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Ode to Jackson Pollock

Yours are the paintings that speak to me In a way that cannot be spoken They fill both my heart and breast They cause my mind eternal unrest I see them in my dreams. My heart beats faster In the presence of their rhythms They dance to the music of another lover. Or that lover could be me I feel your passion as my truth. The broader the strokes the more I feel The lesser your details must be given Every color executed with a reason I know the fervor that you’ve shown The metrics of your vision. The finer grains of your textured points Like stars thrown cross the heavens Are they the products of a celestial force? Did God choose to show himself through you? Or just serendipity as many would believe? Some accidental truths. Nothing special Nothing to be gained Nothing to be learned from you. I see them as an orchestration of the divine conducted from above. Yours are the paintings that speak to me, Jackson. Yours are the paintings I love. (November 30, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin) (c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved

Copyright © | Year Posted 2010

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