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Robert Filos is an author of poetry and short stories that combine beauty with humor and wit, (and brutal truth sometimes) while highlighting social and world issues. He was born and raised in The Bronx, and now makes his home in the South Carolina Low-country with his wife and nine children. He can be reached at [email protected] Treasure The Past Dusty shoe box a child's treasure chest old letters and stamps things from the past grandpa's war medals a fragile pressed rose yellowed faded report card and a piece of twine a gold watch band some scrapings of melted wax the whiff of a musty old cigar one metal button three cuff links none a pair lock of thin hair a page from an old bible psalm twenty three grandmas silver thimble a little blue bottle deck of cards from japan nineteen forty a spool of black thread pack of sewing needles pledge of allegiance on an old folded card small yellowed envelopes with nothing inside a marble and several checker pieces all red small white ribbon silk with a pin a buffalo nickle Aunt Marie's wedding band a negative of her grave S&H green stamps business card from a pharmacy a string with nine pearls old bus pass and transfer small shells and glass beads and a straight razor more than a treasure box child holds the past Jewels Of The New South blue stone walkways drenched early summer rains the palms arching above casting fronds earthward row houses each painted a pastel rainbow shade porches dangling crooked stacked pale blue skies oaks live return glances toward uncivil grave stones weathered to a smoothness engraving distant past narrow alleys posted with old ornate wrought gates a century and a half of cobbled streets concealed contrasted the battery retains the sea and its guns brown pelicans glide in a seashore symphony flight ever present the dolphins join adding their melodies land and seascapes on easels abounding artistry old and young all sing the southern song of crabbing sandbars expose a treasure chest of spiral shells bottling shark teeth and sand dollars a starfish prize looking afar off as tides resume the ancient parade inward salty trawlers return to barnacled creek docks a plate of shrimp and grits greets diners races lost sweet the baskets crafted as the hands that weave old markets bow themselves a symbolic confession while the color of flags and dignity both are attained elders purchased misery of bonds in whole grains glory in compassion and absolution dot their crowns jewels of the new south treasured neighbors uniting your bitter sea cries twice lonely your bitter sea cries twice lonely sleepily walking my empty feet drown chased by blues and greens and sand kicking at piles of dried shells in satin and empty colored glass party bottles delivered politely, being all dear John letters sprayed in high tides postage free offerings daily correspondence to a dim castaway the ebbing mocked in a black applause crabs by thousands clap boyishly high sharp claws in reddish orange sabers flash, high noon's droppings harden quickly brilliant periwinkles of salt stranded warm now display seaweed coated family trees shadows of lost waves breaking echo ghostly swimming in your darkness down and easterly Tears Across My Page Listening to hear my baby's footsteps another morning, wind whistles the blues chickens scratching along the dirt road on the run, rooster lifts his tail once more Early morning sun, shining grey upon me mind swirling, inside a spring dust devil carried along the old barbed wire fence which once contained an acre of dreams Rotted acorns under the live oak scattered roots reaching up from the grave below corpses whose hands grasping to breath out past shadows cast of branches high Apocalyptic landscape in a panorama sorrow and death beckoning to me silently and my pen as always, it just weeps softly absently, dripping tears across the page A Reflected Smile In the waterfalls reflections of blue and green and silver splashing an ancient palette cleanser of dryness tumbling falling galaxy's of a star's dust in enjoyments it sprinkles mist rising again in pixies pinkish red mother's third daughter's smile She Wears Her Confession Well she wears her confession well while roaming dunes at dusk bright pink painted toe nails kicking at the cool damp sand one step a mile at beach length her dancing locks glowing red fire as she sings a pirate song green and white is the foaming bashing shells hard on the shore spry at home and perky in water moonbeams casting her shadow a reflection toward the heavens only visible from planets above scarlet retreats with each new tide leaving just her and long seaweed the night sky trembles and shakes broken shells litter the grains pure as tiny trails weave toward the water the poetess ballet is ending shortly tired hills now marching to the sea gliding softly she joins with the a last crash greets the yellow flame blinding creatures intent on travel rolling in she touches hibernation salty bubbles rise the final breath a last push and as bright scale blink her confession seeps now back within the mermaid sinking again unseen Message in a Bottle /or/ Don't Drink Twice Is My Advice Stranded an old wine bottle on white sands once walked cork protective of words old just a speed-bump for crabs your crimson nails gathering ancient seas roll along free lights fade and regain politely tricks of the light or your trade standing on this shore a beacon crosswinds dry my eyes an epitaph missing among waves a castaway salvaging the story Queequeg's coffin a diamond shinning blue breathing heavy on my back sights a chart marked on me the sounds of colors lost each word a grain of those sands or one breath of salt air sipped the elixir joining with shadows non nutritional ale of bowels seering now the heat drawing all universally closer beneath the white is cool wetness buried as a chest treasured Cheers And Cod Cakes nights salty breeze tasted off whiskers tired barnacle crusted hands worked steady stores loaded rigging tightly set away distant bell buoy sounds as crew boards oilskins and attitudes clamor a language chasing cod and haddock defines slowly rocking nights journeys foretell above sighting birds betray schools feeding ropes, rum, hooks and lines shoot past weeks growling the holds filled bursting last four planks low riding the wind homeward cheers and cod cakes rolling as the seas a fine bounty gathering fishermen at the port heard church bells calling just a night away when wind rising swells green hands grasp boards snapping shriek of canvas being torn down to the deep these souls a lone mile out she gives not up her dead the widows walk
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