Paixão e Aliança


Amar o Senhor é paixão viva,
é o princípio de toda sabedoria.
Quem O escuta com alma cativa
torna-se mais sábio com ousadia.

Na encosta áspera das vinhas,
onde a enxada rasga o chão,
e a cepa torta nas entrelinhas
Deus ali nos mostra a compaixão.

Cada videira um verso do Criador,
cada bago um milagre de amor.
E do lagar, onde o sangue da uva escorre,
nasce o vinho da memória que não morre.

Diz a Escritura, com firme clareza:
“Eu sou a videira, a vossa firmeza;
vós sois os ramos, minha sementeira.
Que Deus ama de qualquer maneira.

Na mesa da Santa Eucaristia,
o vinho sagrado é pura harmonia:
sangue do Cordeiro, amor derramado,
Entre nós Deus  eternamente partilhado.

On the brink of death grasping one last breath ......that one last drink ...just made me think
The people I love and the Lord above
Just one more day I will show you all the way

And there is not one thing you need to say.

I dreamt this dream before I could speak it out loud,
Between the signifier and imperfect signified,
With all kinds of broken hours and promises never kept,
I tried transforming what was often said in the past.

This place would seem so real,
Made for me, trembling in the middle,
With small and growing earthquakes.
I wrote myself again—my little truths.

Looking for missing lines without wings,
Carrying stones inside my mind,
In tight, frayed bags from my beating heart,
without hope for a final insight.

Perhaps I just passed through the steam
Of a swirling, repetitive, chaotic dance,
Seeking tickets, carving an elusive imprint
With my mosaic in this human code.

Five minutes quietly slipped by.
My earned time vanished.
I had my moments going along the roadsides,
Avoiding the end of this poetic journey.

I stay wrapped in a heavy coat of suspicion.
I saw Moirés crafting another delusion.
I found a small reward in an addictive cliché,
To feel short relief from what I call my reality.

I remember what I did before,
Choosing every day not to cast a stone
Into the center of what I can’t grasp
With my breathing, human existence.
And this breath was enough.

No one called
WHO is no  one anyway?
I've  done the same by
not picking up the phone to dial
people that live miles away
just to say hello and miss you , miss me?
I'm sure they know!
Besides I dislike the phone  ,
privacy invaded
placed on hold,  disconnected  
bad reception  
Telepathically  pick up
I am calling .

flesh became the silent cathedral
who whispers of bread.

the child's eyes
as black a veil as the Gaza night
have not tasted hope
                                                            ­            
and the multitude of the thin, faces sallow,
ghost the empty cooking pots
that offer Lilies

when hunger falls heavy
the moment before a scream
the sorrow sparrows grieve
what hell waits softly with silent breath.

once upon a time in the Holyland
the earth forgot to morn
and silence wrote the ending.

By Geof the cheeky breakfast bard

I cracked at dawn beneath the weight
Of choices scrambled on my plate.
Should I be poached, or softly fried?
Do I conform, or yolk with pride?

The bacon mocks with seasoned flair,
“Why not sizzle, if you dare?”
Yet toast just sits, all butter-faced,
Avoiding life, slightly disgraced.

I whisk myself with pinch of thought:
Am I the meal, or just a plot?
The fry pan hums with heated ache,
What if I’m real, but hard to bake?

The waitress pours me existential tea
“Sweet or bitter? Your choice,” says she.
And so I stew, both brave and bland,
In life’s great brunch, I understand.

I’m not just food for fleeting flings,
I’m breakfast served with questioning things.
So tip your cook and raise your glass,
To sunny-side truths that boldly pass.

The measure of a good life
does not lie in success
it's living in virtue and charity
and helping others in distress

Fear slips from glaciers of
Childhood
Where a film was once shot
Just a dream

I spit blood
In the face of screaming apes
I am not one of you
Do you want to take me in?

A clock was stolen by a boy
Who came from the ice’s light
An eternal prehistoric glow
Born of the dead

Fear came back to us
Not to Ashima
Not to Branco’s doghouse
But it came back