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 www.localgemspoetrypress.com . Just go to the website Bookstore, and click on Single Author Collections, and click on my book, or you can go directly to amazon.com 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: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mMeEzHxbAS4.
Here are three poems from Dispelling The Indigo Dream:
A
CIRCULATION OF ONE
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.
F.Y.I.
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.
POCAHONTAS
IN PURPLE
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:
A BIG MISSIVE
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.
