Cary Kamarat

3 poems published in The Federal Poet, Fall, 2009

 THE TERROR

Tenderly the light descending
candles turning
woven strands
her upturned hands to hold the flow
a mother’s tears.

She lit the flame
remembering morning songs
when children played
on blue-rimmed beaches
of a dream,
their casting pails
and castles bravely holding
back the tide
relentless tide
relentless time,
until

Hearts were Frayed against the Cutting Edge
Another Cause Another Slaughter
Burning Dawn when Suns Descending
Burst the Dream to Fiery Shreds

to light these candles

now.

She never dreamed a healing flame
might one day hope to mend the sun,
might one day hope to bring the children
Home, to stay.

Long Coastal Highway
(Ocean City, Maryland)

smooth jazz
summernight drive,
whistlin descant to easy jams
my own
Hound-o-Heaven just,
ridin shotgun ears flappin
howlin
judgments like biscuits,
to all them pretty
round turistas,
smilin grinnin
easy jazz;
listenin,
I just can’t handle them judgments,
all them dawgy biscuits just
fline
right out the
summertime winda.

The hound’s browns lookin over,
lookin right through me
like he’s
Trying to Eschew Me
now he’s whistlin
bristlin,
joyin the jazz
we are:

smooth jazz
summernight drive,
whistlin descant to easy jams
the hound’s
smooth
jazz
summernight drive
          (whistling descant to easy jams…)

STYLE

They found a style
in wartime clubs:
Big Bands, Big Headlines
streaming out the door
through smoke and glass.

He wore a film-noir hat
that helped him
See
Things Clearly.

She combed a white gardenia
to a jaunty peak just beyond her gaze,
and painted lips and nails to match
sweet passion’s dream.

Their shoulder pads
could dance them to the floor.
He led.
She followed.
Followed well,
her backhand resting
fingers Spanish-poised
against his pinstriped cloth
they stepped,
and stepped,
and stepped again
as though they
Owned
the right to scheme
                                                their future?
                                                Anyone’s guess,
for style was all.
It clung to them
through days and worlds
without end.

And when their lives had run them down
to the Seven-Eleven for beer and chips,
she let her whiskers grow,
and grow,
her own grey garden just to spite
that film-noir hat she almost loved
and would not live

without.