Unfulfilled Dreams

Today I see my friend’s house,

who passed away three months ago,

and then I glimpsed a sad fact,

poignant and painful, the message that remained,

at the top of the four corners of his house,

where he lived with spouse and three daughters.

Steel spikes left pointing to the sky,

born from the hope of the columns that would ascend

to the second, maybe even a third floor,

sheltering future grandchildren, great-grandchildren,

all of them shielding his marks, his beliefs,

his wants and desires, his heritage to the posterity.

His daughters are not married yet, and,

probably, will not start a family. 

I hope he will come to understand that,

although his house did not reach greater heights,

neither saw nor heard from grandchildren,  

the life he lived on its ground floor had been

happy and fruitful, better than the all of us.

He died at age 84, and I miss him terribly.

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

Poetry, People, and Seduction

I have been told that a judge must have the right,

if not the obligation,

of only to manifest in the process file.

I intend to bring to us, the poets, a similar role,

that people come to us just by reading our poems,

not for any other sense or reason,  

absorbing its lyrics, even its empty spaces,

its exclamation points and questions.  

May they forgive us when, many times, the vernacular fails,

and we translate our feelings into poorly exposed traits,

leaving light footprints to be deciphered and followed.

We lift very high our soul, and only in our craft, daily poetizing,  

we dare on going from the easy and light to the solemn,  

to the deep and imposing truth that holds and subdues all of us:

the beauty, power and seduction of our human race.

Even though someone might call us narcissists.

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


I see they are at the end of the journey,

closing the office.

They are my friends, acquaintances, some I even recognize

as former business colleagues.

But the features are changed, dressed with disinterest,

disenchantment, tiredness, maybe even a little sadness,

and despair, also a certain agony.

They locked the doors, the keys on an outside table,

none want to take them.

Visibly embarrassed and afraid, they seem ashamed,

as having lost their entire will,

not worrying to open the doors at the dawn of the new day.

Slowly I came to understand the painful and bitter truth,

that they are giving up on our world, without the courage

to start again the journey of the living, the hopeful,

those who do not flee the fight, the daily combat.

Where the manhood, the power and desire of past generations?

Where women, for suddenly I notice that I only see men.

Did they no longer want them, love them?

Where the beloved continuators of our specie,

mothers of our race? Are they dead, annihilated?

Crying of disgust, in deep grief, I cannot do anything.                    

I am just a ghost, a soul straying from the past, unpowered  

to shake and slap those inside this sad and macabre vision.

I am witnessing, live and in (pale) color, the nightmare

that haunted me while alive: depopulated earth, forgotten

and unremembered of all of us, our dreams

buried on infinite, soulless and dark space.           

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

Mishaps in Time

The faucets of time are always open

and it runs like wild colts,

in the open fields without limits or fences,

in summer days and fresh green grass.

Time is not tamed, have not been recruited

or trained the toilers for this craft;

it takes all of us and everything around,  

and, as if it had been taught the path to follow,

does not delay or hesitate.

Has been doing its task since world’s lead-off,

and never ponders what has been ordered.

Day and night, in joy and sadness,

willingly or forced,  

old, young, rich and poor, wise and foolish,

we are carried away like dry leaves in the fall.

Let’s be proud and adapt to this journey,

not allowing to the scars, personal

or collective, the power to postpone

or eliminate the search of our Eldorado,                                       

once promised from olden generations.

Endemics, pandemics, pain and loss,

may we subject all of this,

for they never have had, or even will,  

greater significance than so happy and glorious a fate, 

long enshrined, inside our most cherished belief and hopes.

Published in WestWard Quarterly, summer printed 2022 issue


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