Monday, March 3, 2014

John Lambremont. Sr. - Poet

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 . Just go to the website Bookstore, and click on Single Author Collections, and click on my book, or you can go directly to 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:

Here are three poems from Dispelling The Indigo Dream:


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.


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.


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:


    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.