Mr.
Ferreira is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese, in
order to reach more people. Has been
published in four printed British Anthologies, online or printed reviews like
Cyclamens and Swords, Right Hand Pointing, Boston Poetry Magazine, The Lake,
The Stare’s Net, The Provo Canyon, Amomancies, Snapdragon, The Gambler,
Whispers and some others. Short listed in four American Poetry Contests, lives
in a small town with wife, three sons and a granddaughter and began writing
after retirement as a Bank Manager. He is collecting his works for a
forthcoming book. See more at www.edilsonmeloferreira.
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Blessings.
Be blessed them
who are opening paths without knowing if will
have
the
strength to conclude it;
who put to the test without further ado than the
love
for
a cause and the fervor to fight the good fight;
who believe that people are made to accomplish
one
to
the other, performing generous a mankind;
who are full of projects for the next years even
fearful
by the ones of the next week;
who fall in love and are not afraid to
demonstrate it;
who plant a tree fully aware never will reap its
fruits
nor
sit by its shadow, but full contented for,
someday,
it will serve for a fellow one,
indebted
to a past kindness.
Rebirth.
I sleep in a dream generated in the nightmares
and eat scraps of hope, milled in the impersonal
and mechanical time’s machine.
Scraps that feed me to be not more than dry tree,
searching for pulling and unwinding roots
that capture me on the ground.
I prevailed over fate that once deceived me
and now walk and will spread my life
around.
I wish distemper, hallucinate and extrapolate,
horrifying who has enchanted and eluded me
in that dark and deaf land, that was not mine.
I will go, man that have returned to be, on
search
not of a drop of water but of one rain that
rains
thunder and lightning, the same like the flood
that has baptized our era.
I will reap fruits that, blessed by my hands
and hard a toil,
only will make me more and more strong.
I will make love to my wife in sheets of soft
Chinese silk
and we will be asleep in a bed of fragrant
Lebanon woods.
Not that I deserve more than Abraham,
who only had a glimpse of the Promised Land,
but, of this new one, God willing,
I will take secure possession.
Published in the Gambler, April 2015 issue.
Silent Witnesses.
It is
common our disputes about this and that.
Really,
almost daily, we are at opposite sides.
Friends
say we are not well-settled a couple,
and so
misjudgment, I know, hurt us equally.
In the
deeps of night, standing awake in bed,
I look at
you asleep and feel all friends’ error.
Who would
bear testimony of us, I ask myself.
Walls and
roofs by sure know our inmost life
but they
do not speak, are invalid witnesses.
I ask
them if just to me would they say of us.
They say
of our confronts, furies, rough words
and
revilements but also remember hugs and
hot
kisses. Likewise, remember have listened
some words
like it is cold out, dear, wear your
coat or
don’t be late, darling; some little things
only
beloved ones are capable to.
They say
we are at hard and arduous a battle,
on pursuing,
although scarce, a bit of true love.
They also
say to keep the route and fear nothing.
Tiles and
bricks, indeed, they are; but perceive,
unlike
our best friends, the very plot of the play.
First published
in TWJ Magazine, October 2014.
~Edilson Afonso Ferreira
