Edilson Ferreira
Friends By The Way
There is always a balance in life,
between the heavens and earth,
God and humans,
the sacred and profane.
Many times by such hit-and-miss borders,
designed through the seen and the unseen,
we cannot discover the source
of our happiness and misfortunes,
our joy and sorrows.
Always unable to manage life’s seasons,
we enjoy some halcyonian ones blended
with others so disturbing.
There are tragedies on the ground floor,
made by incautious people, not prevented
by incautious guardian angels,
being healed by the Almighty, many times
by our own human brothers, some of them
the most unthinkable ones.
We follow fighting everyday vicissitudes,
joining hands with all of our friends,
the visible and the hidden ones,
none of them must we ever dismiss.
Our Lord’s Grace
My accountant says that for each credit
there must be mandatorily one debit,
and next to the assets it must be shown
its corresponding liabilities.
Economists say there is no such thing
as a free lunch and to each profit fatally
will correspond an equal loss.
So have been moved the heavy wheels
that carry our chariot through the ages.
But we know that our Creator’s accounts
do not close like this.
All of us are His lovely sons and His grace
covers and heals all days of our earthly life,
without any of our known limitations,
without our proper acknowledgment
and regardless of our faith or merit.
We are His sons and His is this world,
ours the grace of so unquestioning love.
Nocturnal Refugees
-After “Night Hawks," by Edward Hopper-
Night that brings with itself lack of love,
hesitation on living, even fear, as escaping
and fleeing from world’s demands.
Night passing far away from others not long ago,
paraphrased by so many poets always praising,
since ancient times, beauty of mutual warmth
and human complicity.
People hidden in a furtive safety of a dull bar,
unable to come out of their shells and share
some good news, perhaps hidden desires or
love secrets, yet distrust and uncertainties.
Yet unable to reach that souls’ communion,
entire and unique humans’ purpose,
fearful to break supposed barriers,
walls and fences that separate us.
Where the firmness of our ancestors, never afraid
to penetrate dangers of dark and haunted nights?
Where the joy and smiles, where the words that had spoken
their dreams and drawn their desires?
Words and desires that built the world they bequeathed us
which we are about to lose, deaf and dumb for its beauties.
Unhappy and disinterested, we will transfer to our sons
only aridity and dryness, our aloofness and our despair.
Mr. Ferreira, 73, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese. He has been published in venues like Right Hand Pointing, The Lake, Spirit Fire Review, The Provo Canyon, Red Wolf Journal, Whispers, Indiana Voice Journal, Synesthesia, Algebra of Owls, and some others. Ferreira lives in a small town, Formiga (MG), with wife, three sons and a granddaughter and is trying to publish his first poetry book by 2017. He began to write at age 67 after retirement as a bank manager. He was recently nominated for The Pushcart Prize for his poem “Eating Pain.”
Friends By The Way
There is always a balance in life,
between the heavens and earth,
God and humans,
the sacred and profane.
Many times by such hit-and-miss borders,
designed through the seen and the unseen,
we cannot discover the source
of our happiness and misfortunes,
our joy and sorrows.
Always unable to manage life’s seasons,
we enjoy some halcyonian ones blended
with others so disturbing.
There are tragedies on the ground floor,
made by incautious people, not prevented
by incautious guardian angels,
being healed by the Almighty, many times
by our own human brothers, some of them
the most unthinkable ones.
We follow fighting everyday vicissitudes,
joining hands with all of our friends,
the visible and the hidden ones,
none of them must we ever dismiss.
Our Lord’s Grace
My accountant says that for each credit
there must be mandatorily one debit,
and next to the assets it must be shown
its corresponding liabilities.
Economists say there is no such thing
as a free lunch and to each profit fatally
will correspond an equal loss.
So have been moved the heavy wheels
that carry our chariot through the ages.
But we know that our Creator’s accounts
do not close like this.
All of us are His lovely sons and His grace
covers and heals all days of our earthly life,
without any of our known limitations,
without our proper acknowledgment
and regardless of our faith or merit.
We are His sons and His is this world,
ours the grace of so unquestioning love.
Nocturnal Refugees
-After “Night Hawks," by Edward Hopper-
Night that brings with itself lack of love,
hesitation on living, even fear, as escaping
and fleeing from world’s demands.
Night passing far away from others not long ago,
paraphrased by so many poets always praising,
since ancient times, beauty of mutual warmth
and human complicity.
People hidden in a furtive safety of a dull bar,
unable to come out of their shells and share
some good news, perhaps hidden desires or
love secrets, yet distrust and uncertainties.
Yet unable to reach that souls’ communion,
entire and unique humans’ purpose,
fearful to break supposed barriers,
walls and fences that separate us.
Where the firmness of our ancestors, never afraid
to penetrate dangers of dark and haunted nights?
Where the joy and smiles, where the words that had spoken
their dreams and drawn their desires?
Words and desires that built the world they bequeathed us
which we are about to lose, deaf and dumb for its beauties.
Unhappy and disinterested, we will transfer to our sons
only aridity and dryness, our aloofness and our despair.
Mr. Ferreira, 73, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese. He has been published in venues like Right Hand Pointing, The Lake, Spirit Fire Review, The Provo Canyon, Red Wolf Journal, Whispers, Indiana Voice Journal, Synesthesia, Algebra of Owls, and some others. Ferreira lives in a small town, Formiga (MG), with wife, three sons and a granddaughter and is trying to publish his first poetry book by 2017. He began to write at age 67 after retirement as a bank manager. He was recently nominated for The Pushcart Prize for his poem “Eating Pain.”