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Best Poems Written by Franklin Magalhaes

Below are the all-time best Franklin Magalhaes poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Andante

Many lives have quick moves
of savage rhythms as the samba
or rock’n roll.
On others fits better the tempo of the blues
or the tango cruel fascination.
At least, bolero’s tenderness.
At such speed,
for the good or the worse,
as no selective sponges
they can register all subtleties
too much faint, hermetic or brisk
to the senses of hurried people.
One may suffer, learning or wondering
despite the risk
of overcharging heart and mind
becoming crazy.
I’m working hard to
nothing can turn the knob
that speeds up or slows the beat
and rhythms on me better fit.
That's my unique karmic job.

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The Pixy

The Pixy 

Start the race!  Let’s run!
The smart winds blow
and the dry leaves soon
flash as kids in a row
playing at the pale sun
of the autumn afternoon.
Although some had been caught
in a pond halfway,
the gang went along, a lot
looping quick as a ray.
Some leaves flew, strode,
others went leveling the gray
ground of the swept road.
The spinning guys
throw handfuls of sand
in my startled eyes.
What a daring band!
This way, I am not sure
if I have really seen
the artful face of a bristling 
pixy, dressed on green,
who (the grandmas assure)
travels smoking and whistling
his tune as a sweet lure,
at the middle of the whirlwind.

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The Ghost

At two o`clock in the morning, 
I am not sure if the biggest scare
is that of the little spider, 
just a teenager, 
that flattens on the ground and runs away 
at sudden lighting up. 
Three o`clock and it is all right!
It was neither a bird nor an airplane 
and much less the superman: 
it was only the wind 
and the implacable time passing by
in the glass window reflex. 
Four o`clock in the morning. 
Insomniac specter 
going on his distressing round
among the micro, the tv, and the icebox, 
keeping vigil for dreams, snores and purrs, 
in my utterly modest Canterville.

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Vanishing Scars

Look at me. 
Look well at me:
no more red eyes,
no more sadness,
no more silent tears.
Free at last?
Look the deepest in my heart:
just a faint silhouette
silently carved along the time I kept you
as an enchanted, although vicious, orchid
draining, day by day, the essence of my life.

Details | Franklin Magalhaes Poem

Winter Vigil

Sheltered in hot woolen jogging pants,
leather boots and a high-collar pullover,
daringly I dive into more poetry
and everything warms me on this Winter night:
the clothes heating my body, the poems, my soul.
The dripping of the badly fixed tap,
the ill-humored dogs grumbling afar,
the monotonous humming of the refrigerator,
the sensuous woman requesting my caresses,
all touch me softly,
cradling me, comforting me,
making my legs numb,
transporting me inebriated to another dimension.
Flash Gordon, with neither rocket nor space suit,
I wander my cosmic journey,
scanning the galaxies,
looking for the quasar
from whence poems emanate
permeating the Universe.
In the apparent silence of the sleeping night,
small noises,
residues of a lively day,
tell me that I am still on the Earth.
So I feel, Old Poet, my brother,
that this new day,
that's awaking at the rooster's call,
with the roar of the first bus,
moistened by this fragrant dew,
it will be perfect.
Now the sleep whispers to me
that I must go rest, to be ready
to go on promoting the friendship
sowed along the ways of all the world,
collecting miracles,
living, in their plenitude, the moments
and details of this wonderful life
that dazzles and almost smothers me.