Poetry from Ann Christine Tabaka

Lost in a Wilderness of My Own Making

A wilderness that does not know 
how to connect to other parts of itself.
A timeline past remembering.
Parched remnants of yesterday
dangling in the wind.
Shoes too big to fit my feet
shuffle across endless deserts. 
How much of this is real, 
and how much imagination?
I tear open a fissure.
I must repair the wound. 
Beautiful – a word I remember 
from some alien place. 
But it vanishes too quickly.
Stumbling, I call your name.
Wilderness surrounds me as it closes in. 

One by One

one by one       stars fall
one by one       lights burn out

day turns into night
           tears turn into rain

darkness blankets all

a sadness beyond words
           an ache beyond pain

a cold cruel world beseeches
           calling out for love

there is no turning back
forward is the only way

one by one      we follow
one by one      we lose

a new path must be forged
leaving hate behind

This is Where I Am

In the distance thunder roars
	echoing its grief.
A lion that tears open the skies.
My bones are thirsty,
	they ache.
Under the knife so many times. 
Years are a heavy weight.
Twisted spine curving ever sideways,
a roller-coaster from hell. 
Bulging muscles & knotted fascia scream.

I forget when I succumbed …
from running
to walking
to limping
to crawl

The storm strengthens,
sunshine fading to a trickle of light. 
Endless sleepless nights stretching into dawn.
You were always there –
my strength.
I gave you my hand/my burden,
but I could not be saved.
Countless days of broken glass/broken body.
I have come to where I am,
battling the storm.

We Danced at the Train Station

In the distance a train whistle blows.
Memories dance the Tango. 
First left, 
then right,
and then the dip.

My head aches. I need a nap.
Memories are barflies / percussion in my brain.

Did you call to say you were sorry?
I don’t remember why.

Too many weeks, too many years.
A speeding locomotive. The music stopped.

In the distance I see a light.
The train doesn’t pass by here anymore.

Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry. She is the winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year, her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020 and 2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 15 poetry books, and 1 short story book. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: The Phoenix; Eclipse Lit, Carolina Muse, Sand Hills Literary Magazine, Ephemeral Literary Review, The Elevation Review, The Closed Eye Open, North Dakota Quarterly, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, Black Moon Magazine, Pacific Review, The Silver Blade, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review

*(a complete list of publications is available upon request)