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Ann Christine Tabaka – Living Water

Profile Anna Christine Tabaka LE Mag July 2019

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Living Water, poems by Anna Christine Tabaka

Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry, has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from numerous publications. She is the author of 9 poetry books.  Christine lives in Delaware, USA.  She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her most recent credits are: Ethos Literary Journal, North of Oxford, Pomona Valley Review, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Synchronized Chaos, Pangolin Review, Foliate Oak Review, Better Than Starbucks!


Living Water

Water …
Cool, refreshing, life sustaining.
Absent, all breath perishes.
The river that flows down to the sea
is born in the mountains high.

A marriage of snow-melt and rain,
an ancient love story of myth.
Trickling, sparkling, growing,
pregnant with life, a union for all ages.

Moisture laden clouds bestow
their gift upon the earth.
All that is living sing praise
to waters from above.

Enduring journey over rocks and pain,
continuing to the sandy shores of time.
Reflecting all that was before
and all there is to be.

Rain …
a soothing, melodic patter,
or a devastating downpour.
Both blessing and bane.
Yet we cannot live without it.

Water …
A reminder of where we came from,
and where we are to end.
Prismed droplets, a rainbow’s tribute
upon the thirsty earth.
 

Landscape of Youth

When was the last time
you laid with me
upon a hillside green?
Looking at azure sky,
holding hands,
weaving dreams,
while the world drifts pass.

Winter far behind us,
spring in near reach.
It is once more time
to awaken sleeping passions.
Bare feet, sun kissed faces,
enjoying the warmth
of each other.

Soft fragrant grass,
birds’ mellifluous chants.
The reverie lives once more.
Shared moments of bliss,
days of youth relived.
Regrets filed safely away.
A hillside stretches before us,
beckoning once more.


Heatwave

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 sears 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.

Five Minutes Before Winter

Five minutes before winter,
everything stops.

The sky opens up.
Silence penetrates the air.

And so the story goes,
without beginning or an end.

A finger points to nowhere,
a hand waves to the past.

Not knowing the distance
between right and wrong,
the path becomes obscure.

Delicacy of the moment,
wrapped in the wings of a dove.

Winter befalls autumn
in a whisper thin moment.

Cold is now the victor,
the sovereign of our days.

All set in wait for passage,
five minutes before winter.


Left Behind

Another day of rain,
another day of doubt.
I am the rain that falls upon sorrow.
I wash pain with my tears.
Storm clouds move past,
yet I am left behind.

Misgivings mount.
Shadows stretch and deepen,
blocking out the sun.
I am the shadow that darkens.
A purple pall lifts to gray,
yet hope is left behind.

Placate my wounds,
then step aside.
All agony shall soon cease.
I no longer grapple ghosts,
I learn to accept my fate,
now defeat is left behind.

Dry Spell

Fissured mud,
dry, hard, gray.
So many interlacing
fingers reaching out
in every direction,
crumble to the touch.

Arid summer,
sucking the breath from life.
Languishing thirst.
Wilted flora bow their heads.
Fallen warriors lack resilience
to withstand the furnace blast.

Parched earth,
crying out for sustenance.
No clouds in sight.
Not a drop of compassion
to be found.

Cruel season of drought,
unexpected curse.
Farmers pass their hats
and lay low,
hands folded in prayer.

Rotted fruit.
Tiny shriveled globes of despair.
Shrunken heads
hang limp and forlorn
upon dying hosts.

Time stands still.
Torrid air strangles all
within its grasp.
I exhale the dragon
from my lungs.

Scorched clay drifts from my hand,
dispersed into the atmosphere.
Well of hope, dry as dust.
Foreign to some years,
a vengeance in others.

All promise lost,
walking away
Then …
faces turn upward
in disbelief,
as forgiveness rains from the sky


© Ann Christine Tabaka