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.


  1. Storm Scrying

    Where's the fun
    in hiding in the eye
    of a hurricane?
    I want to be bodysurfing
    the storm,
    madly dancing in the rain,
    cast off from restrictive form ...
    I want to taste sweet grapes
    break crisply;
    Embark on a journey of ecstasy
    to be all I have
    thought to be;
    Yet safely reside
    in a place deep inside
    away from the prying norm.
    I want romance in the sense of
    sensation inviting and free.
    I want a chance to believe in magic.
    And I want what I want to be
    crazily in love with me.

    Pluto Transit

    like a hurricane
    like a natural disaster
    wind and rain laying waste to my life.
    tossed, torn, left astray and a stranger
    in the way, or at least not the norm.
    a sad wastrel left adrift in the storm.
    sing my wanderers' song tonight.
    let the wind carry my fading melody
    off onto wind-whipped ports of call.
    my breath's been carried out to sea
    nothing left to become of me
    once the hurricane has passed into the day
    the foggy, rainy day . . .
    I gaze upon the ragged sea.

  2. I really like the first poem a LOT !

    1. Thank you, Darla Jean. I originally had all the Spanish phrases in italics, but it just looked too cluttered.

  3. Good work! Looking forward to more.