Ann Christine Tabaka has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry, has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from publications. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her most recent credits are: Ariel Chart, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, Oddball Magazine, The Paragon Journal, The Literary Hatchet, 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.
The Pain is Real
The knife wound was deep,
the pain is real. You hover
over me like some specter
from beyond the grave. Fiery
eyes pierce my heart. I bleed
upon the earth. Red rivers
flow forth from my wracked
body, feeding your greed.
Torn limb from limb like an
old rag doll, the torturer has
his way. The ground opens
and swallows me whole.
I am forever lost, devoured
by the hunger of the undead.
Poet Ann Christine Tabaka
At What Price
He stood outside the door
asking for directions,
lost hope in hand.
Paying the toll with
a pocketful of dreams.
Aspirations evaporating
at the sound of his own voice.
A pervading ache,
a need he could not fill.
Giving blood to pay his dues.
Nowhere left to go,
he steps off the curb.
His foot sinks into the soft mud.
He watches while it sucks him in,
even deeper as he struggles to get free.
He is gone
Final Act
Bone chilling, cold shoulder,
he says his good-byes and
spreads his wings. Freedom
his only desire. Crumbling dreams
in his hands, like so many dried
winter leaves. With an audible
sigh, he disperses them to
the universe. By all that is holy,
I cannot breathe. He has crushed
the very life from out of me. Fingers
touch, hearts do not. Farewells
are always hard. A little death
each new day, without him by
my side. Physically, he is still
here, but his heart is miles away.
I cannot bring him back to life, if
he does not want to stay. Bone
chilling, cold shoulder is his finale.
After the Stroke of Midnigh
After the stroke of midnight
when most are fast asleep
into the ancient graveyard
stealthy he does creep
Seeking out the marker
of a long forgotten soul
he digs into the hard earth
to obtain his unholy goal
He collects the fleshless bones
and gathers them to his sack
then quietly leaves the scene
with his booty on his back
Once inside his dark room
a single candle he does light
sorting all his treasures
working late into the night
Femora, tibiae, and ulnae
plus other skeletal remains
sorted by type and stacked
with such thought out pains
Grinding them into powders
for poultices and potions
carefully carved magic charms
and other ghoulish notions
After the stroke of midnight
another night of work begins
he sold his soul and must toil
to atone for all his sins
into the ancient graveyard
stealthy he does creep
Seeking out the marker
of a long forgotten soul
he digs into the hard earth
to obtain his unholy goal
He collects the fleshless bones
and gathers them to his sack
then quietly leaves the scene
with his booty on his back
Once inside his dark room
a single candle he does light
sorting all his treasures
working late into the night
Femora, tibiae, and ulnae
plus other skeletal remains
sorted by type and stacked
with such thought out pains
Grinding them into powders
for poultices and potions
carefully carved magic charms
and other ghoulish notions
After the stroke of midnight
another night of work begins
he sold his soul and must toil
to atone for all his sins
The Final Mile
Brittle bones and broken smiles,
the pathway stretched and worn.
Trodden dreams dissipate and
fade into the past. Seeking solace,
repentance lost, seasons turn again.
Staring out through fading eyes,
the years march swiftly by. The
juxtaposition of fate and fact.
Timetables made. Days spent
planning, the mantle clock loudly
chimes the hour. The mundane
routine of daily life yawns again.
Twisted bodies and aching limbs.
Porcupine quills and serrated
knives, mind numbing sensations
linger on. Burnt toast and sour
milk, the daily fare of late. Clouds
across the moon, another night
goes by, all the while we lumber
forth until we reach that final mile.
Fallen
the sign said open
so she walked right in
checking her wings at the door
red papered walls
in a room filled with smoke
and the smell of cheap perfume
whispered conversations
in an unknown language
heard only by discerning ears
bleary red eyes staring out
from under thick mascaraed lashes
followed her every move
working her way to the back of the room
she finds a quiet corner
to wait her turn
all the while a neon sign flashes overhead
with the words
“Welcome to Gehenna”
An array of colorful capsules,
each one has its job.
A need to fill
beyond existence,
keeping him alive.
No comments:
Post a Comment