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Painting Poem Philosophy

Painting is philosophy,
muses as brushes Leonardo
past distinctions of tincture,
motion as redesigning color with light
and dark teleological defeat
at right chaos without left handed complexity
of forms with functional labels,
blending oily paradigms of well-brushed revolving flight.

Painters draw out and through their philosophies of sight
as scientists parse their evolutionary teleologies,
merging emerging meanings for Earth’s life cycling systems,
producing while consuming today,
as language unfolds mythic revolutions within perennial syntax
as logic prime relationally regenerates light’s bilateral co-arising creation story
through ecologically dipolar dialectic paint by nutrient-color development.

Language unfolds time
as painting unveils love of healthy wisdom’s wealth of beauty.

What could any one of us know of death and fear of climatic change
without communicant cultural co-relationship?
And, with what we have painted together
of time’s cooperative bicameral relationships,
what do we already know
without death and fear of climatically competing change
at global through local ego scales
of full-blooming wisdom-loving colors and shapes,
forms with healthy functions,
frequencies of revolutionary light
embracing nondual now
painting philosophic syntax?

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April Loves

She worships her western horizon
toward the river, sparkling, hinting of lightning pasts and futures.

Leonardo is wrong.
This seems unlikely, perhaps judgmental,
harsh,
even so, his God clearly reconstructed in his well-owned glorious image,
universal God of Creative Architecture.

But, for her, as she watches bruised red wilt into painfully pale lavender,
over black night’s forest line,
cerebrally alone,
sacredly uniting
nature speaks through Gaia’s full-timed EcoLogos Voice,
sometimes in pastel skies and meadows,
sometimes in relentlessly vibrant green,
sometimes Full Moon, New Moon,…
Rain, Wind, sometimes sublime both on her tin roof, whistling through worn-out window frames.

If God were made in her image,
creation would speak in reasoned fertile seasons of shadow dark, and lightning bright,
synapses of climax, echoing down river valleys
rolling out grand majesty of EcoLogos,
perfect rhythms,
rain beating Earth’s thunderous future.

It would have been more revolutionary
and probably therapeutic,
most certainly lovelier, had Leonardo portrayed God as Earth’s logos voice
swirling light as surf,
tidal river waters gleaming wide at dusk,
narrower in dawn’s first light,
a ribbon flowing light emerging to west
reflecting waters greeting eastern sky enlightenment,
Gaia’s morning river logos
translating Sun’s architectural might.

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