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 bigriverpoetry.com 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 Amazon.com 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.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

August 19, 2012. Here is blog #2. Above is my "poet face" at 7000 feet just outside of Jerome, Arizona..

This acrostic poem is in free verse, and appeared previously in Flutter Poetry Journal, thanks to editor Sandy Benitez.


Later, the cheese melts we abandon to
Omnipresent ants. Mark high the
Sun, set course for the swamp
Through a tall bamboo thicket that

Inside is an anti-forest, green khaki canopy
Nearly blots out all light. Stalk-surrounded, we

Tiptoe along, and within quiet minutes we
Have become confused; lush summer exudates a heat
Envelope to drown us like bagged pups.

Concentric paths we traverse, humbled,
Angry blame thrown as we pass marks that re-appear.
Now worry turns to panic; we thrash
Empty-handed through the yellow maze, fight to

Break through verdant mirrors to a door unknown,
Reaching for a exit handle not there, not
Able to find the hole at end of the fecund
Kaleidoscope. In smothers of anguish
Extreme, we stumble dumbly out into pasture dusk, saved. 

I write a lot of haiku, sometimes in a series like this one, which appeared previously in Bear Creek Haiku:


Valley of the Sun
baseball tourney to be played
five games in five days

catch the Painted Rocks
boulders piled like God's own dung
Native petroglyphs

up early today
breeze gives me a warm greeting
"one hundred degrees"

Verde River Days
folks fish in the green lagoon
meet Smokey the Bear

"Population: strange"
high times in Jerome today
mountain Vieux Carre

manager is late
Diablo Stadium dark
spooks us in some way

four a.m. sounds of
interstate jackhammer thuds
not my job, thank God

curandero guide
Boyce Thompson Arboretum
we hike the high trail

hitless in two games
wooden bat is not to blame
stray gray cat knows so

Gila County ride
such incredible vistas
I can see for miles

Besh-ba-Gowah site
archaeology in Globe
climb staven ladders
antique mall again
no, no shotglasses this time
hard back book of John

Celebrate two hits?
I don't really give two shits
lost the game again

black hawks gliding low
scouting saguaro brush hills
sagely seeking prey

copper mine slag piles
transformations of nature
pennies for your thoughts

La Casita meal
comida Mexicana
green chiles con meats

one more guided tour
Colossal Cave Mountain Park
not so claustro, me

What about baseball?
lost four games in five days
nothing left to say

Finally, a sad poem from my first book, "Whiskey, Whimsy, & Rhymes" (2009):

In Quietude

In nausea in a hung-over bed,
In stacks of books still unread,
In reverie of morning’s dreams,
In contemplation of future dread,
In reams of film not yet seen,
Indifferent to the tasks ahead, I’m
Inconsequential with an aching head.

In an estate sale three years late,
In belongings I can’t bear to pack,
In furniture I can’t move yet,                       
In my mother's house that can’t be sold,
In an elder sister’s gentle scolds;

and, you know,
we argued constantly,
and were never really close
until the end.

We were too much alike;
half of me has flown.

 John Lambremont, Sr.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

Welcome to my blog

Welcome to my blog. I will be posting here my previously published poems for all to enjoy. They will appear a few at a time every now and then. I welcome your comments and constructive criticisms.

A little bit about me:

“John Lambremont, Sr. is an award-winning poet from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where he serves as the editor of Big River Poetry Review. John has a B.A. in Creative Writing and a J.D. from Louisiana State University, and he is the author of four full-length volumes of poetry. His poems have been published internationally in many reviews and anthologies, including The Louisiana Review, Words & Images, Picayune, The Chaffey Review, Sugar House Review, Suisun Valley Review, Red River Review, and San Pedro River Review, and he has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize. John has work forthcoming in The Ampersand Review and The Zip Code Project. He also enjoys adult baseball, modern jazz, and playing the guitar.”

   Thank you for reading and considering my work. I look forward to hearing from you.

   John Lambremont, Sr.

And here is your first poem, which was published previously in Bell's Letters Poet. It is an acrostic poem, and thus the first letters of each line form a hidden message.

A Big Calling

Powerful tool in the hands of a few,
Opens some eyes, lets them see things anew;
Expressive feelings, heart-felt point of view,
Timorous squeaks from the turns of a screw;
Rigorous vision the whole cold night through,
Yesternight's blackness tomorrow's soft blues.

Pleasance of mind is what he hopes you'll find,
Opens his soul in the hope folks are kind,
Eyes of the dreamer transcend sense of time,
Message received by those who have like minds.

Original thoughts that just cannot be taught,
Rejections hurt him when his thoughts aren't bought.

Pray for the soul of the miserable scribe,
Open self-loathing and subject to jibes,
Every day keeping his faint hopes alive,
Trying to send you some interesting vibes.

This triolet appeared previously in Bear Creek Haiku:

Summer Triolet

When summer flowers rise so high,
small larks all need a place to rest.
Brown twigs abound, green grass nearby,
when summer flowers rise. So high
the golden sun marks hours in time,
and larks know when it's best to rest,
when summers flowers. Rise so high,
small larks! All need a place to rest.

Finally, this poem appeared in my first book, "Whiskey, Whimsy & Rhymes" (2009): 

To My Octogenarian

In the aftermath of my belated call
I anticipate the hoedown
I contemplate your eightieth
as I peer obliquely back to days
of thin black business suits under lab coats
only one car and waiting outside
pursuits of spotted lepidopterae
campfires and condo steaks
compact matrices of cotton bolls

(the phenom baller and his stodgy father
had to use your phone
the cow barn palace afforded them
no such a luxury)

I do not want to look like you
thus the facial hair
but look like you I must
It’s all there, squatted legs
on a boiling pot cauldron

(an attendant of the wedding
observed us together
and said we were a cluster shock)

I took much from you:
a fascination with nature
an appreciation of history
a celebration of good life
the eyebrow of annoyance
a disaffection with religion
and alcohol

But much did I miss:
the ability to be clear
decide rightly
and abide
being governed by common sense

( I still dally daily
and oft time wallow in despair)

So as you cross life’s penultimate bridge
know that I too am making
a crossing of sorts
I see the irony in your retirement
but it does not affect you
I sense the futility of my gift
but it is pretty and may please you
and while I celebrate your day
I shall not pray to God for you
as you do not need me to

And I say to you
what one day I long to hear:
live long, old man.

Welcome aboard!

John L.