Lamont Palmer

Freshman - 963 Points (July 12th,1962 / Maryland)

Lamont Palmer Poems

1. Of Birds And Men In Appalachia 1/19/2011
2. Tercets On Mazes 1/20/2011
3. Planned Movement 2/9/2011
4. Terrain 2/21/2011
5. Smoke Break 2/28/2011
6. Glacier Bay In Pure Light 3/31/2011
7. Silent Treatments 5/5/2011
8. Randallstown Maryland Ruffians 3/1/2011
9. Prosaic Love 7/9/2012
10. Heaney 10/24/2013
11. Florida Colors 3/2/2014
12. Maya 5/31/2014
13. Dolled Up 7/30/2014
14. Cutting The Losses 9/25/2014
15. 95 St. Thomas 10/3/2014
16. For B.B. 5/15/2015
17. Mid Spring 4/10/2016
18. The Arrangement 9/16/2012
19. Motel Clerk: Dusk 1/19/2011
20. An Artist Paints A Bowl Of Fruit 1/19/2011
21. Ancient Horticulture 2/28/2011
22. Sunday: Rt 40 7/21/2013
23. Symbols For Unwanted Things 8/19/2013
24. Intangible Meetings. 3/19/2016
25. April Of 68: Martin Luther King Is Dead 3/11/2011
26. Backroom Piano 7/6/2014
27. Departures 1/20/2011
28. Pictures Of Two Brothers 1/19/2011
29. The Very Long Life 3/31/2011
30. Peter Principles 7/31/2013
31. St. Michaels Jetty 6/21/2013
32. Satisfaction In Fords 1/21/2011
33. Variations In Yearning 1/26/2011
34. Three Days Of Rain 7/2/2013
35. A Vase In The Corner 8/15/2012
36. Message Not In A Bottle 1/4/2013
37. Amish Girls 1/19/2011
38. Knoll 11/18/2013
39. City Of Coldness 1/30/2011
40. Rain, Isolation, Self-Analysis 1/19/2011
Best Poem of Lamont Palmer

Suicide In An Old House

Death surrounds us with blatant arms.
A sanitation worker dies and no one
cares, but banshee phones striking at midnight,

summoning the equally unknown people
to altars of rancor and resignation.
What do they do but recognize a human

in the grip of edgy, illegible lives,
the ritualistic mouthing of platitudes,
cold and incurable as dry, winter snow?

Bleak living room. Soon the owner won't live
in the area for living, the area's dark aria -
a moment of meth, mirth and minions.

Take that bystreet to oblivion,
to namelessness, to ...

Read the full of Suicide In An Old House

Motel Clerk: Dusk

So much, so little under
the barometer of lonely light;
waves have hit a silence,

before the morning grasping, and just
after the sun gets up
(reminding me of an O’Hara poem)

intractable, through the hidden fury

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