Robert Filos, Folk Writings From The Future

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 children.

A Bruised Peach

A bruised peach, skin and flesh darkened
as shadows of understanding are poached
the northern lights of green and red flash
pillars as piles, driving out neon blackness
January’s child spotlighted, shown glowing new
quaking white sands, drenched trembling loose
a scene, piano keys shot out skyward rockets
the rising curtain, they fly wingless with abandon
leaving rings of change behind, blue smoke
observers witness the metamorphic birthing
slowly, spiked insects crawl among felled leaves
colors resume their changling renditions stark

Reveling at the hot crowds, swaying and circling
their spouts of blind sounds rising, a dry cyclone
in space, the glass reflections appear unheard
their grey portraits undone as a discarded turban
losing its shape, once a viper, cocked and ready
loose now, banners of clouds sailing aerial seas
or dying foam outlining shores, the last tides say
pitted, the juices escape, drops of lava received
upon the granite cheek, indifferent and ice cold
prisms of wastefulness absorbing the crystal fall
among the chosen they rise with sheets of white
unveiled natural selection yields to ancient of days

A Reminder Of My Friend

that little beach of pebbles
with all the shells in the surf
or a warm summer breeze
on the boulevard at sunset
sitting on the back shore
the waves crashing up on us
and the sound of the gears
in the cut bridge turning
they all remind me of you

picking blueberries up on
sunset hill along the path
and jumping high a cool dip
in the steel quarry in August
that smell of the sweet Atlantic air
walking down Bearskin Neck
eating rock candy on a stick
pockets full of salt water taffy
or watching the boats
coming in from the breakwater
they all remind me of you

all the precious reminders
from years past that linger
like lobsters trapped stacked
or flocks of sea gulls singing
and the Man At The Wheel
standing so tall and strong
like a childhood best friend in summer
till the end I will remember you, Cape Ann

a sweet blossom’s nectar

deep carmine fragrances lift off puffy orbs
settling inside flared nostrils often craving
salty expressions emitted in throbbing beats
slick brown skin oiled slices at eyes staring
blinding flashes sharpened to a rose’s thorn
drip petals of longing off thick black lashes
sweet the dew of mourning in anticipation
buds that taste of a sweet blossom’s nectar

A Picture In Grayed Boards

Mother’s words grip within emotions
in the way dad’s old pickup drives
the treasured rides dirt swirling
behind us faster than the rabbits
fleeing through the peanut fields
startled does bound the fences
wire sagging and barbed gives way
her apron blowing softly seen
from the porch she waves smiling
it’s peach pie this evening, sister
hanging out the washed sheets
giggling cute as the chipmunk
watching her from under the barn
grayed boards perfect the scene

Final The Tide Ebbs Rushing

transformed in the red rust of leaking barrels fished
penguins suited elegantly in flying beaks core bound
circus training grounds sound a bleating of the cows
deeply moaning their cries licking calves sub sonically
catching waves green washed they build a roll shore-ward
in spray launching up it scatters flocks and murders alike
as schools dismiss mimicking a child’s vacation postcard

final the tide ebbs rushing out showing tsunami desert sand
breakers shaking hands a quake of crisp dry husks bow
living fins with oily gills flapping seen dimples brightly aqua
a mantel displaying social disorders treading the low waters
early swimmers chased this among wild mangroves quietly
as terrestrial sitting manatees once supreme ruled owl-like
black shadowed robes floating rays swiftly skimming depths

Into The Foggy Night

snuggled in safely, by granite walls
outside the white capped seas rage
fog horns blow, rolling in a grey mist
breached, tsunami clouds engulfing
Lanes Cove shelters a wooden skiff
night drips from the Cape Ann skies
moonbeams pan a lighthouse show
we lick salty lips on the shore rocks

gulls watch the September tide rise
as we follow the summer sun setting
wishing that June came every week
if so tomorrow we’d walk Bass Rocks
and then down on the boulevard late
but vacations come only once a year
so silently we count the lobster traps
as we disappear into the foggy night


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