this book.

Thanks

 

 

 I heard that

thanks is a prayer.

Thanks is enough.

Struggles arise,

angels and saviors.

Old scripture along side the new.

I have morphed 

from the faithful

to the spiritual.

I read verses,

I listened to chants.

I am my father's daughter.

He claimed to find refuge and

communion anywhere.

He crawled from death to life.

He dwelt in the moment

because nothing is promised.

It was a gift

that he unknowingly handed to me.

I find solace.

I find sanctuary,

in a dark room or

under a vast sky.

Sitting beneath a sequoia tree,

peace spreading within,

within.

I inherited his optimism and 

his despair.

I inherited his aura.

His spirit dwells in the 

walls of my house,

when I light the memorial candles

on Friday nights.

The light glows.

I walk through the shadows

feeling less alone.

Thank you is my prayer.

Thank you for a thousand mornings

of silence.

A thousand mornings of love.

Thank you on paper ships

in the bay,

and rose-colored dreams.

Thank you though struggles

and failures.

Thank you.

Grandmothers And Granddaughters

 

 

 My mother welcomed the sabbath,

lighting candles.

Her head covered,

her eyes closed

as she whispered her prayer.

Her house spotless.

The smells from the kitchen intoxicating. 

Her table was adorned with a white

starched tablecloth and

crystal goblets for wine.

Silently she uncovered her head,

the way her mother had,

and her mother before her.

My mother's mother accumulated

a dowry when I was born.

Dishes and lines all chosen with intention

but mostly love.

She is present in my thoughts 

as I think of my granddaughter.

Holding silver candlesticks that 

I will gift to her.

How beautiful they are

for the home that she will make

some day.

Her eyes sparkle bright,

her smile is infectious.

Her sweet face can light 

desolate paths,

and dark days and nights.

She was born with a crown on her head,

during a global pandemic.

The days were challenging

but she was the sun and the moon.

Enveloping us with love

from her first smile.  

Equality For Me And My Sisters

My eyes are luminous. 

My heart is alive.

My soul is hungry.
I am not defined
 by my skin

or the vessel that I live in.

I am a visionary.

I am a rebel.

I am a woman that says no.

I faced venomous snakes
 who desired to crawl on my skin.

I faced ravenous eyes that longed to devour me.

Their actions
 birthed shame rising through me.

Shame that I refused to claim.

I raised a son 
on my own

before I understood the strength,
 and the power that I had.

I raised him to be a better man than the ones I had known.

My layers unraveled,
my inner voice found,

my inner voice soaring.

My layers flooded with light
and
 the understanding of being equal.

Weaving stories of my independence

and the independence of all my sisters.

Sisters I had known
and ones 
I have yet to meet.

I understand myself.

I am valuable.

I am human.

I am love.

I am equal.

The memory leaves scars.

The memory leaves the residue of all that came 
before us.

 

The Boat Sleeps In The Boatyard

The boat sleeps in the boatyard.


When the moon rises,
the boat tells the trees and the frogs


stories about her boy


and his grandpa.


The boat carries them


through waves that gently rock her.


The boat is silent but she feels


and she hears.


Grandpa showed the boy


how to tie a knot.


How to lure a fish to his line.


How the birds in the sky are the guides.


Grandpa showed the boy


how to watch the tide.


How to ride the waves,

 when they rock the boat up and down.


Grandpa knows the ocean

the way he knows the wide eyed boy.


Grandpa’s hands are large and rugged
.

The boy’s are small and tender.


At night
,

the trees listen,


the crickets sing,

the frogs dive into puddles.


They wait and anticipate the joyous tales


the boat will tell about the day.

My Boy And The Moon

Dear moon,
have I told you that every time

I see you,

I think of

my boy?
The way his eyelashes gently flutter when he sleeps.
The way he reaches for my hand to grasp it.
He tells me,
"I love you to the moon and back, grandma."
His eyes mischievous and luminous.
He watches the moon
as I do,
in separate cities
but joined in thought and in spirit.

The full moon intrigues him.

The quarter of the moon leaves him with anticipation for the growth

that will transpire.

He wishes he could touch the moon,
hold the moon in his hand and
place it back in the dark sky to light the way,
for all those lost,
for all those unloved.
Because his heart is full,
his heart is kind,
his love is complete.

Fifty Plus

Rebel,
believer,
dreamer.
Woman,

INVISIBLE.

Your pulse was thunder,
your hands were tender,
your eyes were luminous
like your soul.
Your laughter echoed in dark alleys,
your lips were devoured.
You drank,
you spoke loudly,
you dreamed big.
You lived in the moment,
your skies were vast.
Your journey on broken shards
made you stronger.
Your exterior beauty changed.
Your inner beauty grew

and evolved into something bigger than you.

FIFTY
INVISIBLE?
NOT!
sexism,
youth obsessed culture
denies you entry or importance
but you won’t surrender.

You have settled in your vessel,
you have shed your skin.
You have found serenity
and humor.
Your fire raging,

your spirit elevated.

You bridge the old world with the new.
Wondering how you arrived
to this intersection sooner than you thought,
while you were
living a full life.
Holding,
embracing,
cradling,
everyone you’ve ever loved.

Aiden Three Laps Around The Sun

The blue wood maracas laid 

on the piano where we left them.

The spider frightened you

but not the dragonfly.

You weave sentences into a

continuous conversation.

You walk with the confidence

of a boy who is loved,

  a boy kissed by the sun and the moon.

Three years old

and life is unfolding 

with deep seeds of love

and knowledge ingrained in your being.

We walk side by side,

our friendship magnified 

by every magical story told,

with games that soothe wounds.

Engaging in questions,

delighting in the solutions.

Discovering new quests,

creating new dreams.

Life amplified with 

endless possibilities.

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