A REINCARNATION OF ONE
Two potted palms straddle our driveway,
given to us by a nephew on the move,
remnants from the shotgun house
in old Beauregard Town downtown
where my wife’s people lived before
the neighborhood was overrun
by law offices, small businesses,
and Court support.
Planted a score ago by my wife’s father,
they have flourished on Tom’s rear patio;
we retrieve them and pack them back upriver
eighty miles to our south side abode,
and call them by the names
our children gave their maternal grandparents,
Grandpa and Grandma, and over years,
the palms take the paths
of their namesakes.
Grandpa is tall, a seeker of light;
he thrusts himself toward the sun,
leaning over the rim of his urn,
guiding his gathered children,
seeming by appearance to live eternally,
sharp of mind and strong of will,
but his legs have become weakened,
and he sometimes topples over
when storms bring forth high winds.
Grandma is diminutive and quiet,
never moving, all growth behind her,
and almost before we know it,
she sickens with infestatious disease,
lingers briefly, and succumbs,
and we mourn her, wishing
we had done more.
We thought her gone forever,
but this spring she re-emerged,
rising slowly in the warming sun,
her grandchildren at her feet,
tugging at her apron for favor.
She leans slightly toward Grandpa,
and softly whispers his name
onto the passing breezes.
Grandpa looks back over his shoulder,
extends one long-sleeved arm,
and beckons her to join him.
DITCH THIS SUMMER
The bridge on Louray Street ,
its span barely the length
of a winged Thunderbird,
bears no name.
Beneath it, a rivulet flows
sleepily in pools, rip-rap
lining its sides and bottom
a betrayal of any claim
of naturality.
Stones not of this soil
form the bed of this body,
their mounds dark islands,
smooth and rounded.
A rusted drainage pipe
runs between green yards above,
a chance for little boys
to test their balance.
The neighboring cypress
casts long shadows down
to the slim bank below,
its boscoyos budding antlers,
breathing air for growth.
Twin dragonflies chase each other
up the run.
Wait. One of the rocks
is a terrapin snapper,
perhaps of late expired.
Toss a pebble down,
splash right next to it,
‘ploosh!’ It moves slightly,
well alive still.
Shell in the sunlight,
feet in the drink,
this turtle has it made.
It shifts to revert
to its preferred position
of repose.
Flip down to brown still water
a used-up unfiltered butt,
soon to degrade to naught,
and cast far from the turtle.
SIGN SAID
For the preservation of the lucence
of the ochre in the moths
resting patent in the luxury
of the lacquer of the parlor,
please refrain from lighting
pipes, cigars, or cigarettes
past the arbor near the door
that opens to the foyer.
Thanks for Helping,
From the Owners.
Bionote
John Lambremont, Sr. is a poet and writer from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, U.S.A., where he serves as editor of Big River Poetry Review, see bigriverpoetry.com. John has a B.A. in Creative Writing and a J.D. from Louisiana State University. His work has been published internationally in many reviews and anthologies, including Clarion, The Minetta Review, The Chaffin Journal, The Mayo Review, Picayune, The Louisiana Review, Words & Images, Sugar House Review, and Cantos, and he has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize. John’s second full-length poetry collection, “Dispelling The Indigo Dream” (Local Gems Poetry Press, 2013), is available online at Amazon.com, and his latest poetry chapbook, “What It Means To Be A Man (And Other Poems Of Life And Death),” will be released in October 2014 by Finishing Line Press. John’s blog of his previously published poems can be found at http://jlambremontpoet.blogspot.com.
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