—Poetry by Ann Christine Tabaka,
Hockessin, DE
—Photos Courtesy of Public Doman
Hockessin, DE
—Photos Courtesy of Public Doman
A POPCORN AFTERNOON
My toes are cold,
as I sit watching old Black & White movies on TV.
The popcorn is salty, and my mind wanders off
to yardwork that needs to be tended to.
The day is too long, but never long enough,
for the solitary life that swallows me up.
Shall I go get my slippers, or sit here and suffer?
So many mundane items to check off my list.
A list written in blood on a rain-smudged window,
that never is open to the fresh air.
Dozing off, popcorn spills, scattering on the floor.
Startled, the cat runs off to hide.
Time to get up, to find where I am, who I am,
as my cold bare toes hit the floor,
crushing kernels of salty popcorn underneath.
(prev. pub. in Apricity Magazine, March 2020)
My toes are cold,
as I sit watching old Black & White movies on TV.
The popcorn is salty, and my mind wanders off
to yardwork that needs to be tended to.
The day is too long, but never long enough,
for the solitary life that swallows me up.
Shall I go get my slippers, or sit here and suffer?
So many mundane items to check off my list.
A list written in blood on a rain-smudged window,
that never is open to the fresh air.
Dozing off, popcorn spills, scattering on the floor.
Startled, the cat runs off to hide.
Time to get up, to find where I am, who I am,
as my cold bare toes hit the floor,
crushing kernels of salty popcorn underneath.
(prev. pub. in Apricity Magazine, March 2020)
A THOUSAND LIGHT YEARS AWAY
Distant stars, held in our hands,
a thousand light years past.
Seeking a reason for existence,
our disguise falls away.
Plummeting down a black hole
into infinity, abstract notions rise.
Finding oneself in a vision of doubt,
a corner is turned.
Never knowing, always guessing,
the substance of one’s path.
The plurality of truth
lends a guiding light.
There are no answers beyond
what or why, nothing to ascertain.
Firmaments collapsing within our grasps.
Stars are born, and stars die,
while bewilderment takes hold.
We are but children of the sky,
reaching for the future,
with distant stars within our hands.
(prev. pub. in Vita Brevis, April 2020)
Distant stars, held in our hands,
a thousand light years past.
Seeking a reason for existence,
our disguise falls away.
Plummeting down a black hole
into infinity, abstract notions rise.
Finding oneself in a vision of doubt,
a corner is turned.
Never knowing, always guessing,
the substance of one’s path.
The plurality of truth
lends a guiding light.
There are no answers beyond
what or why, nothing to ascertain.
Firmaments collapsing within our grasps.
Stars are born, and stars die,
while bewilderment takes hold.
We are but children of the sky,
reaching for the future,
with distant stars within our hands.
(prev. pub. in Vita Brevis, April 2020)
ANXIETY ATTACK
Feeling pressure within my chest.
Shallow breath expels a sigh.
I grieve my existence, swimming
in emotions as thick as sweat,
drowning in my own apprehension.
A litany of lists, and undone
tasks, march through my head,
overtaking my mind.
Teeth clench,
biting down on an ambition
too grand to ever be achieved.
Black paints my world,
with no empathy for loss.
I scream,
I cry,
I moan!
Limp and inept,
numbness invades,
taking over my very being—
That feeling that no matter how hard
I try, nothing will ever be good enough.
Anxiety!
(prev. pub. in The Piker Press, June 2020)
Feeling pressure within my chest.
Shallow breath expels a sigh.
I grieve my existence, swimming
in emotions as thick as sweat,
drowning in my own apprehension.
A litany of lists, and undone
tasks, march through my head,
overtaking my mind.
Teeth clench,
biting down on an ambition
too grand to ever be achieved.
Black paints my world,
with no empathy for loss.
I scream,
I cry,
I moan!
Limp and inept,
numbness invades,
taking over my very being—
That feeling that no matter how hard
I try, nothing will ever be good enough.
Anxiety!
(prev. pub. in The Piker Press, June 2020)
AND STILL I HAD THESE DREAMS
And still, I had these dreams.
Dreams of grandeur, iced in white frosting.
Waking to the truth.
A truth that no longer resides
beside the waterfall of hope.
Reaching for conclusions,
my eyes do not open fully.
Yawning my farewell
to all the glittery trinkets
set forth before the illusion.
A time so long ago
that memories fail to adhere.
Buried alive in anticipation,
of a tomorrow that will not be.
Sweet songs of triumph
written in the icing,
now melting from neglect.
The night, no longer young,
as I am not.
We join hands in celebration,
the letting go of false intent.
Closed eyes to deep breath,
I succumb to a reality set before me.
And still, I had these dreams.
(prev. pub. in American Writers Review, June 2020)
And still, I had these dreams.
Dreams of grandeur, iced in white frosting.
Waking to the truth.
A truth that no longer resides
beside the waterfall of hope.
Reaching for conclusions,
my eyes do not open fully.
Yawning my farewell
to all the glittery trinkets
set forth before the illusion.
A time so long ago
that memories fail to adhere.
Buried alive in anticipation,
of a tomorrow that will not be.
Sweet songs of triumph
written in the icing,
now melting from neglect.
The night, no longer young,
as I am not.
We join hands in celebration,
the letting go of false intent.
Closed eyes to deep breath,
I succumb to a reality set before me.
And still, I had these dreams.
(prev. pub. in American Writers Review, June 2020)
BECOMING WHO WE ARE
As much as we may not want to,
eventually we become our mother,
become our father.
Aspiring to side-step prejudice.
Striving to deflect pain.
As faltering bodies and memories
take possession of our actions,
we tend to relive our family’s past.
Within ourselves they were always there,
we were always there.
Deny it as we would,
fight it as we would.
We cannot escape who we are,
who we were meant to be.
A genetic code written in the stars
guides us to the truth.
Traits and habits woven strong,
forged in the fires of our blood.
We fold all regrets and tuck them away
into a past where youth resides.
So in the end,
we are who we are,
and we are the family.
(prev. pub. in Portland Metrozine, February 2020)
____________________
Today's LlittleNip:
For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.
—Vincent Van Gogh
____________________
Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry; nominated for the 2023 Dwarf Stars award of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association; and winner of Spillwords Press’s 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 16 poetry books, and one short story book. 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, and West Texas Literary Review. She first appeared in Medusa’s Kitchen on 11/30/18 (https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2018/11/fragments-of-life.html/).
Chris lives with her husband and four cats in Delaware, USA, and she loves gardening and cooking. A complete list of publications is available upon request.
Website: https://annchristinetabaka
Linktree: https://linktr.ee/christinetabaka (all her sites listed in one place)
____________________
—Medusa
Christine Tabaka
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Just remember:
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Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope:
joyful poet finds
just the right word~