Monday, March 3, 2014

John Lambremont. Sr. - Poet

March 3, 2014

Great news! My second full-length poetry collection, Dispelling The Indigo Dream, has been published by Local Gems Poetry Press, and can be purchased on their website at . Just go to the website Bookstore, and click on Single Author Collections, and click on my book, or you can go directly to and find it there, or just run the title through your favorite search engine. Please, everyone, buy a copy of the book to help support my publishers!

I'm also excited to report that my chapbook, What It Means To Be A Man, has been accepted by Finishing Line Press for release later this year.

In the meantime, of my poems, In The Off Season was published in East Coast Literary Review, The Myth was accepted for the next issue of Clarion, the literary magazine of Boston University Literary Society, and Sunset On False River has been accepted for the Long River Run anthology of Connecticut Poetry Society.

Also, here is the link to the video of my reading last year at Cafe Mosaic in Eunice, Louisiana, courtesy of The Louisiana Review:

Here are three poems from Dispelling The Indigo Dream:


As gray clouds fly low
over this flat land,
I shiver in discomfort;
I forgot my jacket again.
Bare ankles nearly numb,
no time for socks;
I overslept, again,
and I’m late.

Patients ambulate at many speeds,
some assisted, some, like me,
in a hurry. Why?
We pour through halls,
filter into rooms,
trickle to counters,
fill out our forms,
we lay down our cards, strain all,
bodies in struggle with
resistant minds, inexorably slowing,
dehumanized; but we flow still,
in differing half-lives and at
varying rates of decay.

We can prolong life
only so long.
I am a stray platelet
in the blood-stream of a body
larger than life,
smaller than death.


They will let you plead your ticket down
to a non-moving violation
if you're polite, contrite,
dressed nicely, and able
to pay today.

They believe the largest remaining plume
of the thickest under-sea Deepwater crude
is about the size of Manhattan,
but they're not sure.

They say if you venture long enough
in surrounding outlying areas,
you will still find potable fungi
growing in fresh cow patties.

They have learned to extract acid
from the plastic in milk jugs,
but now they are warning everyone
to stay off the chain-link grasses.

This just in:
the federal public defender
poked at and barely touched
his wife's very tasty salad,
preferring instead the fruits
of the vineyard.


She’d been abandoned to
the garage file cabinet
more than twenty years ago,
now ragged and torn on one side,
doll and troll, pug-nosed,
leaf tip feather poking up
from the back of her band-
constricted apple head,
eyes vacant and staring,
stumpy lashes needing
  no mascara.

Whole parts of her
are missing, lower lip
and chin, arms and torso,
thighs, shoes. Her pelvic
part has a round circle
with a slit in it for
insertion. Her affect
appeal and alarm, she
is equally attractive
  and repulsive. 

My eyes keep going
to her; I wonder
where is the rest of her,
and why she'd not been brought
to full fall color
  and assembled.

I put my nose to hers,
seeking any lingering
pungency of
fluid, but all
I scent is worn
paper, dust,
  and age.

   Also, here is the next installment of my series about The Holy Grand Pooh-Bah, the diminutive despot of a far-away planet:


    Grand Poo-Bah then heard
    from the Poo Pledgeslature,
    and they were not pleasant,
    but harsh in their nature;
    the Grand Poo-Bah grinned
    at a list of his sins,
    a war so deplored,
    most Boo-pahs now gored;
    a Flea Market panic,
    and the Ant Market frantic,
    nobody spending their
    Poo-Bahlese yin;

    His personal excesses justly exposed,
    the IV Sambuca, the hose up his nose,
    plus sex with Boo-Pahinees
    dressed in pink hose.

    Grand Poo-Bah then summoned
    the whole Pledgeslature;
    he begged for forgiveness,
    his winces convincing,
    he said his behavior
    was Holy Poo Nature:
    “Oh, well! What the hell;
     dispatch the Pledgeslators  
     directly to Hell!”

   That's all for now. Please lend your support to my Big River Poetry Review by buying a copy at

Best regards,

John Lambremont, Sr.

Friday, September 13, 2013

John Lambremont. Sr. - Poet

September 12, 2013

Well, this is my first blog entry since February, but that is not to say that I have not been involved in poetry; quite the contrary, in fact. The most recent and exciting news is that my second full-length volume of poems, Dispelling The Indigo Dream, will be released shortly by Local Gems Poetry Press of Long Island, New York. The release will be followed by readings and appearances in the Gulf South region this fall and in the New York City area in general and Long Island in particular. I will post a link for the purchase of my new book as soon as possible, and your support would be greatly appreciated.

Next, I have had a number of poems accepted and/or published since my last post. My poem Dummy appeared this summer in The Minetta Review, the undergraduate literary journal of New York University. My poem In Quietude, which appeared in an earlier post, was published this summer in Lilly Press/River Poets Journal's Tales From the Matriarchal Zone anthology. My poem The Woods Grow Silent will appear soon in Snake Nation Press' Gulf Stream Poems anthology, and my poems Triple Negative and Nightmare appeared recently in The Ampersand Review.

I also published a paper in this year's edition of Cantos, the literary review of Missouri Baptist University. The paper was titled "So You Want To Be A Poet?" and was a primer for beginning and developing poets on how to write, submit, and publish poems. I was also invited in March by Dr. Michael Alleman of The Louisiana Review to give a reading of my poems at Cafe Mosaic in Eunice, Louisiana, which was a lot of fun.Video was shot of the reading, and I'm trying to get a link to it, which  I hope to post soon.

Finally, I have completed and published print volume one of my Big River Poetry Review, of which I am very proud. The print volume is 185 pages of outstanding contemporary poetry, and includes every poem we published on-line in the Review between its inception in late May 2012 and the end of December 2012. Please support the Review by purchasing a copy or two (it makes a great gift!)on-line at Here are some pictures of the launch party we had for the Review at Teppanyaki Restaurant in Baton Rouge on August 24:

Now for some poems. This first was nominated for The Pushcart Prize in 2009 by A Hudson View of Manhattan, NYC, after being rejected by several other journals. Special thanks go to editor Victoria Valentine for her vote of confidence in that regard.



Sperm with no song,
sea plum trumpet,
now can you play?
Just one of those magic moments
you can never get back.

“Fire is the power in this patrol;
here return your bricks to home,
in travel and in stone.”

I’m adapting to not adapting.
Woo me with passion, Mary Diamond,
I want it after the dirt.


“Of course I can’t tell
what this snap-out is made of,
but seeds sink into the loam
and lurk.” 
I see them in my mind
at the ten mark line;
I’m sawdusting into the floor
My eyes want to be
a pair of hands that touch.
Let’s try to war, it’s called
a plot of goo.
“Naturalism and diversity, is that correct?”
Pantomime flea stick tick dip?
The old cash register empty,
nothing that some money couldn’t fix;
I’m a four-wheel chair on a five-wheel ramp.

“Want some smiley, some cerviche?
I head shake, pensive in noodle soup.
Can I get some kind of bread,
just some kind of bread with this:
“That’s no kid, that’s a midget in spywear."


“You’re putting that in your navel?”
Oh, it’s filling in nicely, I think.
Master of the breakfast table,
you can feel the fire in my stove.
The sausage is not in the sink.

We’re staying down at the Cure-O apartments;
we need someone to re-mail these units.
“Ah, now I’m getting light-blinded;
I’m going to have to blink.”

We’ll check into
the gaudy pass-out truck,
assuming it’s bawdy enough.

I might try the sticky round-up
and the parents’ meeting,  
to see if that will oppose,
as opposed to rope.                                                                                                                                                    

“Now we go a-quarter hole digging,
nineteen holes, breast implant enhancement.”
I see your view over the pushman leggings,
and it was short.

I will be pursued by your Rondo, even though
while I may move faster,
he will pursue faster also.
I will know the fullness of the river
when I feel the cool nest of the springs.

But the high tides of July
abound about the nineteenth,
encircle my gull cries,
as I might become extinct,
a last night’s sojourn
as the moon turns full.

One thing I preach as a poet, editor, and commentator is to never give up on a poem you truly believe in, keep polishing it and re-submitting it until it finds its way into the right editor's hands. That was the with Suburb In Rondo; it was rejected at least five times before it was accepted. 

This next poem is the last in the series of three poems I had published in Romania in Nazar Look's Extraterrestrial Life anthology:


In the darkness between
the setting of the large moon
and the rising of the small one,
he slips into the women's chamber,
idly, without thinking.
His brother's wife sleeps separate
from the women lined on pallets.
She has assumed the waiting position
in the ritual rope bed,
half kneeling, half crouching,
arms extended, hands on the supports.

He sees she is sleeping lightly,
her lashes flutter slightly,
and he wonders why his brother
has not taken her;
two days have passed
since their vows were exchanged,
and she is a handsome woman,
beamy, roomy, and able.
He had wanted her for himself,
but she had favored his brother,
said the village chief,
and he could not understand this,
as he and his brother were identicals.
He sensed the presence of politics,
since his brother was a sitwa in training,
soon to be pressed into service
to the Sajan.

He stands above her, longing,
then pulls a small stool over
to the head of the bed.
Standing on it, he sees an opening
between her arms and chest
big enough for his slim frame.
He steps gently over the supports,
and slides slowly beneath her,
then realizes immediately
he is trapped.

She feels him pressed against her, and stirs.
A pleasant hum escapes her
as she embraces him,
and he buries his face
between her heavy breasts
in case the dark
does not allay detection.
Every part of him is petrified,
including his maleness.
She pulls aside her bed robe
and loosens his loincloth,
lowering herself onto him.
She moves slowly on top of him,
kissing his long neck
to muffle her moans.

He hears a sound above them,
and looks up in the soft light
of the rising second moon
to see the face of the elder vesper,
who watches without expression.
Again he hides in the bosom
of his brother's wife, until
he hears the vesper clear her throat
quietly and leave the chamber.

His brother's wife has not noticed,
so deep is her passion,
and he is soon astonished
by the quickness and force
of his climax. She removes herself,
and lays back on the bed
in the rapture of the moonlight,
her turrine at full brim.

In the early morning,
he enters the meal chamber,
and sees his brother's wife
smiling and making love eyes
at his brother, who ignores her
as he dines with his fellows.
At the head table, seated
between the chief and the elder vesper
is the Sajan himself.
The Sajan has a smile for the villagers,
but peers at him intently,
no laughter in his eyes.

And finally, to close this session, here's the next installment in my series about The Holy Grand Poo-Bah, the diminutive alien despot of a far-away planet:


    Grand Poo-Bah next heard
    from the Poo Pledgeslature,
    and they were not pleasant,
    but harsh in their nature;
    the Grand Poo-Bah grinned
    at a list of his sins,
    a war so deplored, and
    most Boo-pahs now gored;
    a Flea Market panic,
    and the Ant Market frantic,
    with nobody spending their
    Poo-Bahlese yin;

    His personal excesses so justly exposed,
    the IV Sambuca, the hose up his nose,
    plus games with Boo-Pahinees
    dressed in pink hose.

    Grand Poo-Bah then summoned
    the whole Pledgeslature;
    he begged for forgiveness,
    his winces convincing,
    he said his behavior
    was Holy Poo Nature:
    “Oh, well! What the hell;
     Dispatch all the Pledgeslators  
     straight to Hell!”

That's all for now. I'll try not to let seven months slip by before my next post.

My best, and yours in poetry,

John Lambremont, Sr.

Friday, February 8, 2013

John Lambremont. Sr. - Poet

   February 8, 2013

   Here we are on the eve of both Chinese New Year and Mardi Gras, and it is somewhat unusual that both fall so close this year. As a lifetime native of south Louisiana, I've always enjoyed Mardi Gras for its parades, pageantry, and revelry. Most towns and cities have celebrations, and the small-town Mardi Gras celebrations are more family-oriented and laid-back than is the festive frenzy of Carnival in New Orleans.

   Chinese New Year has become part of my life as the result of my 32-year marriage to my lovely wife, Nhu-y, as she and her family are Vietnamese and Buddhists. The Vietnamese celebrate Tet every year for three days, and it is the most important day of their year. Here is an acrostic poem I wrote for the occasion a few years back, when Chinese New Year fell on February 14th, Valentine's Day. This is the first public appearance of this poem.

DOUBLE HOLIDAY (an acrostic) 

Hearts and flowers aren't the only things today, my dears,
Always seems there is more than to what the eye appears;
Prayers are due to ancestors that went before us here,
Peaceful thoughts for them in grace, try to hold back the tears;
Yes, it is the time that comes one time this time of year.

Char the pig on open coals and savor the best slice,
Have a piece with skin attached, the flavor's very nice;
Itsies run around and wave red money envelopes,
New bills folded for good luck are carefully enclosed;
Elders sit on lawn chairs and exchange their fondest hopes,
Sisters watch the gambling games, and teach the kids the ropes,
Everyone is happy, as this holiday's the most.

Now the sun is setting, and I slip out for a smoke;
Evening is beautiful, although it is still cold;
Wishing I could wait here for the rising moon of gold.

Yelps are coming from the house as fireworks begin,
Even longer strings of poppers than I've ever seen;
All are cheering as we chase the bad spirits away,
Really, it's the best way to enjoy this joyful day.

   It has been quite an experience being the "foreigner" in an immigrant family, and has prompted a lot of poems from me. Here's another, which appeared in my first book, Whiskey, Whimsy, & Rhymes (2009), which is available at and most major bookstore websites. This poem was one of the first I wrote when my muse re-descended in 2008:


Lady Buddha rises,
alabaster gleaming
over coi lake reflecting
embers of a dying sun.

Higher than an elm,
her face in silhouette,
her smile is all mystery.

Chanting from the temple,
our ceremony done,
another underway;

Our vegetarian repast
passed among us,
but missing Grandma and Grandpa.

I am the foreigner here,
once shunned, later to become
Uncle John (you know,
the American one).

A monk clangs a bell
to signal the sun has sunk.

The Lady is nearly dark now,
but ever presiding
over these holy grounds.

I slip away to
peruse her majesty,
and in a golden glow,
to myself I say:

'Mom' and 'Dad,'
I took your daughter away,
but that choice was yours.
Thanks for learning to forgive,
for treating your daughter's lover
like a son or a brother;
in return I gave to thee
beloved grandchildren, three.

   As far as recent news goes, since my last post, I have had several poems accepted for publication. My poem "Passages" has been accepted for the 2013 issue of the Indian River Review, the literature review of Indian River State College in Fort Pierce, Florida. "Enmity" and "Now Hear This" were accepted for the 2013 issue of The Mayo Review of Texas A&M University-Commerce. Local Gems Poetry Press of Long Island is compiling an anthology titled Retail Woes, which will be released shortly, and which will include my acrostic poem "Quality People Wanted" and my short poem "The Finding." My poems "Still Waiting" and "A Big Land" were picked up by Lost Tower Publications of the U.K. for their upcoming Hope Springs A Turtle anthology; and lastly, "Upon Discovering Your Own Corpse" will appear in Diogen Pro-Culture Magazine of Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, late this month. I still have three full-length collections under submission, so please continue to wish me luck.

   This Asian-influenced poem appeared in the fall 2012 issue of San Pedro River Review. Special thanks to co-editors Jeffrey Alfier and Tobi Cogswell.


Two tiny dog lions preside
over my back door, harbingers
of menace to patio invaders, 
refugees of a trailer park yard sale,
burnished brick plastic now blistered 
by years of burning summer sun
and misery-wet winters,
slowly bleached near-bone white,
more than teeth exposed.

They are unremarkable replicas
of their hand-carved hallowed ancestors
seen still in moving depictions of temples,
pagodas, and shrines of Laos or Burma
or my dear bride's Ancien Hue,
set in stone repose at the front gates,
large unarmed guards meant to prevent 
the evil spirits of passing millenia
from entering.

One toils under climbing impatiens,
half-buried in a dead ant-bed,
awaiting their inevitable return.
The other is my smoking buddy,
but tonight his grimace is fixed
on a place somewhere beyond me;
he glares through me soundlessly,
his pug face snarling in ill- 
concealed contempt. I turn quickly
to see what he sees: the fireflies
gathered in late unseasonal swarm.

   Next, we have the second in my trilogy of poems published in Romania in Nazar Look's Extraterrestrial Life anthology:

(from Dali’s Three Young Surrealist Women Holding 
   in Their Arms the Skins of an Orchestra – 1936)         

The bed of the Ulinary is desiccate,
devoid of its black tar flow now drying
in pools atop the surrounding bluffs
and outcrops of boulders and rocks,
a danger still to children and small animals.
The newer moon, so near in orbit
to cause the cataclysmic uprising,
reflects light so brightly that the night
is negated and the stars darkened.

Three Jacceba women, chosen
muses of the Citadel of Ancient Discovery,
are in search of exhibits swept away
by the dark toxic tide, their heads covered
to preserve their hair hues, but breasts bared
to absorb the beneficial moon
radiation, said to be lactary.
Two hold wooden torture instruments
thought to be from the Era of Insanity,
but the amalgahyde of the flood fluids
has rendered both pieces rubbery, while
the alloy sound weapon has brittled,
and will disintegrate when touched.

The third waves to the Sajan’s sitwas
waiting on a nearby ridge, a signal
for them to lower the ropes and nets
from their pulleys.

   Finally, here is installment four in my series about the misadventures of The Holy Grand Poo-Bah, a diminutive despot from a far-away planet:


Grand Poo-Bah still high
on his fat fluffalump,
swaying unsteadily,
already drunk,
inspecting the Boo-pahs
and the Poo ammo dumps;

and then as he lifed
his small Poo-Bah ass,
the great beast’s weight shifted
and shattered his flask.

Poo-Bah’s thigh glass-tattered,
and minding the matter,
he slid down the trunk 
and landed with a grunt.

Bleeding profusely,
his stomach in quease,
he heard one young Boo-pah
just cackling with glee.

They grabbed the offender,
and he went to his knees,
no longer laughing
as he begged apologies.

“It’s all right, my son;
I, too, was once young.”
Then Poo-Bah dispatched him
with a blasting Poo gun.

“Oh, well! What the hell,
I’ve got other sons
from where that one came from.”

   That's all for now. Thanks for reading and for your comments. Don't forget to check out our poetry review, Big River Poetry Review, at

Happy Tet 2013!

John Lambremont, Sr.

Friday, December 7, 2012

December 7,2012
John Lambremont. Sr. - Poet

   A lot has transpired since my last blog post in September. My poem "The Trick to Elevation" has been accepted for publication in The Chaffin Journal, the literary magazine of Eastern Kentucky University. Three of my poems were published in Romania in Nazar Look's "Extraterrestrial Life" anthology. These poems will be featured here, starting with the first in the series, below. Five of my poems will appear in next year's Cantos, the literary magazine of Missouri Baptist University. My poem "To My Octogenarian", which appeared on the blog previously, was re-published in England in "The Poetic Bond II" anthology compiled and edited by Trevor Maynard. And lastly, three of my full-length poetry collections are under submission to book publishers, so please keep your fingers crossed for me

Now, here's some poems for you. With winter coming soon, here's a poem about early winter in my home state of Louisiana, which appeared previously in Cave Moon Press' "Broken Circles" anthology:


The fishes stare up, pie-eyed,
sideways in the ice,
the brackish marshes frozen,
the satsumas in blight.

She fusses over grommets,
bungee cords and tarps,
and mutters to the smudge-pots
that they won't save her crops.

The tangerines are freezing,
and won't survive the night;
she glares skyward so angrily
she gives her God a fright.

The tall bananas wither,
their fruit hangs dead and brown,
so shriveled up and ruined,
one boot would bring them down,
but she won't do it now.

Now that the holidays are upon us, we can count on enjoying a variety of galas, both personal and televised. Here's a poem about a different type of gala, published previously in Sugar House Review:


Watch the fishes walk their bones
and shake them down below.
The yellowfader elfin hands
make broom-stands on the swaying stage,
their seven kneels to the peacocks' three,
the larvate magnates praised.

The excesses of fetch and rend
have spent the fish in somberness,
the strings cut loose from the pupas,
the audience transfixed, as two denuded apples
stare out foolishly, stripped to the core.

Here is my first poem in the "Extraterrestrial Life" anthology by Nazar Look. Like many of my poems, this other-wordly tale is dream-derived.


The first earth wave takes you by surprise,
and grabs you by the ankles,
the Ulinary undercurrent never stronger,
its waters thick and black as tar.
You know you must flee immediately,
or succumb.
You curse inwardly for having
dismissed your sitwas, and brace yourself
for an arduous escape.

The second earth wave takes you
by the thighs as you reach the crusted mounds,
wrapping its dark arms around you
to suck you in.
You claw your hands into the dried clay,
and strain for your life,
an inchworm pulling itself
from the muck of primordia.
You will not survive
the third earth wave.

The third wave breaks as
you free yourself and run for the cliffs
from the deadly tide.
From around the bend,
you can hear the cries of your subjects
on the public beaches.

You have climbed these bluffs
Since you were The Young Sajan, and know
all the footholds and handholds,
so you reach a safe height quickly,
then hear your name being called.
Below you on a sliver of ledge
are your wife and daughter.
You give them instructions,
but your wife is stupid
and the girl is timid,
and they stare up blankly,
not comprehending; but your sitwas arrive
with cords, pulleys, and rope chairs,
and you can turn your efforts to the horde
of sun seekers bolting up the dirt path
back to the city, some stained                                                             
by their own brushes
with death.

At the end of the trail
is a high rock outcropping,
and the commoners are fighting
over the ropes. A Fatweh woman
pushed perilously close to the edge
recognizes you, and whispers,
"Help me, Sajan,"
as the ground beneath her gives way,
and she falls backward to her demise,
her robes flapping
in the updrafts.

You must take control,
so you run to the rock,
climbing it without a rope,
and shout, "This way!"
Others begin to follow
as you reach the city overlook station,
grunting in exertion and relief;
then you groan inwardly as you peer down
at violent bedlam in your streets;
the Fatwehs and the Jaccebas are warring

Finally, here's installment 3 in my humorous series about the Holy Grand Poo-Bah, the diminutive alien despot of a far-away planet:

A Big Parade

Grand Poo-Bah rode high
on his best fluffalump,
but the beast’s hump
was chafing his rump.

Swaying and nauseated,
small coppers he tossed,
the crowd below seeing
his Soul was now lost.

Excesses of everything
and the ebb tides of war
had made him lose conscience,
his reign now a blur:

“Oh, well! What the hell,
not every little thing 
calls for a cure…”

That's all for now. Your comments, as always, are appreciated. Don't forget to send your poems to our review,
Big River Poetry Review, at

John Lambremont, Sr.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

John Lambremont. Sr. - Poet
September 19, 2012

Hurricane Isaac has come and gone, and caused a lot of damage in south Louisiana, but we were lucky and were spared for the most part. Thanks to you all for your prayers and good wishes.

Speaking of wishes, here's a little poem of mine that got to "hit lead-off" in this summer's issue of Words & Images, the lit mag of the University of Southern Maine.


What we need is
auto bodies and parts
that are edible.

What we need is
is an instrument that
will make useless measurements
like the distance between
two nipples.

What we need is
velcro fasteners
between our knees and
a way of voiding
without the fuss, and

what we need is
a scenic overlook
of ourselves
that can be had
without leaving the car.

The recent hurricane did give us a lot of high winds. In a swirling tropical storm, the winds come in different directions at different times; in Isaac, the winds came first from the south, then from the east at the height of the storm, from the north after the center had passed, and from the west as the residual bands passed through.

This windy poem appeared previously in Acreage Journal:


Wind chimes at my window
a sextet in D,
long, silver cylinders,
no trinkets, these,
lull me into blissful nod
or cudgel me from sleep.

No thoughts can they compose,
but respond they to the wind rose;
they cannot distinguish
Boreas from Notus,
nor Zephyrus from Eurus,
who often anger to tempest in
gusts that send discord clanking
off the glass panes, or leave
in a huff for days, withholding
propulsion in disgust.
Like snowflakes, each sound-scape
is different; yet, some-how,
The Song Remains the Same,
whether mild or strident,
violent or quiet.
Sometimes, these Bells of
Rhymney are sounded in
drunken symphony by a rapt

It looks like the litigation involving the B.P. oil spill of two years ago that killed thirteen good people and harmed tens of thousands more is winding its way toward the end. I thus reprint this angry visual poem/rant that the disaster prompted in me, which was previously published in the U.K. in Disingenuous Twaddle:


                             I        &
                             am    no,
                             the   not
                              guy you,
                           to pass it
                        off as pure truth.
                       I have lived in the
                     shadow of the Big River
                    all of my days, and I know
                   the scent of the sea. I know
                  rivers, lakes, bayous, creeks,
                  marshes and swamps and canals,
                 oxbows, borrow pits, and oceans.
                  I have hiked the levees of the
                   muddy Mississippi , peed into
                   its currents, and crapped on
                    its banks. I have been and
                     am still a fisherman in
                      paradise. I have been
                       through hurricanes,
                        tornadoes, floods.
                         Now I don't know
                         if I should vent
                         or just go mad,
                        as once again we
                        are in the way,
                        and told it is
                       our own damned
                        fault for being
                        such dumb fools.

                        I remember the day
                        our Paulie, then age
                         four, fell into the
                          Mississippi River in
                           a final, nearly fatal
                            attempt to skip a rock
                             more than three times.
                              We'd finished our throws
                               and I said "Let's go now,"
                                and turned our backs, then
                                 heard a loud splash, and
                                 found Paulie in the water
                                  clinging grimly to a small
                                   patch of rocky ground, his
                                    feet swaying in the eddies.
                                    We pulled him out okay, and
                                    made a conscious decision not
                                    to tell his mom about it, no
                                   need to scare her with a thing
                                   that did not happen. We kept
                                  this secret for fifteen years.

                                 Many years laters, I found a
                                brass bust of Shiva, the god
                               of rivers, in a curio shop
                              in the French Quarter. His
                             hair was all snakes, and I
                            found his stern glare was
                           interesting. The price was
                          right, so I bought him and
                         took him home, and hung
                        him on our living room
                       wall. Everything then
                      turned immediately to
                     crap. No money would
                    come in, and no new
                   work could be found,
                  so quarrels ensued.

                 Then one night over
                Sunday dinner, the
                 tale about Paulie's
                  dip in the big river
                   was revealed, and his
                    poor mom was mortified.
                     She said we should have
                      told her about it right
                       away; she would have, as
                        would any wise Buddhist,
                         have set up an altar at
                          the point of his entry,
                           burned joss sticks and
                            offered flowers to the
                             kind river god for not
                              taking away her child.
                               No wonder, she told us,
                                that Paulie had been so
                                 beset with psoriasis and
                                  adolescent obesity; the
                                   god of the river wrought
                                    his revenge on Paul for
                                    our rude lack of thanks.

                                     I thought about this for
                                    many days, and I was well-
                                   determined to make amends.
                                  I took the Shiva with me
                                 downtown to the same spot
                                where Paul had taken his
                               plunge. I clasped Shiva
                              between my palms, and
                             I bowed and kow-towed 
                            ten times, giving the
                           god of the river our
                          thanks for sparing my
                         son, adding my true
                       apologies as I asked
                      for his blessings.
                      Then I hurled the
                     Shiva into the big
                      river as far as it
                       would go, and watched
                        it splash into the deep
                         water beyond the eddies.
                          Everything then took an
                           sudden turn for the better,
                             but my wife said I was silly.

                              I worked the tugs and crew boats
                               as a youth, through the canals and
                                in and out to the massive oil rigs
                                 we supported. I have seen injury
                                 and death come from mankind's
                                 pursuit of the almighty crude.
                                 The man-made canals were a
                                large part of the intrusion
                              of sea water that caused the
                             levees to fail after Katrina
                            barely touched New Orleans ;
                           but, through the greed and
                          short-sightedeness of our
                         so-called leaders, most
                        of The City That Care
                       Forgot went under ten
                      feet of water, and we
                      wonder still if anyone
                     cares, as much of Haiti
                     is being re-built faster
                      than is New Orleans East.

                       So now we have an "oil leak"
                        in the Gulf below the mouth
                         of the river due to the cheap
                          Charlies that run Blimey Petrol
                           and the rig-wrasslin' cowboys of
                            Holy Burton. This "leak" made an
                             oil slick bigger than Rhode Island ,
                              but where is the hue and cry like
                             we heard for the Exxon Valdez? Of
                             course, that was pristine Alaska
                            shore-line invaded, not a grubby,
                           trashy, Louisiana waste pit that
                          has nothing to offer but gators,
                         swamp rats, and mosquitos "as
                        big as birds," according to
                       one Alabama ass-clown's Net
                       missive. Oh, wait. The winds
                       are shifting. Mobile Bay and
                        the Emerald Coast are next.
                         You may have to cancel
                          your trip. That is a
                           real catastrophe,
                           eff the shrimpers,
                           fishers, crabbers,
                            processors, and
                            vendors at the
                             butt of the
                             food chain.
                              Your fish
                                you want 

Finally, I close with the second installment in my series about the foibles of the Holy Grand Poo-Bah, which was published previously in my first book, Whiskey, Whimsy, & Rhymes, available on and all major bookstore websites. (Book disclaimer: "The aging lawyer/warrior resuscitates his Muse to try to assuage his tired mind and aching soul, with mixed but interesting results.")


Grand Pooh-Bah did send
his troops to the fields
then to the Holy Gods
he faithfully kneeled

"Give us the strength, Lords
to conquer our enemies
please hear my words
and harken to my pleas!"

But the Boo-pahs fell back
again and again
mortally wounded
friend among friend

the Grand Poo-Bah looked on
and gnawed on his thumb
"Oh, well! What the hell,
plenty more where they came from."

That's all for now. Please send in your comments and critiques, and thanks.

John Lambremont, Sr.

P.S. Don't forget to visit our review, Big River Poetry Review, at!