Edilson Afonso Ferreira is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese. Has launched two Poetry Books, “Lonely Sailor” and “Joie de Vivre”; has about 360 different publications in selected international Literary Journals. He began writing at the age of 67, after he retired from a bank, and is a Pushcart Prize nominee. He is always updating his work on his blog at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.

A Recurring Dream

Sometimes one of us rises to the surface,
taking flight from the depths a dark sea,
where exiled, we have stayed for so long.
Defeated in old battles forgotten in time,
sentenced in absentia by a merciless court,
clearing debts of incautious ancestors.
Our vision accustomed to the shadows,
our body surviving with minimal breath.
When the one who adventures the climb
arrives on the shore and breathes full life,
he is abruptly sunk again by diligent guards,
those armed cherubims at Paradise Gate.
Has our penalty not yet lapsed?
Has the reparation of the beaten not yet been paid?
Could we endure light by the day of release?
Perhaps, then, with a pledge of the dark days of yore,
we may, sharing beloved Earth with the Almighty,
build a new light; friendly to the human nature,
openhearted, unabrasive, and compassionate.

Night

When night comes and sleep does not appear,
I ride through unsuspected worlds,
have memories even from days I did not live,
by sure dreams I did not realize.
The yearning is loose; I must to fill the void,
so that I arrive in full to another day waiting for me,
new challenges, new fights.
The new day will be powerful and pugnacious,
unlike me, one day older and not being able to hide
on the face and soul, the marks of misfortune and sorrow,
unrequited loves, dislikes and mismatches.
I will show that I did not renounce the human inheritance,
and, along dear fellow ones, I lived, loved and suffered,
having watered the road even with sweat and tears.
Always sure that we will reach, at the end of the journey,
the promised land, and, unlike Abraham,
who just had a glimpse, we will take secure possession.
Then, dancing and partying,
this day, we will throw to the skies,
sound and honest a laughter.

(First published in Young Ravens, issue 11, winter 2019)

Pride

“Genesis 1-27 – So God created mankind in his own image,
in the image of God, he created them;
male and female he created them”

This is how our history has been told in your book,
in the words of your saints and prophets,
a matter we must never doubt of.
Forgive us for questioning, but where
the power and mastery we should display,
which we have been looking for so long?
Where the wisdom and clearness,
where an eternal life or, at least, someone like
that of Methuselah, who lived for nine hundred
and sixty-nine years?
We lived by your side so little, and quickly
You banished us, locking the Paradise Gate,
there placing those cherubims brandishing
their deathly flaming swords.
Perhaps, in lieu of immortality, we developed
greatest and warmest a love, for and from
each one of us, what You could ever dream of.
Also, may You believe,
having forgotten your primeval purpose,
boldly, unconsciously, perhaps,
so we should prefer to continue living.

(First published in Culture Cult Magazine, issue 13 – Monsoon 2019)

Fears and Feelings

There are certain weekends and holidays
when I feel somewhat insecure.
I worry if walking ghosts have occupied
the void of empty streets and closed doors,
looking at me as an intruder or suspicious
on their walks.
I miss hearing the sound of hammers and
hoes, the strident come and go of saw blades,
the brushing of pens on paper or keyboards
being typed throwing feelings to the world.
I love the imprecations of painters and artists
when they can’t find the pure art they look for.
I love children screaming through the sidewalk,
running endless races only they are capable of.
I love the noise of people in the streets and alleys,
corners and places,
as they move to destinies only they are aware of,
struggling hard to make their lives a story.
I love hearing someone making something,
even if it is the buzzing of bees.

(First published in the March/April 2018 issue of Indiana Voice Journal)

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, hurts 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 surely 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 our hugs
and hot kisses. Also, remember having heard
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 my best friends, the very plot of the play.