Treasured a Past

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, which, I surely believe

and hope, is waiting for us not far beyhond

the horizon of upcoming so happy a day.


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


Cherished Belief

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.

Sad Surprise

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!

Dreams, Dramas, Desires

Again alive, from

ambushes assembled by enemies in unsuspected corners,

by inoffensive and ordinary days;

unexpected malicious comments and dirty looks

of people always counted as faithful friends;

unknown and treacherous diseases,

out of reason or occasion to appear;

sleepless nights, frightened by horrible nightmares,

or sunny days, suddenly turned to cold and sullen ones;

recurrent sweet dreams appearing without warning,

in pensive and lonely nights,

remembrance of the woman you still love.

Again alive and unlearned from harsh past lessons,

so is the destiny of amorous, stubborn and delinquent a heart.


Published in Tree House Arts, Feb 20, 2019


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

Friends, Land and Flowers

I am guilty of not having many loves

and few people have being my friends.

I am a man of old-fashioned customs,

the one who hopes to be duly introduced

and then exchange a full conversation.

Forgotten refinement of the times of yore,

etiquette learned in the old social rites.

My friends are few, faithful and heartfelt,

not subject to the usual taps on the back,

easy laughs and feigned cuddling.

They are always austere, even stern,

but never fail when you need them.

Never accustomed to false praise

and empty words,

but prompt, effective and friendly deeds.

Like the land where I was born and raised,

dry plateaus and arid hills, narrow creeks

and honest meagre sheaves by the harvest.

Stubborn trees that, unlike the others,

wait for the driest season to bloom,

naked even of leaves, find strength

to bring forth delicate yellow flowers,

resembling pure and true gold.


Published in Young Ravens, issue 9, December 2018.

Published in Better Than Starbucks, September 2019

Published in The Lake, June 2020

Published in Masks Anthology, July 2020

Passage to Paradise

The emotion that lies at the heart,

not shown in gestures and words,

cannot be measured or felt,

but for myself.

Disillusionment, sadness and despair,

even rejoicing and pleasure,

have created tears, salty and hot ones,

which 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.


Published in PPP Ezine, April 2019

A Beating of Wings

We pretend to have our life,

even our world’s life, always under control,

from past generations to present days.

Sometimes we feel close to that certainty,

and it is good that this should happen,

giving us some encouragement on walking.

We work with the mind and the heart,

science and desire, on outlining the future,

which we desire and anticipate promising and happy.

Turning around the street corners, we find ourselves

with new, unforeseen and frightening facts,

perhaps echoes of ancient Greek dramas and tragedies,

worshiped by people of an era that has been lost,

civilizations poor of hope on the human rebirth.

Wars, revolutions, tyrannies and persecutions,

born on the drumming of soulless men,

have delayed our arrival in the promised land,

where milk and honey spur and light reigns,

preventing all evil  once sown.

A land we have not yet arrived to,

but it is already heard

the beating of the wings of the dove’s return,

like that of Noah, bringing in its beak

the green branch of the olive tree.


Published in Active Muse, July 19, 2020.

Life, Seasons and Desires

Let me tell you a secret.

Secrets are made to, at the right and appropriate time,

be revealed and exposed.

They twist and squirm, get tired of the imposed imprisonment

and ask, if not demand, their freedom.

I am a conservative man, averse to change.

I would live my entire life in the same house, same friends,

same loves;

would have my children and their children would be equally ours,

growing, assembling and sharing rooms and lives,

indifferent to strange customs of those

who do not love or even like each other.

We would be like a pack of wolves that are always together

and know no other world but theirs.

I like the sun that does not change

and it is the same every day,

heating and never forgetting of us.

I cannot understand the moon, its four phases and four faces,

that makes us fall in love with its brightness and then,

plays hide-and-seek, feminine and elusive wants and appearances.

I would like to have an extended spring without summer,

a fall without winter, succulent fruits the whole year,

packed with gentle rains and tender winds.

My hair could be white, but full and thick,

not meager and thin; my desire active and predatory,

voracious and powerful, facing my last season

with that child’s own haughtiness, still shaped

as a certain book says, in the image and likeness

of noble our Creator.


Published in Free Lit Magazine, November 2018 issue.

Published in Tree House Arts, Feb 20, 2019


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