Portuguese blog

I have been writing poems in Portuguese since I was 10. I have decided to start a new blog with my Portuguese poems.
If you can understand the language, please enjoy:
palavras ao vento. 

Morning - as published

A muffled sound,
alarmed my ears
sharpening the senses.

My feet found the ground
before I could ask,
hands risen avoid shadows.

I tiptoed my way
through the dark corridor
anxious to find the door.

It was closed,
but I could hear feet
bouncing on the bars.

First placed my hand
on the cold knob
trying my best to relax.

Though the pounding
of a heart echoed
through my brain.

I opened it wide
as silently as
I could tremble.

A dim light escaped
filling the small room
with a eerie gloom.

Her head shot up
her eyes widened
with unspoken relief.

Her hands held
towards me in
completely vulnerable.

She could see me,
knew help had come
to set her free.

Soon released a giggle,
no words yet
just infantile drivel.

The beautiful sound
of a magical morning
in all daily glory.


 - as published in 2019 Havik - Las Positas College

Vacuum of recognition 📜🖋️

I got published, hurray!

As soon as I knew I flew
these news
to all of those
I keep so close
in white doves
of slick wings
with confetti on their beaks.

I love you so
I had to, you know?      

And thus I could rejoice
in your breading pride.
I could celebrate
more than I meant
or tried
or the occasion required.

But what of the deed?
Dead in deaf ears!

Not even the stamp
of a honorable judge
could tickle your thirst
for fruits of my stand
for lilies of my gardens
for sketches of my pen
for words of mine.

Who am I?
I am a concept.

To you measures of glory
are as flighty 'n' abstract
as scores in a game
that we play
and I am but the sum
and I am but a name
on a digital scale.

Happiness leads
thus to dismay:
As I understand
how vulgar  the collection,
as I comprehend
how hollow the victories
and cheap the dances;

As I bare defeat:
how tiny I am,
no one cared to check?

Henceforward shall I:
let this uptight life flee,
embrace the time
needn't be mine
and walk proud
of my own rhyme.

Is that not the stride
of the poet?