ILL-FATED VISION

I see they are at the end of the journey,

closing the office.

They are my friends, acquaintances, some I even recognize

as former business colleagues.

But the features are changed, dressed with disinterest,

disenchantment, tiredness, maybe even a little sadness,

and despair, also a certain agony.

They locked the doors, the keys on an outside table,

none want to take them.

Visibly embarrassed and afraid, they seem ashamed,

as having lost their entire will,

not interested in opening the doors at the dawn of the new day.

Dear God, slowly I understand they are giving up on our world,

without the courage to start again the journey of the living,

the hopeful, who do not flee from the fight, the daily combat.

Where the manhood, the power and desire of past generations?

Where women, for suddenly I notice that I only see men.

Did they no longer want them, love them?

Where the beloved continuators of our specie,

mothers of our race? Are they dead, annihilated?

Crying of disgust, in deep grief, I cannot do anything.                    

I am just a ghost, a soul straying from the past, unpowered  

to shake and slap those inside this sad and macabre vision.

I am witnessing, live and in (pale) color, the nightmare

that haunted me while alive: depopulated earth, forgotten

and unremembered of all of us, our dreams

buried on infinite, soulless and dark space.           

This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©

Mishaps in Time

The faucets of time have been opened

and it runs like wild colts,

in the open fields without limits or fences,

in summer days, fresh green grass.

Time is not tamed, have not been recruited

or trained the toilers for this craft;

it takes all of us and everything around,  

and, as if it had been taught the path to follow,

does not hesitate, does not even sleep.

Has been doing its task since world’s lead-off,

and never ponders what has been ordered.

Day and night, in joy and sadness,

willingly or forced,  

old, young, rich and poor, wise and foolish,

we are carried away like dry leaves in the fall.

Let us be proud and adapt to this journey,

not allowing to the scars, personal

or collective, the power to postpone

or eliminate the search of our Eldorado,

once promised since old generations.

Endemics, pandemics, pain and loss,

may we subject all of this, for they never have,

or have had, greater significance than the fate

surely one happy and glorious, reserved for us,

inside our most cherished belief and hopes.

This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©

Guilty a Heart

So many beauties spread by the way,

I cannot pass without enjoying one by one.

Indeed, there are some ones so beautiful that,  

besides to enjoy, should be also worshiped,

tribute and respect to the Common Creator.   

Unhappily, I have amorous and stubborn a heart,    

perhaps a delinquent one,

used to falling in love almost every day.  

Could it be hard and insensible,

just as almost all of them,

so I would pass fast and safe,

impassible and passionless.

But it usually picks up a song,

from unknown a spell,  

fairy music of the wind, or, who knows,   

resurrected Ulysses’ mermaids singing,

that, poor me, I cannot resist.

So I go, amazed and fascinated,

sometimes on despair and strained,

along with loving brothers and sisters,  

daily struggling to move hard    

and harsh the wheels of time.

(Published in Red Wolf Journal, Aug 8, 2021)

www.redwolfjournal.wordpress.com

Chronology of the Pleasures

About one month or two ago, at dusk,  

on the walk we take almost every day,

when passing by a well-known bridge in my city,

I noticed, not without some sorrow,

that there was a family living under it,

at a corner they had cleaned on the riverbank.

I was filed with sadness, for sure they were homeless,

or, at least, temporarily, having as roof

the lower part of that framework.

Yesterday, while walking with my wife, we perceived

that there was something different, a few more people,

in addition to the family we were used to seeing.

A couple of bonfires lit better the area,

they seemed to feel very comfortable,

laughing and happy, we even heard

something like a clink of glasses.

My wife was surprised and did not understand,

but, suddenly, I did, and told her:

there is no doubt, they are having guests today

and are having fun.

Then, we became aware that, really, since a while,

we have not enjoyed much the same this pleasure.  

This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©

Reflections on the last Day

I know that, one day, a doctor, who probably

I do not currently know,

will bend over me to attest to my death.

It will be one of the many tasks he will have that day.

He will be examining a corpse, but will never be able to attest to,

even imagine, the thousand and one days I happily lived                                                

with the lovers I conquered, the devoted and faithful friends

who gave me their smiles and countless hugs, all of this born                                        

from pure, naïve and strong a human camaraderie;

will know neither the sobs of anguish nor the desperate voice

of certain days, nor the tears I had to shed along some paths I walked;

will also never know the brightness of the days I was able to celebrate,

although it took a while, nor the victory over the enemies I had to face; 

will not think that there will be a God and Creator waiting for me,

analyzing and weighing the sentence that will have to be delivered,

nor what the new world to which I will be sent will be.

This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©

Fatality

We have lived a frank, fraternal and realistic love.

Realistic in the sense that we understand it so much,

that if one day, for this or that, it ends,

although human and fallible as we are,

in our time, few may have had so good fortune

and happiness, just as we had.  

And if it happens to last forever,

as we have sworn with affection,

surely, the Olympian Gods will envy us,

those of whom it has been said they are eternal,

see and feel everything and everyone.

They will not hesitate to give us terrible punishment.

We know none of them has been loved as much as we did.

Seen in passing through

She passed, sovereign and powerful,

as only a beautiful woman knows how.

Unaware (perhaps) of the uproar caused

in the hearts and feelings around.

Supreme gift donated to humanity by the Creator, 

reason for promises, deeds and exploits by men

of fine lineage and caste, chained to be loyal worshipers

of what has been left for us in beauty and enchantment.

And, believe me, she who is happening to pass now,

neither knows nor dreams to be guilty of this;

  • to my despair and passion    –

she has snow-white skin,

crowned by the darkest hair.

Our Legend continues

I am not worried about my future days.  

You will probably point me out as reckless, defiant, 

by challenging what we cannot predict or guess.

The fact is that I learned a lot from the sadness

and disappointment I have had, really so many,

but not enough to overwhelm me.

I hope I still have many pleasures in my future,

like or better as I have had,

even if some of them are the ones that,

later, turn out to be deceptive and fleeting.

I have already learned the modus-operandi of the one

who has been the mentor of my destinies and my ways.

So, I have seasoned my life with the same passions,

thus believing he will not have much to change

and surprise me.

Let my future come soon, I do not fear and will embrace it

with the same faith of past days.

I will fight its frustrations and disagreements, which, by sure,

will appear again.

I will lie down with  new pleasures – flames and sweet loves

will spring up.

From time to time,, I will throw to the skies sound and honest a laughter,

and, a little incredulous, the Gods will know that, despite everything,

even if it is for just one,

the human legend is still going on down here.

This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©

From the Origin of Things

I keep always inside a secret oak chest,

invisible, safe and inviolable,

all my prayers and hopes, loves and troubles,

triumphs and defeats, hugs, dismay and discomfort.

They are a mosaic of the days I have lived, witnesses

of laughter and affection, tears and sobs, which show

that I did not run away from life, having lived it honoring

the sacredness with which it was once conceived.

They will be the passport for my re-entry into the fellowship

to the one who sent us to this common arena of smuggles,

afflictions and despairs and, from time to time,

happiness, fearlessness, even a certain human pride.

Sometimes this chest becomes heavy and unbearable,

and I need to empty it, because other days and passions

are waiting to be cloistered.

Hidden from human eyes, I open it and its content is burned;

emanations are mingled with the clouds of heaven, and,  

like an old Pandora’s box, give rise to bonanzas, lulls,  

besides, occasionally, storms and thunders.

Luckily, to date, tornadoes and hurricanes have not appeared.

Published in Poetry Poetics Pleasure, vol 05, issue 1, Jan 04, 2021.

http://www.poetrypoeticspleasure.wordpress.com

Published in the printed issue spring 2021 of West Ward Quarterly

http://www.wwquarterly.com

This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©

Heritage

Many times, in the day to day, we came across

surprising and unpredictable events,

that leave us breathless and speechless.

Some sad, unwanted and hurtful ones, 

which we cannot understand its origins or reasons,

carried out by family, friends, even by ourselves.                                                             

We must also remember those, likewise unexpected,

that had brought happiness, joy and well-being,      

which, without better judgment, we accounted

as if had been natural and fully deserved ones.  

Indeed, in the harvest we do every day,

we are used to abundance, sometimes to scarcity,  

healthy fruits alongside some sick ones.

We should always take into account

that have not been only we who have planted

what we are now reaping.   

It had been sowed by parents and grandparents,

also by everyone who preceded us. 

Really, it is the heritage we must honor,

interdependent as we are, in our common,

beloved, sometimes so suffering human race.

(Published in Poetry Poetics Pleasure, October 2021 issue)

http://www.poetrypoeticspleasureezine.wordpress.com