Maree Scarlett

Jaguar Moon.

Angel in a whimsical night
you communicate with me.
A fictitious fantasy of words
anoints eyes, annotating pages,
scripts turn into staves
of time and in time we sit,
we in time are the changed;
and our spirits wander.

Turning in glorious aesthetics
we search, spirit-eyes shape letters;
into nothing, nothing but sound,
where pitch and cadence hung
in a soul-ache of something lost
and not found, something remembered
but not touched and it is as elusive as the angel,
whose hair braids about me in wind-song
whispering, howling, crying untold stories
told, untold and retold
and whose poems are not yet.

There is no form in my signature
I watched the moon's accord from another time
and the hue consummated my expression,
when your voice lingered
between
each light sinew held in a space
from air conspired with ages, my head cocked
to feel the invisible whim from your resonance
in a mauve silk wrapping me.
You could not know it was binding me
in your song,
the song of a whimsical moment.

Hours changed on the clock
while blood danced through us –
we moved apart, time made a vast noise
those long noises of consistent sound
juxtaposed between body and spirit;
not connected any longer,
I could not locate your voice in the fathomless
depths of your soul singing
from the chorus of your chest:
no simile sang.

I cocked my head.
Your, throat called to me!
I listened, responding in art;
We together, like ancient birds rising again
in the feather cloak of fantasy
clasped by concert, clasped in ruby
by the fever of an annotated visage.

Art has breathed between us
and under your voice I heard no tone.
The night went on, on it went
into a duration we could not know.
The ages of great gardens embraced us
all at once, gathering us, in fragrant mirrors
Art listened through eyes of vivid colour,
and for a moment, joined as notes
we sat inside sinews of space. This poem created
in a stave drawn out by your voice,
constant in a Lunar bridge, of song.

A Jaguar called out that whimsical night
creeping through the past, in my aloneness
remote memories in a regular note
calling to me. Captured inside my chest,
over and over I could hear no more
until your voice stopped caressing me
stopped communicating; the whimsical night –
the angel singing, the annotated page
where time stood in silence of our arts. Until then
I could hear only, for a moment
my secret silence and caress of noise
in solitude of loss, longing of a note
mirrored in poems and songs found
but I could not fathom, not heard
save for in disbelief by my wandering spirit
dreaming you, in art, beneath the jaguar moon.