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 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

http://www.lulu.com/shop/john-lambremont/big-river-poetry-review-volume-1/paperback/product-21126941.html.

Best regards,

John Lambremont, Sr.

John Lambremont. Sr. - Poet

September 12, 2013

Well, this is my first blog entry since February, but that is not to say that I have not been involved in poetry; quite the contrary, in fact. The most recent and exciting news is that my second full-length volume of poems, Dispelling The Indigo Dream, will be released shortly by Local Gems Poetry Press of Long Island, New York. The release will be followed by readings and appearances in the Gulf South region this fall and in the New York City area in general and Long Island in particular. I will post a link for the purchase of my new book as soon as possible, and your support would be greatly appreciated.

Next, I have had a number of poems accepted and/or published since my last post. My poem Dummy appeared this summer in The Minetta Review, the undergraduate literary journal of New York University. My poem In Quietude, which appeared in an earlier post, was published this summer in Lilly Press/River Poets Journal's Tales From the Matriarchal Zone anthology. My poem The Woods Grow Silent will appear soon in Snake Nation Press' Gulf Stream Poems anthology, and my poems Triple Negative and Nightmare appeared recently in The Ampersand Review.

I also published a paper in this year's edition of Cantos, the literary review of Missouri Baptist University. The paper was titled "So You Want To Be A Poet?" and was a primer for beginning and developing poets on how to write, submit, and publish poems. I was also invited in March by Dr. Michael Alleman of The Louisiana Review to give a reading of my poems at Cafe Mosaic in Eunice, Louisiana, which was a lot of fun.Video was shot of the reading, and I'm trying to get a link to it, which  I hope to post soon.

Finally, I have completed and published print volume one of my Big River Poetry Review, of which I am very proud. The print volume is 185 pages of outstanding contemporary poetry, and includes every poem we published on-line in the Review between its inception in late May 2012 and the end of December 2012. Please support the Review by purchasing a copy or two (it makes a great gift!)on-line at http://www.lulu.com/shop/john-lambremont/big-river-poetry-review-volume-1/paperback/product-21126941.html. Here are some pictures of the launch party we had for the Review at Teppanyaki Restaurant in Baton Rouge on August 24:

Now for some poems. This first was nominated for The Pushcart Prize in 2009 by A Hudson View of Manhattan, NYC, after being rejected by several other journals. Special thanks go to editor Victoria Valentine for her vote of confidence in that regard.

SUBURB IN RONDO

                1.

Sperm with no song,

sea plum trumpet,

now can you play?

Just one of those magic moments

you can never get back.

“Fire is the power in this patrol;

here return your bricks to home,

in travel and in stone.”

I’m adapting to not adapting.

Woo me with passion, Mary Diamond,

I want it after the dirt.

                2.

“Of course I can’t tell

what this snap-out is made of,

but seeds sink into the loam

and lurk.” 

I see them in my mind

at the ten mark line;

I’m sawdusting into the floor

below.

   

My eyes want to be

a pair of hands that touch.

Let’s try to war, it’s called

a plot of goo.

                                                                                    

                 3.

                                                                                                                                             

“Naturalism and diversity, is that correct?”

Pantomime flea stick tick dip?

The old cash register empty,

nothing that some money couldn’t fix;

I’m a four-wheel chair on a five-wheel ramp.

“Want some smiley, some cerviche?

I head shake, pensive in noodle soup.

Can I get some kind of bread,

just some kind of bread with this:

“That’s no kid, that’s a midget in spywear."

                4.

“You’re putting that in your navel?”

Oh, it’s filling in nicely, I think.

Master of the breakfast table,

you can feel the fire in my stove.

The sausage is not in the sink.

We’re staying down at the Cure-O apartments;

we need someone to re-mail these units.

“Ah, now I’m getting light-blinded;

I’m going to have to blink.”

We’ll check into

the gaudy pass-out truck,

assuming it’s bawdy enough.

I might try the sticky round-up

and the parents’ meeting,  

to see if that will oppose,

as opposed to rope.                                                                                                                                                    

                5.

“Now we go a-quarter hole digging,

nineteen holes, breast implant enhancement.”

I see your view over the pushman leggings,

and it was short.

I will be pursued by your Rondo, even though

while I may move faster,

he will pursue faster also.

I will know the fullness of the river

when I feel the cool nest of the springs.

But the high tides of July

abound about the nineteenth,

encircle my gull cries,

as I might become extinct,

a last night’s sojourn

as the moon turns full.

One thing I preach as a poet, editor, and commentator is to never give up on a poem you truly believe in, keep polishing it and re-submitting it until it finds its way into the right editor's hands. That was the with Suburb In Rondo; it was rejected at least five times before it was accepted. 

This next poem is the last in the series of three poems I had published in Romania in Nazar Look's Extraterrestrial Life anthology:

THE JACCEBA USURPER

In the darkness between
the setting of the large moon
and the rising of the small one,
he slips into the women's chamber,
idly, without thinking.
His brother's wife sleeps separate
from the women lined on pallets.
She has assumed the waiting position
in the ritual rope bed,
half kneeling, half crouching,
arms extended, hands on the supports.

He sees she is sleeping lightly,
her lashes flutter slightly,
and he wonders why his brother
has not taken her;
two days have passed
since their vows were exchanged,
and she is a handsome woman,
beamy, roomy, and able.
He had wanted her for himself,
but she had favored his brother,
said the village chief,
and he could not understand this,
as he and his brother were identicals.
He sensed the presence of politics,
since his brother was a sitwa in training,
soon to be pressed into service
to the Sajan.

He stands above her, longing,
then pulls a small stool over
to the head of the bed.
Standing on it, he sees an opening
between her arms and chest
big enough for his slim frame.
He steps gently over the supports,
and slides slowly beneath her,
then realizes immediately
he is trapped.

She feels him pressed against her, and stirs.
A pleasant hum escapes her
as she embraces him,
and he buries his face
between her heavy breasts
in case the dark
does not allay detection.
Every part of him is petrified,
including his maleness.
She pulls aside her bed robe
and loosens his loincloth,
lowering herself onto him.
She moves slowly on top of him,
kissing his long neck
to muffle her moans.

He hears a sound above them,
and looks up in the soft light
of the rising second moon
to see the face of the elder vesper,
who watches without expression.
Again he hides in the bosom
of his brother's wife, until
he hears the vesper clear her throat
quietly and leave the chamber.

His brother's wife has not noticed,
so deep is her passion,
and he is soon astonished
by the quickness and force
of his climax. She removes herself,
and lays back on the bed
in the rapture of the moonlight,
her turrine at full brim.

In the early morning,
he enters the meal chamber,
and sees his brother's wife
smiling and making love eyes
at his brother, who ignores her
as he dines with his fellows.
At the head table, seated
between the chief and the elder vesper
is the Sajan himself.
The Sajan has a smile for the villagers,
but peers at him intently,
no laughter in his eyes.

And finally, to close this session, here's the next installment in my series about The Holy Grand Poo-Bah, the diminutive alien despot of a far-away planet:

    A BIG MISSIVE

    Grand Poo-Bah next 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, and

    most Boo-pahs now gored;

   

    a Flea Market panic,

    and the Ant Market frantic,

    with nobody spending their

    Poo-Bahlese yin;

    His personal excesses so justly exposed,

    the IV Sambuca, the hose up his nose,

    plus games 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 all the Pledgeslators  

     straight to Hell!”

That's all for now. I'll try not to let seven months slip by before my next post.

My best, and yours in poetry,

John Lambremont, Sr.

John Lambremont. Sr. - Poet

   February 8, 2013

   Here we are on the eve of both Chinese New Year and Mardi Gras, and it is somewhat unusual that both fall so close this year. As a lifetime native of south Louisiana, I've always enjoyed Mardi Gras for its parades, pageantry, and revelry. Most towns and cities have celebrations, and the small-town Mardi Gras celebrations are more family-oriented and laid-back than is the festive frenzy of Carnival in New Orleans.

   Chinese New Year has become part of my life as the result of my 32-year marriage to my lovely wife, Nhu-y, as she and her family are Vietnamese and Buddhists. The Vietnamese celebrate Tet every year for three days, and it is the most important day of their year. Here is an acrostic poem I wrote for the occasion a few years back, when Chinese New Year fell on February 14th, Valentine's Day. This is the first public appearance of this poem.

DOUBLE HOLIDAY (an acrostic) 

Hearts and flowers aren't the only things today, my dears,
Always seems there is more than to what the eye appears;
Prayers are due to ancestors that went before us here,
Peaceful thoughts for them in grace, try to hold back the tears;
Yes, it is the time that comes one time this time of year.

Char the pig on open coals and savor the best slice,
Have a piece with skin attached, the flavor's very nice;
Itsies run around and wave red money envelopes,
New bills folded for good luck are carefully enclosed;

Elders sit on lawn chairs and exchange their fondest hopes,
Sisters watch the gambling games, and teach the kids the ropes,
Everyone is happy, as this holiday's the most.

Now the sun is setting, and I slip out for a smoke;
Evening is beautiful, although it is still cold;
Wishing I could wait here for the rising moon of gold.

Yelps are coming from the house as fireworks begin,
Even longer strings of poppers than I've ever seen;
All are cheering as we chase the bad spirits away,
Really, it's the best way to enjoy this joyful day.

   It has been quite an experience being the "foreigner" in an immigrant family, and has prompted a lot of poems from me. Here's another, which appeared in my first book, Whiskey, Whimsy, & Rhymes (2009), which is available at Amazon.com and most major bookstore websites. This poem was one of the first I wrote when my muse re-descended in 2008:

TEMPLE AT SUNSET

Lady Buddha rises,
alabaster gleaming
over coi lake reflecting
embers of a dying sun.

Higher than an elm,
her face in silhouette,
her smile is all mystery.

Chanting from the temple,
our ceremony done,
another underway;

Our vegetarian repast
passed among us,
satisfying,
but missing Grandma and Grandpa.

I am the foreigner here,
once shunned, later to become
Uncle John (you know,
the American one).

A monk clangs a bell
to signal the sun has sunk.

The Lady is nearly dark now,
but ever presiding
over these holy grounds.

I slip away to
peruse her majesty,
and in a golden glow,
to myself I say:

'Mom' and 'Dad,'
I took your daughter away,
but that choice was yours.
Thanks for learning to forgive,
for treating your daughter's lover
like a son or a brother;
in return I gave to thee
beloved grandchildren, three.

   As far as recent news goes, since my last post, I have had several poems accepted for publication. My poem "Passages" has been accepted for the 2013 issue of the Indian River Review, the literature review of Indian River State College in Fort Pierce, Florida. "Enmity" and "Now Hear This" were accepted for the 2013 issue of The Mayo Review of Texas A&M University-Commerce. Local Gems Poetry Press of Long Island is compiling an anthology titled Retail Woes, which will be released shortly, and which will include my acrostic poem "Quality People Wanted" and my short poem "The Finding." My poems "Still Waiting" and "A Big Land" were picked up by Lost Tower Publications of the U.K. for their upcoming Hope Springs A Turtle anthology; and lastly, "Upon Discovering Your Own Corpse" will appear in Diogen Pro-Culture Magazine of Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, late this month. I still have three full-length collections under submission, so please continue to wish me luck.

   This Asian-influenced poem appeared in the fall 2012 issue of San Pedro River Review. Special thanks to co-editors Jeffrey Alfier and Tobi Cogswell.

THE SENTINELS

Two tiny dog lions preside

over my back door, harbingers

of menace to patio invaders, 

refugees of a trailer park yard sale,

burnished brick plastic now blistered 

by years of burning summer sun

and misery-wet winters,

slowly bleached near-bone white,

more than teeth exposed.

They are unremarkable replicas

of their hand-carved hallowed ancestors

seen still in moving depictions of temples,

pagodas, and shrines of Laos or Burma

or my dear bride's Ancien Hue,

set in stone repose at the front gates,

large unarmed guards meant to prevent 

the evil spirits of passing millenia

from entering.

One toils under climbing impatiens,

half-buried in a dead ant-bed,

awaiting their inevitable return.

The other is my smoking buddy,

but tonight his grimace is fixed

on a place somewhere beyond me;

he glares through me soundlessly,

his pug face snarling in ill- 

concealed contempt. I turn quickly

to see what he sees: the fireflies

gathered in late unseasonal swarm.

   Next, we have the second in my trilogy of poems published in Romania in Nazar Look's Extraterrestrial Life anthology:

IN THE AFTERMATH 

(from Dali’s Three Young Surrealist Women Holding 

   in Their Arms the Skins of an Orchestra – 1936)         

The bed of the Ulinary is desiccate,
devoid of its black tar flow now drying
in pools atop the surrounding bluffs
and outcrops of boulders and rocks,
a danger still to children and small animals.
The newer moon, so near in orbit
to cause the cataclysmic uprising,
reflects light so brightly that the night
is negated and the stars darkened.

Three Jacceba women, chosen
muses of the Citadel of Ancient Discovery,
are in search of exhibits swept away
by the dark toxic tide, their heads covered
to preserve their hair hues, but breasts bared
to absorb the beneficial moon
radiation, said to be lactary.

Two hold wooden torture instruments
thought to be from the Era of Insanity,
but the amalgahyde of the flood fluids
has rendered both pieces rubbery, while
the alloy sound weapon has brittled,
and will disintegrate when touched.

The third waves to the Sajan’s sitwas
waiting on a nearby ridge, a signal
for them to lower the ropes and nets
from their pulleys.

   Finally, here is installment four in my series about the misadventures of The Holy Grand Poo-Bah, a diminutive despot from a far-away planet:

A BIG INSPECTION

Grand Poo-Bah still high

on his fat fluffalump,

swaying unsteadily,

already drunk,

inspecting the Boo-pahs

and the Poo ammo dumps;

and then as he lifed

his small Poo-Bah ass,

the great beast’s weight shifted

and shattered his flask.

Poo-Bah’s thigh glass-tattered,

and minding the matter,

he slid down the trunk 

and landed with a grunt.

Bleeding profusely,

his stomach in quease,

he heard one young Boo-pah

just cackling with glee.

They grabbed the offender,

and he went to his knees,

no longer laughing

as he begged apologies.

“It’s all right, my son;

I, too, was once young.”

Then Poo-Bah dispatched him

with a blasting Poo gun.

“Oh, well! What the hell,

I’ve got other sons

from where that one came from.”

   That's all for now. Thanks for reading and for your comments. Don't forget to check out our poetry review, Big River Poetry Review, at bigriverpoetry.com.

Happy Tet 2013!

John Lambremont, Sr.

2/8/2013

December 7,2012

John Lambremont. Sr. - Poet

   A lot has transpired since my last blog post in September. My poem "The Trick to Elevation" has been accepted for publication in The Chaffin Journal, the literary magazine of Eastern Kentucky University. Three of my poems were published in Romania in Nazar Look's "Extraterrestrial Life" anthology. These poems will be featured here, starting with the first in the series, below. Five of my poems will appear in next year's Cantos, the literary magazine of Missouri Baptist University. My poem "To My Octogenarian", which appeared on the blog previously, was re-published in England in "The Poetic Bond II" anthology compiled and edited by Trevor Maynard. And lastly, three of my full-length poetry collections are under submission to book publishers, so please keep your fingers crossed for me


Now, here's some poems for you. With winter coming soon, here's a poem about early winter in my home state of Louisiana, which appeared previously in Cave Moon Press' "Broken Circles" anthology:

DEEP DELTA FREEZE

The fishes stare up, pie-eyed,

sideways in the ice,

the brackish marshes frozen,

the satsumas in blight.

She fusses over grommets,

bungee cords and tarps,

and mutters to the smudge-pots

that they won't save her crops.

The tangerines are freezing,

and won't survive the night;

she glares skyward so angrily

she gives her God a fright.

The tall bananas wither,

their fruit hangs dead and brown,

so shriveled up and ruined,

one boot would bring them down,

but she won't do it now.

Now that the holidays are upon us, we can count on enjoying a variety of galas, both personal and televised. Here's a poem about a different type of gala, published previously in Sugar House Review:

VARIETY GALA

Watch the fishes walk their bones

and shake them down below.

The yellowfader elfin hands

make broom-stands on the swaying stage,

their seven kneels to the peacocks' three,

the larvate magnates praised.

The excesses of fetch and rend

have spent the fish in somberness,

the strings cut loose from the pupas,

the audience transfixed, as two denuded apples

stare out foolishly, stripped to the core.

Here is my first poem in the "Extraterrestrial Life" anthology by Nazar Look. Like many of my poems, this other-wordly tale is dream-derived.

ULINARY UPRISING

The first earth wave takes you by surprise,

and grabs you by the ankles,

the Ulinary undercurrent never stronger,

its waters thick and black as tar.

You know you must flee immediately,

or succumb.

You curse inwardly for having

dismissed your sitwas, and brace yourself

for an arduous escape.

The second earth wave takes you

by the thighs as you reach the crusted mounds,

wrapping its dark arms around you

to suck you in.

You claw your hands into the dried clay,

and strain for your life,

an inchworm pulling itself

from the muck of primordia.

You will not survive

the third earth wave.

The third wave breaks as

you free yourself and run for the cliffs

from the deadly tide.

From around the bend,

you can hear the cries of your subjects

on the public beaches.

You have climbed these bluffs

Since you were The Young Sajan, and know

all the footholds and handholds,

so you reach a safe height quickly,

then hear your name being called.

Below you on a sliver of ledge

are your wife and daughter.

You give them instructions,

but your wife is stupid

and the girl is timid,

and they stare up blankly,

not comprehending; but your sitwas arrive

with cords, pulleys, and rope chairs,

and you can turn your efforts to the horde

of sun seekers bolting up the dirt path

back to the city, some stained                                                             

by their own brushes

with death.

At the end of the trail

is a high rock outcropping,

and the commoners are fighting

over the ropes. A Fatweh woman

pushed perilously close to the edge

recognizes you, and whispers,

"Help me, Sajan,"

as the ground beneath her gives way,

and she falls backward to her demise,

her robes flapping

in the updrafts.

You must take control,

so you run to the rock,

climbing it without a rope,

and shout, "This way!"

Others begin to follow

as you reach the city overlook station,

grunting in exertion and relief;

then you groan inwardly as you peer down

at violent bedlam in your streets;

the Fatwehs and the Jaccebas are warring

again.

Finally, here's installment 3 in my humorous series about the Holy Grand Poo-Bah, the diminutive alien despot of a far-away planet:

A Big Parade

Grand Poo-Bah rode high

on his best fluffalump,

but the beast’s hump

was chafing his rump.

Swaying and nauseated,

small coppers he tossed,

the crowd below seeing

his Soul was now lost.

Excesses of everything

and the ebb tides of war

had made him lose conscience,

his reign now a blur:

“Oh, well! What the hell,

not every little thing 

calls for a cure…”

That's all for now. Your comments, as always, are appreciated. Don't forget to send your poems to our review,
Big River Poetry Review, at bigriverpoetry.com.

John Lambremont, Sr.

John Lambremont. Sr. - Poet
September 19, 2012

Hurricane Isaac has come and gone, and caused a lot of damage in south Louisiana, but we were lucky and were spared for the most part. Thanks to you all for your prayers and good wishes.

Speaking of wishes, here's a little poem of mine that got to "hit lead-off" in this summer's issue of Words & Images, the lit mag of the University of Southern Maine.


WHAT WE NEED

What we need is
auto bodies and parts
that are edible.

What we need is
is an instrument that
will make useless measurements
like the distance between
two nipples.

What we need is
velcro fasteners
between our knees and
a way of voiding
without the fuss, and

what we need is
a scenic overlook
of ourselves
that can be had
without leaving the car.



The recent hurricane did give us a lot of high winds. In a swirling tropical storm, the winds come in different directions at different times; in Isaac, the winds came first from the south, then from the east at the height of the storm, from the north after the center had passed, and from the west as the residual bands passed through.

This windy poem appeared previously in Acreage Journal:

THE EVOKER

Wind chimes at my window
a sextet in D,
long, silver cylinders,
no trinkets, these,
lull me into blissful nod
or cudgel me from sleep.

No thoughts can they compose,
but respond they to the wind rose;
they cannot distinguish
Boreas from Notus,
nor Zephyrus from Eurus,
who often anger to tempest in
gusts that send discord clanking
off the glass panes, or leave
in a huff for days, withholding
propulsion in disgust.

Like snowflakes, each sound-scape
is different; yet, some-how,
The Song Remains the Same,
whether mild or strident,
violent or quiet.

Sometimes, these Bells of
Rhymney are sounded in
drunken symphony by a rapt
conductor-poet.

It looks like the litigation involving the B.P. oil spill of two years ago that killed thirteen good people and harmed tens of thousands more is winding its way toward the end. I thus reprint this angry visual poem/rant that the disaster prompted in me, which was previously published in the U.K. in Disingenuous Twaddle:

DON'T GO THERE

                             I        &

                             am    no,

                             the   not

                              guy you,

                                who

                                can

                                 see

                                  all

                                   the

                                   rot

                                   and

                                   the

                                  bad

                                 men

                                who

                                lie

                               and

                               try

                           to pass it

                        off as pure truth.

                       I have lived in the

                     shadow of the Big River

                    all of my days, and I know

                   the scent of the sea. I know

                  rivers, lakes, bayous, creeks,

                  marshes and swamps and canals,

                 oxbows, borrow pits, and oceans.

                  I have hiked the levees of the

                   muddy Mississippi , peed into

                   its currents, and crapped on

                    its banks. I have been and

                     am still a fisherman in

                      paradise. I have been

                       through hurricanes,

                        tornadoes, floods.

                         Now I don't know

                         if I should vent

                         or just go mad,

                        as once again we

                        are in the way,

                        and told it is

                       our own damned

                        fault for being

                        such dumb fools.

                        I remember the day

                        our Paulie, then age

                         four, fell into the

                          Mississippi River in

                           a final, nearly fatal

                            attempt to skip a rock

                             more than three times.

                              We'd finished our throws

                               and I said "Let's go now,"

                                and turned our backs, then

                                 heard a loud splash, and

                                 found Paulie in the water

                                  clinging grimly to a small

                                   patch of rocky ground, his

                                    feet swaying in the eddies.

                                    We pulled him out okay, and

                                    made a conscious decision not

                                    to tell his mom about it, no

                                   need to scare her with a thing

                                   that did not happen. We kept

                                  this secret for fifteen years.

                                 Many years laters, I found a

                                brass bust of Shiva, the god

                               of rivers, in a curio shop

                              in the French Quarter. His

                             hair was all snakes, and I

                            found his stern glare was

                           interesting. The price was

                          right, so I bought him and

                         took him home, and hung

                        him on our living room

                       wall. Everything then

                      turned immediately to

                     crap. No money would

                    come in, and no new

                   work could be found,

                  so quarrels ensued.

                 Then one night over

                Sunday dinner, the

                 tale about Paulie's

                  dip in the big river

                   was revealed, and his

                    poor mom was mortified.

                     She said we should have

                      told her about it right

                       away; she would have, as

                        would any wise Buddhist,

                         have set up an altar at

                          the point of his entry,

                           burned joss sticks and

                            offered flowers to the

                             kind river god for not

                              taking away her child.

                               No wonder, she told us,

                                that Paulie had been so

                                 beset with psoriasis and

                                  adolescent obesity; the

                                   god of the river wrought

                                    his revenge on Paul for

                                    our rude lack of thanks.

                                     I thought about this for

                                    many days, and I was well-

                                   determined to make amends.

                                  I took the Shiva with me

                                 downtown to the same spot

                                where Paul had taken his

                               plunge. I clasped Shiva

                              between my palms, and

                             I bowed and kow-towed 

                            ten times, giving the

                           god of the river our

                          thanks for sparing my

                         son, adding my true

                       apologies as I asked

                      for his blessings.

                      Then I hurled the

                     Shiva into the big

                      river as far as it

                       would go, and watched

                        it splash into the deep

                         water beyond the eddies.

                          Everything then took an

                           sudden turn for the better,

                             but my wife said I was silly.

                              I worked the tugs and crew boats

                               as a youth, through the canals and

                                in and out to the massive oil rigs

                                 we supported. I have seen injury

                                 and death come from mankind's

                                 pursuit of the almighty crude.

                                 The man-made canals were a

                                large part of the intrusion

                              of sea water that caused the

                             levees to fail after Katrina

                            barely touched New Orleans ;

                           but, through the greed and

                          short-sightedeness of our

                         so-called leaders, most

                        of The City That Care

                       Forgot went under ten

                      feet of water, and we

                      wonder still if anyone

                     cares, as much of Haiti

                     is being re-built faster

                      than is New Orleans East.

                       So now we have an "oil leak"

                        in the Gulf below the mouth

                         of the river due to the cheap

                          Charlies that run Blimey Petrol

                           and the rig-wrasslin' cowboys of

                            Holy Burton. This "leak" made an

                             oil slick bigger than Rhode Island ,

                              but where is the hue and cry like

                             we heard for the Exxon Valdez? Of

                             course, that was pristine Alaska

                            shore-line invaded, not a grubby,

                           trashy, Louisiana waste pit that

                          has nothing to offer but gators,

                         swamp rats, and mosquitos "as

                        big as birds," according to

                       one Alabama ass-clown's Net

                       missive. Oh, wait. The winds

                       are shifting. Mobile Bay and

                        the Emerald Coast are next.

                        

                         You may have to cancel

                          your trip. That is a

                           real catastrophe,

                           eff the shrimpers,

                           fishers, crabbers,

                            processors, and

                            vendors at the

                             butt of the

                             food chain.

                              Your fish

                               sandwich

                                you want 

                                  fresh,

                                   nice

                                    and

                                     hot,

                                      and

                                       so

                                        do

                                         I.

Finally, I close with the second installment in my series about the foibles of the Holy Grand Poo-Bah, which was published previously in my first book, Whiskey, Whimsy, & Rhymes, available on Amazon.com and all major bookstore websites. (Book disclaimer: "The aging lawyer/warrior resuscitates his Muse to try to assuage his tired mind and aching soul, with mixed but interesting results.")

A BIG SLAUGHTER

Grand Pooh-Bah did send
his troops to the fields
then to the Holy Gods
he faithfully kneeled

"Give us the strength, Lords
to conquer our enemies
please hear my words
and harken to my pleas!"

But the Boo-pahs fell back
again and again
mortally wounded
friend among friend

the Grand Poo-Bah looked on
and gnawed on his thumb
"Oh, well! What the hell,
plenty more where they came from."

That's all for now. Please send in your comments and critiques, and thanks.

John Lambremont, Sr.

P.S. Don't forget to visit our review, Big River Poetry Review, at bigriverpoetry.com!