ANN CHRISTINE TABAKA - POEMS

Ann Christine Tabaka lives in Delaware.  She is a published poet and artist. She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and two cats.  Her most recent credits are The Paragon Journal, The Literary Hatchet, The Metaworker, Raven Cage Ezine, RavensPerch, Anapest Journal, Mused, Apricity Magazine, Longshot Island, Indiana Voice Journal, Halcyon Days Magazine, The Society of Classical Poets, and BSU’s Celestial Musings Anthology.

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The Unlearning of Truth
​

I heard the yelling and the crying,
I heard the singing and the praying,
outside on the streets.
It was the spring of 1968,
the entire country exploded with fear.
We were trapped behind a human wall,
National Guard and Police on every corner.
You could feel the hate,
and almost taste the terror
that permeated the atmosphere.
It could no longer be contained.
 
Another great man had been assassinated
sparking the flames that followed.
I was young and idealistic.
I stood hand in hand with my brothers.
We tried to change that one small corner
of our world.
The only thing separating us was
the color of our skin,
and I was on the wrong side of the street.
 
The earth has turned 18,000 times,
and traveled around the sun forty-nine.
Much has changed since then,
but the fear that instills hatred in the hearts of many
still remains trapped in that volatile time.
An ancient hatred of the unknown.
We have achieved unfathomable advancements
in the past fifty years.
And yet, we still have not learned how to live
together in peace.

​

Perpetual Lovers
​

Ocean surf, endlessly stroking the shore,
caressing her with soft foam.
Bestowing treasures from faraway seas,
gems of colorful shells
and driftwood art.
Ancient lovers,
locked in an eternal embrace.
Salty kisses
deep and sweet.
Carried into the depths of passion
with violent crashing waves.
Surging tides wash over her desires.
An amaranthine romance.
An enduring story of lust and love,
forever entrancing mankind.  

​

Cutting Through the Fog
​

The strangeness of the wind,
no friend to my face, as a flat
gray day trails its veil across
the sky. Past life memories, a
harsh reality, staring me down.
Bleary eyes filled with sorrow
saying their last good-byes.
 
Somewhere off in the distance
a train whistle pierces the night,
then fades like forgotten dreams.
Conclusions waiting as years
are plucked clean, like daisy
petals floating to the ground.
 
Lost, standing on the corners of
Nowhere and Regret. Forsaken
once again. Conflagrant passions
fading with each failed attempt.
Wandering caliginous streets.
Desperate and impuissant I make
my way through the brume, as
it swallows me whole.

​

​Vacant House
 

Lights flickering
television blaring
no one is home
out taking a walk
 
The boy said he found
the lost marble
it was under the couch
the cat is asleep in the sun
 
Dinner burning
the roses are dead
the vase went dry
water evaporated into the atmosphere
 
Nobody mentioned the rain outside
or the reason why they left
the door was ajar
and my mind wandered in
 
Surveying the surroundings
the surrealness of
the situation soaking in
I left …
and the house was once again empty

​

Writing My Life Away
​

​If I could write
like other poets,
I would have a voice that the world would listen to.
But I have taken the book off the shelf
too many times.
 
Dog eared pages staring back at me,
doodles in the margins.
Your words piercing my heart again.
I have them committed to memory.
A merry-go-round of emotions,
never stopping long enough to ask why.
 
Lost years of desire
and notebooks filled with rhymes.
You were the reason that I wrote.
Never a thought for nourishment or wealth,
only words of dying affection.
 
The years have passed,
and so have you.
I hold the book in my hands,
wanting my poems to sing out to others,
but the shredded confetti on the floor
tells a different story.