An Evening in September

Evening reaches across and blankets the land.
Tall stalks kissed pink by the glow of the setting sun.

Row after row of fence posts stand at attention.
A lone crow perched atop a rail surveys the expanse.

In the field a one-eyed scarecrow stares back menacingly.
Darkness falls earlier as the hours of daylight abate.

Soon harvest time will arrive with its thunderous
mechanical beasts looming over the landscape,
belching black smoke and churning up clouds of dust,
as they reap the golden crops.

As the harvesters cleave the shafts they will leave
the refuse in their wake like so many fallen soldiers.

The crow looks over the bounty of ripe grain,
aware that it will soon be time for him to go.
Flying to a place of safety far from the noisy
metal monsters that now sit on the horizon in wait.

The scarecrow smiles knowing he has done his job well


Eternal Game

Night sounds amble away with starlight
at their heels. Seeking out the yawn of
morning’s sleepy outstretched arms.

Hours, four and twenty, play tag
amongst themselves. A game
the moon knows all too well.

Dreams come to rest on shoulders
white as milk, until the sunlight beckons,
with eyes the color of sapphires.

The story is perpetual beyond the span
of time.  Eternally chasing its own tail
through the universe in pursuit
of a brilliant golden sun.


Sargasso Sea

I once sailed upon the Sargasso Sea,
Bermuda bound was I. Dazzled by
the crystal blue depths. Magnified by
the transparency of the water,
it almost felt as if I could reach down
and touch the ocean floor.

Caressed by the warmth of the soft
breezes, tasting the salt air on my lips.
Defined only by ocean currents, a sea
without a shoreline. No land will ever
confine it, as its borders drift and move
with the surrounding Atlantic flow.

The magic of its past haunts the
imagination. It lies deep within the heart
of the mysterious Bermuda Triangle.

Its history is littered with tales of sailing
ships lost and vanished forever. But that
does not stop the adventurous souls
who will forever seek out its secrets.


Holding On

A single leaf
Survived the winter
Tenaciously hanging
Onto the bare branch

The heavy snows
And howling winds
Could not budge it
It remained resilient

It stood the test of time
Through many months
Trials and tribulations
Of the fierce season

Now spring is here
And the old must yield
To the green buds
Pushing from within

It could withstand
The harshest weather
But not the gentle
Nudging of new growth

Life goes in cycles
It cannot be stopped
The old must eventually
Make way for the new


The Park in Summer

A watercolor sky graces a late
July evening, while boys play
basketball on the court.

Lovers walk by hand in hand
as I lay in the cool tall grass
contemplating the clouds overhead.

An elderly gentleman sits alone
on a composite bench surveying his
surroundings, a book open on his lap.

High flying kites soar with hope and
expectation as the sun slowly goes
down to hide behind the tree tops.

Another glorious summer day
comes to a fulfilling end,
in the park.


Ann Christine Tabaka

Ann Christine Tabaka

Ann Christine Tabaka is a published poet and artist. Her most recent credits are: The Paragon Journal, Celestial Musings Anthology‘Poems Inspired by the Night Sky’ by BSU. The Literary Hatchet, Metaworker, Raven Cage Ezine, RavensPerch, Anapest Journal, Sick Lit Magazine, Mused, Indiana Voice Journal, Halcyon Days Magazine, and The Society of Classical Poets, Two Drops of Ink, and Peeking Cat.