Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 & 2023 Pushcart Prize in Poetry; nominated for the 2023 Dwarf Stars award of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association; winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year; selected as a Judge for the Soundwaves Poetry Contest of Northern Ireland 2023. Her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020” and “2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 16 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: Sand Hills Literary Magazine, The Phoenix, Eclipse Lit, Streetcake Experimental Writing Magazine, Carolina Muse, Ephemeral Literary Review, The Elevation Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, Black Moon Magazine, Pacific Review, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review.

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

Winter Came Early This Year

Winter came early this year, bringing 
with it a silence so deep you could hear 
the whisper of clouds passing overhead.
A hush of snowfall covering the land. 
Autumn did not have a chance. 
An invasion of ice. Green became white 
in an instant, as breaths froze in midair. 
Streams frozen in place, their ripples 
suspended in time. Trees became statues
of exposed arms and rigid trunks.
Small animals burrowed underground.
I am ice – immobile and cold. 
Fragments falling into blue. 
One by one, days creep by – seeking warmth.
Will it ever end?

Time Counts Down

Is it time to eat?
Is it time to sleep?
We’ve lost all concept of time.
Days drag on – 
   years melting into a gooey puddle.
The appointed hour has come to rectify 
past deeds. A countdown to be met 
stands before us all. Do we hide, swept
beneath our metaphorical rug, or do we 
open blind eyes to the final hour? 
Retribution raises its hand – summoning 
brimstone from the sky. 
The clock ticks …
it is time to take a stand.

Not So Long Ago

There was a time 
when words flowed free,
like cool milk over white skin. 
Soaking in an aura of delight, 
days & nights melted into a fusion 
of inspiration. 
Waking at all hours 
to furiously jot down thoughts & phrases.
A deluge of images racing past dawn. 
It seems so long ago. 
Now the milk has run dry, 
rancid and crusted from neglect. 
There is no opening – 
no way to squeeze through – 
no way to escape from the dark.
Reaching out to nothingness,
my hand flails – it touches a cauldron 
of discarded dreams.
Crawling into myself – 
a night flower folding – 
closing out all light.
All is lost. 
There is no going back. 
Spilled desires vanish with sunrise.