The first of this week's poems was written after watching a documentary on the American painter Mark Rothko. The poem has nothing to do with the artist or his work, but a few lines from the program snuck into my head and made of it a playground until I lured them onto the page.
The poem of night
knows no language
as pure and profound
as silence,
love
going on
and beyond.
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copyright 2022 by M. E. Forbes
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pic: https://unsplash.com/@caydenhuangyw?utmsource=unsplash&utmmedium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText
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You will be nervous the first night
we drive in a storm.
Not knowing how to calm you,
or even if I should,
I will move silently
between the pounding
of the rain
and the relentless rhythm
of the windshield wipers
until at last, we come
to a stop in the driveway.
.
Later, as we hold each other,
having remembered how to breathe,
I will confess in a whisper
that I want to do it again.
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copyright 2021 by M. E. Forbes