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!

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

August 28, 2012
John Lambremont. Sr. - Poet

   Well, here we are, waiting for Hurricane Isaac to hit. Unfortunately, my best hurricane poems are under submission.

   I have made some improvements to the blog. First, the settings have been adjusted so that all readers can comment. Also, I have added an e-mail option to allow readers to receive an e-mail each time a new post goes up. The new features are in the upper right corner of the page.

   We attended last week-end the Texas Poetry Calendar 2013 reading at Blue Willow Bookstore in Houston. A good tome was had by all, and we got to meet many fine Texas poets, one of whom has submitted to and had a poem accepted by our review, Big River Poetry Review here in Baton Rouge, La. Please check out our website at to read some outstanding poems, and don't forget: we need more submissions!

  Here's a poem of mine previously published in Caper Literary Journal, now known as Patasola Review, in New York City, published by Lisa Marie Basile. The protagonist in this poem has troubles that make our current predicament seem small.


Pachuco has brought into the cantina
his glorified version of a pellet gun,
a sawn-off muzzle-loading blunderbuss
able to shoot todas tipos las cosas.
He tells the barkeep he will use it
to keep a scavenging gallina out
of his novia's casa de pollo.
Juanito pales and stares at his
huevos, wondering
if el jefe del barrio knows.

Then the sound of a muffled discharge,
Juanito feels the stings of a dozen wasps,
and gasps, small metal pieces lodging
in his limbs. Raul darkens,
drops his few wrinkled bills onto the
vinyl tablecloth, murmurs, "Vamanos,"
and exits hurriedly, but Juanito,
picking a BB from his earlobe,
approaches Pachuco at the brass rail
and puts the projectile on the bar,
mumbling, "Necessita tengar mas cuidado,"
to which el jefe, his eyes narrowing,
replies, "Y tu tambien."

Raul ha desaparecido, the sidewalk empty save
Pachuco's cadre de guerreros. Juanito ambles down
the paseo, being followed, but once he passes
the estacion de policia, he is left alone
to pick shrapnel from his wounds.
His sternum is burning; probing
a cut, he extracts a small medallion
of La Virgen. He turns it over in
wonder, revealing la marca 925,
significa plata.

Juanito crosses over to the pawn shop,
as La Virgen will bring dinero for
tomorrow's dinner. Inside the door,
he considers his situation carefully, 
as it might be mas mejor to buy
with his last few pesetas
a matching silver chain.

Next, given the dark skies outside, I bring you a grim study in childhood gone amok, previously published in The Ampersand Review,


Go-Bots do not go
to sleep, they lie
awake in old toy
boxes, amputee
or headless weights just
waiting for the signal sound
to bring them back
around to rape grown
children that laid them
to waste.

Next, to lighten the mood, an acrostic poem, which was published this summer in Suisun Valley Review:

A hungry hummingbird darts and hovers,
Mesmerized by the harlot bloom;
Aromas draw him slowly nearer,
Red petal cup serene and seductive,
Yellow pistils thrusting saucily.
Lust overcomes the excited suitor, his
Loving kiss met with an airy appraisal;
In moments, he sets his course and is gone, to
Share a sweet tale with his brothers. 

Finally, to go from the sublime to the ridiculous, here's the first installment in my series about a diminutive alien despot's misadventures. This series appeared in my first book, "Whiskey, Whimsy, & Rhymes," available on and all the major bookstore websites. I will include successive installments in each new post until the series has run. Warning: do not read these poems with your mouth full.

A Big Feast

The holy Grand Poo-Bah
sat high on his throne
gold rings on his fingers
and a bone in his nose

The Boo-pahs were dining
on ma-poh tofu
regaling His Highness
so alone and aloof

Fried lice so crunchy
and dog legs so sweet
but the Boo-pahs were asking,
“What’s the Mystery Meat?”

Queen Poo-Bah away
from everyone’s eyes
but her fat patties lay
right next to their fries

Grand Poo-Bah would never
admit to the truth
so he gave the excuse
of an aching back tooth

“Oh, well! What the hell,
anything to feed the troops!”


That's all for now. Please pray for us; we are facing 24 to 48 hours of "relentless rain, flooding, and high winds." per The Weather Channel.

My best,

John L.