Five Poems by Edilson A. Ferreira

The Chamber Magazine
thechambermagazine.com
Loneliness 

I wander by unvoiced, almost secretly, 
like a ghost by corners of a sleeping city,
fearful they could awake arresting me
to die at dawn on merciless lethal light.

First published in Right Hand Pointing issue 83-1, February 2015.
Comrades on the Road

I believe there is a conspiracy ongoing 
involving all of us. 
I do not know when or where it began,
nor who initiated it.
They occult from me their talks 
just I approach one of them. 
It seems to me a stealthy fellowship, 
a strange one, of saints and demons, 
angels and warlocks, even goblins. 
They congregate to rule all people,
fighting for our souls, one by one. 
Someone has been told it is a caste
that rids humanity from wrecking   
and leaves it alive on the road, 
leavening us before ultimate battle.

Published in Subterranean Blue, June 2015 issue. 
Translated into French as “Camarades sur la Route” by the author and Rebbeca Banks and published in Poésie Bleu Souterrain at the same date.
Confessional 

They say I have forgotten to turn out 
the lights of my ambition and desire, 
of the hurry, the youth and cockiness.  
I add, by myself, also the ones of love, 	
seeking, lust, yet envy.  And finally,
I am sure never will be lost others like  
the rejoicing to be alive and dreaming.
It would be good they get out of my way,    
for a loadstar still warms me so fiercely, 
that I mirror fire, I burn and, sometimes,  
I inject sparks. 

First published in Mocking Heart Review, Spring/Summer issue, 2016.
And the Wind Came

Showing that it did not come for love, 
did not know how to be gentle and affectionate. 
It came for lust and voluptuousness, not the breath
of a lover, but the madness of the impassioned.  
It did not learn to be breeze, was born this way, 
snorting and showing its claws, 
without notice or warning. 
Knocking at the doors and all of a sudden 
forcing the windows, 
like a river which comes out of its bed
and floods the lands around. 
It did not waste time making swirls or pranks, 
its shot was direct and accurate, without pause or rest, 
like a shameless male, clothes off and in open air, 
covering, without modesty or prudence, 
his chosen female. 
It has warned not to scrimp its desire, 
not turning into a hurricane. 

Published in TreeHouse Arts, January 31 2018.

Dreaming a Home-Journey from Exile 

Sometimes, one of us rises to the surface,
taking flight from the bottom of Dark Sea,
where, exiled, we have stayed for so long.      
Defeated in old battles forgotten by time,
sentenced in absentia by a merciless court,
clearing debts of incautious ancestors.
Our vision accustomed to the shadows,
our body surviving with minimal breath.
When the one who adventures the climb
arrives on the shore and breathes full life,
he is abruptly sunk again by diligent guards,
those armed cherubims at Paradise Gate.
Has our penalty not yet lapsed?
Has not yet been paid the reparation of the beaten?
Could we endure light by the day of release?
Perhaps, then, with a pledge of the dark days of yore,
we may, sharing beloved Earth with the Almighty, 
make a new light; friendly to human nature,
openhearted, unabrasive and compassionate.

First published in The Bees are Dead, September 8, 2016. 


Mr. Ferreira, 77, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Widely published in selected international literary journals, he began writing at age 67, after his retirement as a bank employee.  Nominated for The Pushcart Prize 2017, his first Poetry Collection, Lonely Sailor, One Hundred Poems, was launched in London, in November of 2018. He is always updating his works at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com


“Imaginary Justice” Flash Fiction by Marcelo Medone

“Thanks to you, Benny, I am now in penance.”

Benny stood still, saying nothing.

“I’ve already explained everything to Mom, but she doesn’t believe me. She keeps telling me that I was the one who damaged the keyboard. She told me that you couldn’t be the one who spilled the milk on the computer.”

“Your mom is right, Harrison.” There are many things I can do, like come into your room, talk to you, dance, sing and walk around the house. But I can’t move things. You have been the clumsy one. You still don’t manage your body well. You’re going to have to learn how to do it, just like you learned to handle your fears and invented me. I am your invention, but I am free.”

“I thought you were my friend! Friends are there to help each other.”

“Your mother can’t see me and she can’t hear me either. The only one who can see me is you.”

“I was chasing you and you got into Daddy’s desk. It was your fault!”

“And what are you going to do? Are you going to put me in penance? I am not afraid of you. But I can stay and keep you company until your mom lets you out of the room.”

Harrison thought for a while. He shook his head disapproving of his friend’s idea.

“No, that’s not enough. It’s not fair that they punish me alone.”

“I apologize. It will not happen again. Friends back? Shall we high five?”

Harrison’s face lit up.

“Sure! I’m going to lock you up.”

Benny sneered at Harrison.

“I go in and out wherever I want. Because I am your imaginary friend.”

“Really? You’ll see!”

Harrison went to the bedroom closet, followed by Benny, and opened the doors wide. Crouched inside was a three-headed reptilian monster, with drooling jaws full of massive teeth and paws razor-sharp claws. Benny stepped back and froze with terror.

Without giving him time to react, the monster pounced on him, grabbed him, and shoved him into the closet. Harrison closed the doors and listened to Benny’s desperate screams, which lasted only a few moments. Then, only the noise of the monster devouring its victim with enthusiasm was heard.

Harrison smiled and told himself that it was great to have an imaginary monster in the closet. The only bad thing was that he was going to have to make up another friend to replace Benny.


Marcelo Medone (Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1961) is a medical doctor, lyric tenor singer, painter, journalist, fiction writer, poet and screenwriter. His fiction and poetry has received awards and has been published in reviews and editions in various languages in more than 20 countries, in Latin America, USA, Canada, Spain, France, Nigeria, India and Australia. He currently lives in San Fernando, on the outskirts of Buenos Aires.

“The Exact Same Words” Micro Fiction by Marcelo Medone

“It’s been a long time since you came to visit me,” my mother said, in her best victim voice.

I didn’t want to explain her that my relationship with Alice wasn’t going well and the same thing happened to me at work. I looked helplessly at the bouquet of flowers in my hand.

“You never failed visiting me before” she insisted. “If your father lived, he wouldn’t allow it.”

“Precisely, Dad is dead.”

“Because of you!”

I threw the flowers at my feet, disgusted.

“Death solves all problems,” I said, ending the conversation.

The exact same words I told Alice before hammering her head. And that I told the boss when I showed up at the factory with my AR-15 rifle.

“Bye, Mom,” I muttered.

I walked away from her grave without looking back.


Marcelo Medone (Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1961) is a medical doctor, lyric tenor singer, painter, journalist, fiction writer, poet and screenwriter. His fiction and poetry has received awards and has been published in reviews and editions in various languages in more than 20 countries, in Latin America, USA, Canada, Spain, France, Nigeria, India and Australia. He currently lives in San Fernando, on the outskirts of Buenos Aires.