Sharing a new Publication of mine

Sharing with friends my poem “My Love for Earth”, just published in the Fall 2022 print issue of “West Ward Quarterly”, page 27. Many thanks to the dear editor Dr. Richard Leonard.

My Love for Earth

I know there is a final day for my life on earth.

Perhaps I will win the prize of the righteous,

which is, after death, living in Paradise.

But, oh my God, I love so much this planet

which You granted to us from earliest ages!

I love every sunrise, every new day calling me  

to join forces and open new work fronts.

I love that scarlet red sunset that announces    

the early evening, enchanting and bewitching

haunted nights, always full of beautiful women,

loving sisters of our race, only found here,

nowhere else.

I learned to love, hard and harsh, the way

we were condemned to gain our bread,

since the disobedience of our ancestors.   

I think I will never be able to say goodbye

to this homeland, mine and of all of us.  

If I come to deserve an eternal life,

please, leave me here, even if you have to enchant me

as an elf or a fairy, forever feeling its brown ochre scent,   

among sinful, yet amorous brothers and sisters.


Thoughts thrown around

Small towns tell stories of their inhabitants,

those current ones and those

who already have said goodbye to this life.

Indeed, people prefer to be told of those 

who are no longer with us.  

Unlike the big cities, such stories are known for all

and never fall into oblivion.

As if they were plots of soap operas or television series,

always appear followers of this or that character,

who neither know nor suspect they have not died,

continuing to live and giving to the posterity some reason

to unfold uncertain and unknown their days ahead.

People don’t forget the one who didn’t listen to parents,

brought his wife from stranger town

and produced three sons and countless betrayals;

also that family whose grandparents were dominant

in society, their sons lost tradition and money,

 grandchildren now live in poverty

and don’t know how to start again;  

that casino and its illusive machines and stripteases,

bad-looking owners and poker tables, boycotted

by the population and set out to look for another place;

the cemetery that needs to be deactivated

and make way for a new and more modern,

what they are putting off, so they continue to rest

and be seen near those they had loved in life.

They realize with sadness the current youth which loses

the meaning and strength of one life well lived,

the smile that was able to open hope and create

their fathers’ generation.

A generation that persecutes daily the happiness 

 in all its fullness we are in the right duty to achieve.

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

Sharing a new publication of mine

Sharing with friends the publication, today, Sep 13th 2022, of my five poems – “On War and Love”, “Chronology of the Pleasures”, “Desires”, “Gloomy Days” and “Rewriting Paradise”, in the Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Many thanks to the dear editor Strider Marcus Jones. Read (and enjoy) it at:

Stumbling, Pitfalls, and Spells

‘Yo no creo en brujas, pero que las hay, las hay’

(Galicia’s cruel saying)

There was a thief that a bad luck set him

on the way to your house;

a rapist that someone drove his madness’ eyes

and his insane desire to that dear friend of yours,

or, who knows, the weight of evil,

even to your beloved daughter.

A runaway truck that went around, didn’t catch you,

but wrecked a car with your friend’s sister,

also destroying her life and her family’s.

An irate driver who picked you up in traffic,

for, without any motive or reason, to overflow

all his hatred towards this world we live in.

That drug dealer who once saw at your son

a certain hopelessness of youth and guided him,

without pity or hesitation and with all wickedness,

on the sordid path of addiction.

That one you thought your friend but directed you,

with false truths and promise of great gains,  

for a business he never had money or courage to.

That stranger (maybe even a friend),

who, hidden from you and from due respect,

set eyes of malice and sin in your wife.

That sullen and unpredictable man, let loose on the streets,

instead of locked up in a bughouse, who can, on the outbreak

of the moment, just take your life.

So are some ways generated by witches you never knew, 

nor had never wished to know,

who, for free and pleasure of wrongdoing, also for envy,

collide daily with your brothers and sisters,

and are always looking for you too.

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

The Seaman’s Death

On “Island Funeral”, egg tempera and oil on hardboard, by N. C. Wyeth, 1939.

They were worth a lot, the five years that the painter kept in his  

memory and heart the scene of a maritime funeral procession,

that took place on September 11th 1934, in Teel’s Island.    

It had been a lapse of time in which he honed and trained his brush,

until 1939, enabling the birth of this masterpiece.

In true, like some others, he had not seen, but heard about,

the transport to the island for burial of a 96 years’ lobsterman,

a remarkable event, remembered long afterward.

The man, one that his family was the name of the island,

where he was born and had lived all his entire existence.

In a bird’s eye perspective, both grave and lyric, we see the collision,

also the coexistence of two worlds, the sea the man had much loved

and the mainland with so hard a hillside to be climbed.

The sea was liquid and bright to honor him in this day,

the earth, substance and shadow, ready for his rest.   

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

Published in The Ekphrastic Review, Oct 05 2022.

Lost Remembrance

We crossed over deserts, meadows, mountains,

travelled by rivers and seas, Arctics and Antarctics,

planted vines, bridges and ports, raised sheep and sons.   

We built churches, cathedrals, palaces and poor hovels.  

We lit fire into dark nights and hope into sore souls,

 have also made mad things we prefer never to remember.

We threw roads and rails, telegraphs, cities, skyscrapers,

even an audacious tower, at Babel, when, our history tells,  

You promptly restrained us.

Your sons became grandsons, great-grandsons, at last, us,

adoptive sons who every day attempt to remember

what was like one face that it has been said

we had been patterned from.

First published in Whispers, December 04, 2015.

Published in Dead Snakes, February 29, 2016.

Published in West Ward Quarterly, Winter 2017.