I have neither the time nor the talent to sing praises

to all that have enchanted me in my life on earth.

Someday, I will miss these happy and satiated eyes,

my ears, even my heart.

We, who now share this land and these airs,

will be no more than sparing remembrance

for those who will remain.

In the short time given to me, I want to suck in fury

all the honey I can get by on my lips, living the life

just like that poet of sweet memory, burning my candle

on both sides, my light frightening and pushing away

all scarecrows on duty.

Maybe in another life, unknown to me,

they give me other days,

who knows, even Eternity.

But they never will give me, however,

those scarlet red sunsets preceding soft nights,

where I have met lovely and unforgettable women,

sisters whom our race has refined in such a beauty

never seen anywhere or anytime else.

 

Published in Free Lit Magazine, volume 5, Issue 3, The Beauty Issue, May, 29th 2019.

http://www.freelitmagazine.com

 

I walk in the streets, alleys and squares,

I see and hear all kind of people,

I still feel even a little of their souls.

Whites, blacks and yellows,

adults, children and the elderly,

they are my fellow ones, comrades

on the biggest walk, in route

to the admirable new world,

the land promised long time ago.

Instead of, perhaps, should I go

back to the sixth day of one holy week,

to ask our Creator if this is the way

He had thought for His people.

Also, ask if it would not be a time of forgiveness,

disarming some cherubim’s flaming swords,

still on guard at the Paradise Gate.

No one, other than myself, needs or should know about my past.

It is sacred a shrine, not open to public visitation in any way.

I am sure some guardian angels have been in duty,

around me, since my birth, even since I was conceived.

I believe, more so, they had approached and induced

a couple of young lovers, to the holy mission to add

to our world a new soul, a new being.

All this with the complicity and blessings of God,

lord and mentor of all destinations.

Every time I fell and got up,

was wrong, then corrected and forgiven,

my tears wiped and the hope renewed,

has strengthened and put me on the right track

to the land once promised to our ancestors,

that where milk and honey flow and evil

never finds shelter.

That one, I surely believe,

not far beyond the horizon

of  upcoming so happy a day.

 

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

 

Someday, somewhere,

I will get you only for me,

just for me, apart, separate,

from the entire world.

Then, I will kiss your red lips

with all holiness, born through

sacred, chaste and sinless a love.

Witnessed and blessed  by the creator,

so, there will exist no time or clock,

day or night, reason or laws.

It will be the fulfillment of a story,

kept secret and secluded, although,

we both know,

written and settled since always,

by solemn and unique a destiny.

 

Published in The Basil O’Flaherty, spring 2019 issue.

http://www.thebasiloflaherty.weebly.com

I did not know,

neither did my wife,

that our marriage had become a rarity.

We meet every five years with former colleagues,

celebrating the anniversary of our graduation,

party that has become traditional.

By the latter, celebrating twenty years, we were troubled,

even frightened, being greeted with such comments:

It is true that you are still married!

Have you not yet separated yourselves?

Something wrong must be happening!

They gave us weird looks,

some of them even suggested a psychologist.

Undesirable and unimaginable a reality,

which we are not prepared for.

My spouse and I agree never more attend these events.

O tempora! O mores! –  said Cicero.

What time, what customs! –  do we say!

The emotion that lies at the heart,

not shown in gestures and words,

cannot be measured or felt,

but for myself.

The tears of sadness and despair,

even those of rejoicing and pleasure,

salty and hot ones,

have leavened the soil where I live,

bringing forth flowers, fruits, children.

Have nourished and ennobled my spirit,

paying the toll I owe to the lord of the fief.

I am sure they are leading me to Canaan,

the promised land where evil finds no shelter

and milk and honey flow abundantly.

Where the woman I desire is waiting for me,

at the door of my house, longing and needy,

wife and lover.

A Brazilian poet, Mr. Ferreira, 75, writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Largely published in international journals in print and online, he began writing at age 67. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2016. His first Poetry Collection – Lonely Sailor – is coming soon, scheduled to be launched in London, November 29th 2018, with one hundred poems. He blogs at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.