What I Can Promise

Man that I have born, member

of our common human race

and tied to an expiration date,

unknown but taken for granted

to all of us, I can’t live otherwise,

but in a great hurry.

I can’t wake every day and live as if I were

an old English Lord, boasting a politeness

and a selfness I’m never able or capable of.

I like to be faithful to who and what I am,

heir of poor and suffered our forefathers,

just this, anything more.

No one must expect great deeds, much less

memorable feats, for I didn’t arrive for this.

Indeed a son of God, but He or His Angels

didn’t bequeath me other powers besides

much friendship and some love to my equals.

Comrade with much proud for brothers and

sisters, I wish to share efforts on moving hard

and heavy wheels of time, towards sacred and

promised new land, which we are journeying to.

 

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

Past Revisited

I have a past that it is so mine

and no one else’s.

They have no notion of misdeeds,

even many sins I have perpetrated in it.

Now I know that those grievous faults

surely have been forgotten and forgiven

exclusively and solely by God’s mercy.

My past failures have perfected my life,

helping to forge the man I am nowadays,

one who learned from his mistakes and,

like ancient phoenix,

has been reborn from his ashes.

May I show all my gratitude to this world,

doing all good I can to my fellow ones, yet

forgiving them as I have been forgiven.

 

Published in Spirit Fire Review, issue 10, June 2017.

http://www.spiritfirereview.com

Languages

I don’t like soft-spoken people,

with unhurried speeches and

calculated talks and gestures,

conveying thoughts and doctrines

with professional and doctoral air, users

of attentive audiences and easy applauses.

I get bored and cannot hear them.

I’m aware that time is running out,

our life short, finite and imponderable,

and so inaccurate our common insight

that pompous speech becomes suspicious.

My words are little heard, in fact,

I was born a poet and I talk on paper,

where they are written, to be read by people

with all the time and right to refuse them.

My family and friends look like me,

our eyes speak more than words.

But with lovers I have had,

I spoke not only with looks.

I created a crazy language,

a more loving one,

not from mouth to ear,

but from mouth to mouth.

 

Published in Creative Talents Unleashed, Featured Writer, June 17, 2017.

http://www.creativetalentsunleashed.com

Scheduled for publication in the Sept-Oct.2017 issue of Indiana Voice Journal

http://www.indianavoicejournal.com

Prohibited For The World

When you cuddle and kiss me,

with an endearment only you can,

I feel guilty for unfolding so a happiness,

unknown and denied to those who pass by.

Maybe even lost ghosts, survivors

from past bad lives, have been looking at us,

our love bothering them.

I also wonder if angels fled from Paradise

and flying over earth have not seen us, and,

perplexed, could initiate one second wave of

The Fallen Angels.

We must live so true our love indoors,

hidden from suspicious and envious eyes,

inconvenient and undesirable witnesses.

No living being, people or bird,

nor all this park, these trees and mountains

can capture all the joy destiny has blessed us.

Fears, Feelings And Wants

There are certain weekends and holydays

when I feel myself somewhat insecure.

I worry if walking ghosts have not occupied

the void of empty streets and closed doors,

looking at me as an intruder or suspicious

on their ways.

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 on streets and alleys,

corners and places,

jointly seeking to move hard wheels of time.

I love hearing someone making something,

even if it is the buzzing of bees.

Solitude

Silence of night sometimes brings peace to me

and courage to adventure to my past, a region

only known by me and anyone else.

I go a little timorous, for it is a dangerous trip

and by the way I am greeted by friends, lovers,

enemies, grandfathers, cousins, even by myself.

Then, undoubted alive, they talk to me and ask

for news of the present, where now I live.

Soon we are laughing like old comrades talking

about everything and everyone.

On leaving, one or another intend to follow me,

but I go home alone.

I suspect that past is jealous of its deeds

and always hides how has weaved them.

I think it must visited as few times

one is capable of.

 

Published at Creative Talents Unleashed, Featured Writer, April 02, 2017

http://www.creativetalentsunleashed.com

Sometimes It Happens

Some days I did not just wake up,

I get a renaissance.

I stare up and see a new sky,

a blue one I had never seen before;

a fresh air never felt on my lungs and

a music until then unknown for me.

I need to hold on to not turn like

the novice of The Sound of Music

dancing on the Austrian Alps.

I don’t recognize yesterday’s colors

and see admirable amusing people.

It seems to me the brave new world,

the rediscovery of America, sudden

and happy recurrence of olden hopes.

It is my day and nobody else’s.

I hold and clasp it with all my strength

and, oftentimes, it lasts almost forever.

 

Published in Spirit Fire Review, April 2017.

http://www.spiritfirereview.com