Mr. Ferreira is a Brazilian poet published (or upcoming to) in venues like Right Hand Pointing, Boston Poetry Magazine, The Lake, The Stare’s Nest, The Provo Canyon, Red Wolf Journal, Subterranean Blue, Highland Park Poetry, Whispers, Every Day Poems, Indiana Voice Journal, Synesthesia, Dead Snakes and various others. Short listed in four American Poetry Contests, lives in a small town with wife, three sons and a granddaughter and is collecting his works for a forthcoming book.
Ode to a Past
We were seven and went to sleep, every night,
always at the same time.
Father, mother, three sons and two daughters.
Then, from open doors of each one of the rooms
the full darkness always heard a familiar ballad
singing - your blessing, dad; your blessing, mom.
And so, back from the corridors, their reply to one
by one - God blesses.
Then, aloud and in bed, they joined in prayers,
what worked as singular lullaby to put us asleep.
At dawn, father awakened us from the backyard
with his axe, by cracking firewood for the stove.
He was a scholar, but fond of the old manners.
Indeed grave and serious a man, never failed
when we asked for a good companion.
He and mother performed so peculiar a couple,
father the newest of a thirteen-brother clan
and mother the eldest of ten; a contrast that,
it seems, joined them forever.
Her jewels, a delicate watch and a wedding ring
so enough were to seal blessed and blissful union.
We had not gas stove, no fridge or electric shower,
but cold the bath and warm the thirst quenching.
Mother ironed clothes by an old charcoal fired iron,
cooked tasty lunches in smoky a kitchen and made
the most fine suits in a hand-crank sewing machine.
You must believe that there were saints.
By that time, two of them lived with us.
Published in West Ward Quarterly, Fall 2015 issue.
We crossed over deserts, meadows, mountains,
travelled by rivers and seas, Arctics and Antarctics,
planted vines, bridges and ports, raised sheep and sons.
We built churches, cathedrals, palaces and poor hovels.
We lit fire into dark nights and hope into sore souls,
but also have made mad things we prefer never to remember.
We threw roads and rails, telegraphs, cities, skyscrapers,
yet an audacious tower, at Babel, when, our history tells,
You promptly restrained us.
Your sons became grandsons, great-grandsons, at last, us,
adoptive sons who every day attempt remember
what was like one face that has been said
we are patterned to.
Published in December 04 2015, at Whispers.