Poetry from Ann Christine Tabaka



Touch not

the inner recesses of my heart.


They are forbidden to you,

shut and sealed forever.


My black atman backlit by life.

A dark spirit consuming all.


A silhouette of what used to be.

An unfillable hollowness.


Barren promises, once made,

now shattered and broken.


I shall not let anyone know me,

for I am death. My touch is final.


Odious deeds follow in my wake.

Darkness enfolds all who reach out to me.


Remember always, when you look back,

wondering who I was, and who I have become


You did this to me.


Life Rendering


Pencil to paper,

an image forms.

Delicate curves,

sharp lines,

soft shading.


The eye knows what it sees,

the hand follows suit.

Through all ages

artists pour out their hearts

in crisp lines and muted tones.


Telling stories,

immortalizing faces,

capturing love and beauty.

Roundness of a shoulder,

gleam in an eye,

hair flowing in the breeze.


Rustling leaves on autumn trees,

bilious clouds above,

sensuous landscapes,

breathtaking rise of a mountainside.


Still life and models,

all brought into being

by the stroke of charcoal,

graphite, or brush.,

as the artist breathes life

into all he touches.


Music without sound.

Poetry without words.

Visual magic.

Life as art.

Art as life.


Past Events


Trying to recall past events,

a vague discomfort fills the mind.


Memories can hold altered truths,

as we mold them to our needs.


What remains is a nebulous remnant

of reality, bent to our own vision


of how we wanted things to be.

Veracities still hide within the illusion.


Desires left unfulfilled are now

concrete in our minds. No one can


tell us otherwise, for we have

convinced ourselves to believe


the half-truths that we tell over

and over again. For in the telling


of them they become factual to

  1. Altered states of being.


Another Night


Twisted bedsheets, tangled limbs.

The fury of another night, war torn


and scarred. The enemy, myself.

A battleground of my mind.


Relentless images invade

with incessant word. Pillows


and blankets litter the floor,

innocent victims of the onslaught.


A glaring clock mocks as

minutes turn to hours, and


a litany of worries parade across

the ceiling, no redemption in sight.


I pray for peace. I count my breaths,

waiting for sleep, an elusive friend,


to take me by the hand. Another night

of fury, and still no rest within reach.




Daylight shimmers on blacktop,

from relentless summer heat.


Sultry waves form mirages,

distorting distant objects.


Steam rises up from a far off marsh,

creating a nightmarish fog.


Oppressive days stretch

into endless weeks.


Shade sought as temperatures

reach towards one hundred,


Burned earth, withered vegetation,

torrid air baking all it touches.


A prayer goes up for rain,

with no relief in sight.


Strangled breaths struggle

in stifling humidity.


Sweltering restless nights,

while a ceiling fan whirls on high speed.


Summer’s punishment in full force,

in the grips of a July heatwave.


Ann Christine Tabaka has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry, has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from numerous publications. She lives in Delaware, USA.  She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and three cats. Her most recent credits are: Pomona Valley Review; Ariel Chart, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, Oddball Magazine, The Paragon Journal, The Stray Branch, Trigger Fish Critical Review, Foliate Oak Review, Better Than Starbucks!, Anapest Journal, Mused, Apricity Magazine, The Write Launch, The Stray Branch, Scryptic Magazine, Ann Arbor Review, The McKinley Review.

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