On “Mailbox on a ranch near Farson, Wyoming, Sep 1941”,

photo by Marion Post Wolcott.

 

A lost mailbox in the Wyoming hinterlands.

Portrait of a world that was forgotten,

although here we are remembering it.

An artifact that, nowadays, lost its importance,

replaced by Internet, WhatsApp, Instagram,

and, in truth, something else that it could be.

There was a postman, who traveled this path,

took letters and bills, baptisms, wedding

and funeral invitations; followed up on lives,

deaths, loves and dislikes.

One who didn’t know that, someday, a woman,

an artist named Post, would immortalize the way

where he had worked and shared news,

besides, indeed, secrets and confessions

nobody ever dared to dream of.

On “Daisy Chain on rue de Rivoli”, photo, 1978, by Robert Doisneau.

 

Human life is full of adventures,

from which, many times, we cannot deviate.

On the contrary, if we face them,

with body and spirit combined,

they bring us achievements, often rewards.

These children see this street crossing

as so great a feat and a boldness,

although it may be, perhaps, simple

and ordinary one school excursion.

With terrific insight the photographer

recorded this scene,

an example to be followed by us,

who became adults in this world.

May we hold hands, hearts too, to smooth

and relieve the burdens we carry all days!

When, suddenly, I notice the largeness of the horizons,

and all beauty they unceasingly frame our world.

When, tender and dreamlike resting tonight,

I always see her face before asleep.

When I enjoy full air all the day long,

missing it when she approaches me.

Then, I think, this means I must be in love.

But with whom, I have no doubt that

nor to the walls should I reveal.

 

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

We found ourselves in the deserted streets,

and twinned in the challenge and fearlessness

to the enacted isolation.

Compelled by the oddity of the moment,

we delighted in such a privacy,

fruit and reward for our boldness.

Our love blossomed, suddenly and calmly,

honest, pure and original,

–  secluded inhabitants, entrusted by destiny –

to start a new world.

Let time stop, give this dream a lot of rope,

like the new toy we get for Christmas.

Don’t be lost the magic, take root in the ground,

bathe in the water that blesses, baptizes and revives.

Let it be heir to the best of our stories,

the best of our hopes.

Published in Subterranean Blue Poetry, volume IX, issue III, March 01, 2021.

Translated in French as Réécriter Le Paradis, published in Poésie Bleue Souterraine, March 01, 2021.

Sitting by the road’s edge, I watch life go by.

I see men, women, old and young people,

companions on our journey, the pilgrimage

we have embarked on, since forgotten ages.

They carry in their faces their realities and, beyond,

I try to imagine what really lead them to move on,

but cannot be seen: their well-kept secrets and desires,

their high esteem, their own motto, their ego.

They are striving to be individuals,

rather than simply one more.

Sometimes I see even myself,

mixed in the crowd, perhaps a little lost,

but firmly believing to be on the walk too.

I feel we are all connected in an invisible web

and hope we will reach, each at their own time,

that promised and dreamed land,

where happiness dwells, milk and honey spill,

and evil never finds shelter.

 

Published in Red Wolf Journal, March 21, 2020

http://www.redwolfjournal.wordpress.com

 

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

 

Sometimes a well-intentioned soul calls up,

or even comes to me personally,

claiming to have found, in improper and improbable place,

references or things that certainly belonged to me.

I answer I do not need them, I do not miss that,

keep them where they were found.

They are pieces of myself that I had to leave

by the paths I have travelled in my life,

penalties imposed by my fellow ones,

by sudden, irrepressible and irrefutable passions,

born in a simple, loving and thoughtless heart.

Pieces that prove I did not refuse not even a little

of the portion I must share in my human condition:

I lived, suffered, loved; left my journey well marked.

 

Published in Red Wolf Journal, March 18, 2020.

http://www.redwolfjournal.wordpress.com

My dead, those I loved in life,

I do not bury them.

They remain forever unburied,

at least as long as I can stay alive.

When I die, they will be buried beside me.

I am sure they know this, knowing also

I am still counting on their help and support.

We talk about everything and everyone,

we laugh, weep, love and hate;

they rest with me at night and give me strength,

at the dawn of a new day.

Every victory of mine, they applaud and rejoice,

as faithful crowd, that accompanies their team.

Morbid desires, unnatural cravings, some will say.

But no, it is just great and honest one love, a pure one,

that understands and consoles me on certain days.

Days full with doubts, shadows and ill feelings,

those that fate has marked for me,

which, by sure, I will not be able to avoid.

Published in Poetry Poetics Pleasure, March 2021 issue

http://www.poetrypoeticspleasureezine.wordpress.com.

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 they are starting;

the last cry of pain from the dying,

saying goodbye to those who remain;

by the summer, the geese’s hisses and

the buzzing of bees and hummingbirds,

in their comings and goings to their flowers;

on happy nights, more guessed than heard,

the vows and whispers of passionate lovers;

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 smile that was thought to be lost,

the children’s return, long absent from home,

the sun that got lost last night,

wondrously back by the morning.

These are strong feelings that make 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 ©

 

 

It happened in a cold Saturday afternoon,

under remarkable and pure blue sky,

like some others that autumn had unfolded.

You were dressed in a grey coat and a golden smile,

and sudden said those words I had never listened to:

– I love you –

Surprised, seduced, unvoiced,

you heard my silence as consent,

and so you baptized and blessed forever

happy and exquisite our entire life.

I like humans.

They are a peculiar people who are confined

on a planet long forgotten in space.

Abandoned, as well as in a bus with non-existent stops,

they believe that it is in store for them

safe and happy a destiny.

It seems they are waiting for a new land, where milk

and honey flow abundantly and evil never finds shelter,

once promised by the creator of their race.

Such is the story that has been passed by their ancestors,

successively buried in the wheels of time.

I think they deserve to be supported in every way possible,

as their toiling has been proven very arduous and painful.

Indeed, they have so far endured their journey, due to odd,

exquisite and singular a love, that has survived,

despite countless setbacks and mismatches.

Anyway, although his absence,

they remember and revere their creator,

and, some, even love.

Published in Active Muse, Vasant (spring) 2021 Poetry Collection.

http://www.activemuse.org