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.
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