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,” published by Sweetycat Press. Chris has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from numerous publications. Her work has been translated into Sequoyah-Cherokee Syllabics, into French, and into Spanish. She is the author of 13 poetry books. She has been published micro-fiction anthologies and short story publications. Christine lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: Impspired, The American Writers Review, The Scribe Magazine, The Phoenix, Burningword Literary Journal, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Silver Blade, Silver Birch Press, Pomona Valley Review, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Foliate Oak Review, The McKinley Review, Fourth & Sycamore.*(a complete list of publications is available upon request)
Escaping the Grasp of Time
Butterfly lands upon flower – time stops. Hands clasp. Day turns to night lovers seek the shadows. Morning mist – gently lifts giving way to clarity. Rising from depths of grief – eyes open once again. Summer fades to Autumn. Tides flow back to sea. Cold wind whispers - over waves of lust. We lose ourselves – to some past memory, as love finds new meaning. We lose our way - to find each other. Rain falls on meadow – new hope blossoms. Time has escaped all – only to cycle again.
What Will it be This Time?
So, you changed your mind again? If ever a mind you had. Fluctuating from lost to found to lost, as you leave your footprints on my weary heart. We walked this way before, you and I - so many times. Dizziness of unrelenting flux. Dried leaves scattered on a ground that was once green with hope. Windblown and scattered among dying desire. Shall we ever know the way? What will it be this time?
This Game Called Life
It’s all a game, this life we live. we play it ‘til the end. Ever reaching for the trophy, not knowing this is it. A game of hide-n-seek, and vanishing desires, tucked in our hip pocket. ‘Round the next corner it will appear, or so we tell ourselves. Chasing aspirations in a never-ending circle, that stretches wider as we age. And the prize was always right there, if we only allowed it in. * Published by The Piker Press, December 2019
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