They do not know that I am in a hurry.

A hurry to love this world even more,

with all people destiny has given to me,

fellow travelers in the common journey.

A hurry to instill and teach my children

the art of goodwill and mutual respect,

pillars that bring us closer to the Creator.

A hurry to fight the good fight, wielding

my sword, my mind and my will

against hopeless and unfaithful brothers,

acolytes of those fallen angels who envy,

hate and despise happiness, love and

the common good.

A hurry that before the end of my days,

may I help us to be closer to the promised land,

where milk and honey flow and evil ever hides,

defeated, disoriented, humiliated.

 

Published in Poetry Poetics Pleasure, September 2019

http://www.poetrypoeticspleasureezine.wordpress.com

 

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

Today I am remembering the voices I have been hearing,

which are recorded in my memory:

the first cry of the newborn, searching to be noticed

in the new world in which he is starting;

the last cry of pain from the dying,

saying goodbye to those who remain;

the vow and whispers of passionate lovers;

by the summer, the geese’s hisses and

the buzzing of bees and hummingbirds,

in their comings and goings to their flowers;

the noise of people on the streets, corners and squares,

struggling not to go unnoticed

and to leave their stories written;

likewise, and, perhaps, even more remarkable,

at least for me,

the voice that cannot be spoken ,

coils in the throat, comes back to the soul,

then radiates in the brightness of the eyes,

entranced by:

the extreme beauty of the beloved woman,

the sun that got lost at night and it is back,

the smile that was thought to be lost,

the children’s return, long absent from home.

Strong feelings making life worth living,

and more light our journey.

A journey in which we hold hands,

towards the promised land,

where milk and honey flow,

and evil never finds shelter.

 

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

I cry for the estrangement among whites and blacks,

yellows and browns, Christians and Muslims;

for the rich who reach water from golden faucets

and the poor who carry it in the buckets;

for the wine and salmon tables of the mansions

and the yesterday’s bread passing from hand to hand;

for the security of the politicians on the comings years

and the fear of the common people for tomorrow;

for the dreams of the righteous, that have not come true

and the audacity of the insolents, who have no feelings

and are not intimidated.

But I hope to have strength until my last day,

to pierce the veil that seeks to cover evil,

lifting up my sword in the Lord’s army,

always angry against injustice and oppression.

It is my faith that this will be

sacred and ultimate my soul’s redemption.

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 be it hard and insensitive,

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.

I have not paid to the world as much as I owe.

I was born naked; I have clothes, house, and car.

I was born unknown; I have friends, admirers,

have even had  people who loved me.

My body has withstood sun, rain, wind and snow,

has been spared the onslaught of viruses and microbes,

unwanted messengers of diseases and afflictions,

but, towering, persists defiant.

Evil spirits, the fallen ones, sown in wait,

have hit my carcass, my sacred helmet,

but, defeated, lie by the wayside.

I can only pay praising and worshiping, firm and strong,

body and spirit, in hope of the re-encounter with our creator,

sacred, ultimate and legitimate human’s redemption.

I do not want to wait one minute more to say

to this world some words stuck in my throat:

I love all of you!

Whites, yellows, browns, blacks,

elderly, young, children,

even the evil ones, because they must have

some strange and shady missions,

often (or always) hidden just to themselves.

It is true that daily we catch ourselves watching

a lively musical from Broadway, and then,

horrible some Greek tragedy.

As mentor and director of our tour on earth,

God uses the talents of His creatures,

like a painter mixing colors in a masterpiece.

We must accept the tones we have been given,

for it is the redemption of a destiny and a duty

allocated to us, it would be good to believe,

even before the beginning of our own time.

I am a friend of the past.

I have good relations with it.

I do not frighten myself when I hear the gong ringing

and it says, hello, I am here, I reminded of you today.

There is no time or day set for its appearance.

Today it reminded me the ways in the paternal farm,

where, solitary but not sad or haunted,

I walked in my childhood and youth.

We said of the blue-back grassquits,

which landed on the wire fences, sang,

and gave three leaps, up and down.

We said of when I was walking alone on the tracks,

wanting to sneeze, had to wait to cross someone,

and so sneeze, for it was needed to hear from him:

God help you!

We reminded the stone mill, operated by the water wheel,

that grinded the kernels producing corn meals,

used for the baked cakes on the wood-burning ovens,

one’s brick-made at the open air in the yard.

Also remembered the school of D. Maria Dias,

who lectured in the cellar, where we studied

until the third year, for the fourth one had to be

at the town school.

There were some comrades, who came annually

from extinct mines where gold was exhausted,

to work on our crops: coffee, corn, rice and beans.

We prayed the rosary every night, and, on Sundays,

our family went to mass in the town church, smoothing,

for years and years, the bank with our name inscribed,

friends we were of God and of the parish priest.

Times of old, when we were happy,

and we did not know.

So happy that we lived in Paradise,

which was the name of that hinterland.

Really, some of us came to believe

the bible had borrowed it for the land

of one of its best known stories.

 

Published in Mocking Heart Review, fall 2019 issue, Nov. 01, 2019

http://www.mockingheartreview.com

 

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