Wednesday, May 9, 2012

poems by : by F. S. Symons

by F. S. Symons
An old car arrives, leaks 
in its exhaust system,
holes in the rusty floorboards.
Inhaling carbon I cough in the lube pit and
shout, turn off your engine. Through the floor,
I see the driver’s long pale legs, inches 
above me, safe in the pleats of her khaki skirt. 
Years ago, my friend Kyle 
had been wearing a khaki shirt,
in our classroom turned shooting gallery,
bright red oozing out of the bullet 
hole and  dyeing the cloth.   
Too slow to unscrew the oil pan plug,
I scald my arms with the car’s spewing 
black oil. The mechanic’s blowtorch 
points at me for a second. I could be 
incinerated in this pit, shaped like a coffin. 
The woman’s car is dead now.  It
disgorges differential fluid.
I pour in a serum, molasses brown
to nurture it back to life.
Her engine oil stinks of burnt carbon, 
unlike the new gold blood I inject.  
Her coolant oozes out pinkish  and
I replace it with orange liquid, but first, 
 curious, I lick a drop.  It is 
I finish the job, wipe the oil 
off black greasy cuts on my hand,
wounded like my faith. 
I observe the woman as she sips her milky coffee.  
Her car roars to life, the nutrients flowing.  
She pays, the wind nips her 
receipt out of her hand and
she’s gone, just a customer, a piece 
of receipt paper now, 
carried away like a voice in the wind,
like Kyle, like the fumes of this pit I live in.    
Two stars 
by F. S. Symons
Today she feels heavy—very heavy,
the child in her belly like a lead balloon—
so she just lies down.  
Around her, the same dirt, same sharp rocks, same 
glaring sun as the last trailer park,
same social workers kicking up the dust. 
It’s so long since she’s seen anyone
and the loneliness weighs 
like the heavy body 
of her now-dead soldier.
She lets herself outside with her dog,
her half-wolf only friend.
Teetering in the blistering sun, 
rings swimming before her eyes and 
off in the distance, fleeting silhouettes, 
maybe children, the supermarket
or cars, it’s hard to tell.     
Her body hits the ground 
like a piece of driftwood, and she hears 
in her head a sharp noise 
like a gunshot. 
She pushes herself to her feet,
stumbles, falls again, and a scorpion and two beetles 
watch her crawl inside on her hands and knees. 
Through her dazed eyes, sparks burst 
forth from the leaves, the stones, 
even from the end of each of her nails.  
Finally she gets onto her feet but then 
the waters seep out beneath her and she falls again  
whimpering, unable to walk, the waves of pain   
the loneliness filling up the mobile home, 
spreading in terrifying silence. 
Opening knees, her arms hugging her watermelon belly, 
holding it in like a belt.  Slowly, instinctively, 
her arms begin kneading, doing their work 
of expulsion, forcing long, feverish chills 
through her limbs. Then suddenly, 
she’s no longer alone—the baby at her breast.
The dog’s eyes shine out 
into the shadows like two stars, as if their light 
were enough to keep the world at bay. 

  F.S. Symons, MPA, PhD, has published his short stories online at, among others and non-fiction in academic journals such as Economic Geography (distributed world-wide) and Canadian Communication.  After being tinker, sailor, soldier, spy and foreign correspondent he studied and moved on to telecommunications at the UN and the Canadian Federal Government.  Married with six children and two grandchildren, he likes sensual, natural world-based prose and poetry. 

I hope this helps.  -- FSS



by Bob Eager

Are you a black sheep?
Not a message from the departed it is a message
from the people sitting next to you.

Due to becoming recently clairvoyant,
The spirit are asking just one question, what are you doing with your life.

Somewhere over here,
In this general direction,
waiting for you to respond so I can become more specific.

Ready for a cold read,
I mean a psychic evaluation.

Its not a calculation of probability and statistics;
it is a collective field of informative energy.

You will stay poor!

You will not succeed!

You will stay mediocre!

Am I getting warm yet?