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:
When rise so high,
When rise so high,
small 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
But much did I miss:
the ability to be clear
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.