Literary Yard

Search for meaning

‘A Game of Seasons’ and other poems

By: Ann Christine Tabaka

A Game of Seasons

The snow fell. Icey winds blew. You wanted summer.
I could not give it to you. You walked away holding

knife & fork, searching for a feast. Mouths opened
on request. Food shoveled out of silver bowls.

Gleaming vessels of by-gone days. The drought had
run its course. It was a memory now. You begged

for more. I turned away. Trees bowed their obedience.
Everything seemed strained. Your brother played the

violin, or was it a trombone? Music froze in mid-air
as sparrows carried it off – propagating sound.

Summer hid herself among the thorns. Snowbirds
scratched for seed. Doors shut. Eyes open. We spoke

our last good-byes. Winter peeked around the corner,
a grin upon his lips – he won.

I Wanted to Sing

I wanted to sing – but you stole my voice
I wanted to fly – but you broke my wings

in the forest – naked trees closed in around me
folding sharp branches into chains

imprisoned by doubt – time laughed at me
in a deep throaty roar – destiny does not lie

turbulent time held out his hand – welcoming
me in / surrounding me in his comforting pain

there were so many places I wanted to go
and so many things I wanted to do

yet here we sit upon a shelf
pondering our own demise

wanting to escape – I hummed a song out of tune
wanting to love – I carried roses to your grave

there is no tomorrow where today has never been
yesterday is calling me to her abode

voices raised in a new hymn – to him who cannot
be seen – as we walk away with no more sins to hide

Where Have the Years Gone?

Years fly by on the wings of fate.
They collide and collapse //
spewing debris across our lives.

Throbs and pangs reveal my age.
My mind plays games from the past.
Inside = twenty //
surface scarred seventy+ years.

Dogs gnaw on dry bones, while they lick
at festering dreams. I push them away //
they are too fierce. Advancing jackals
of war // teeth sharp with hunger.

The mirror lies // I cannot be this old.
Lush limbs once lingered softly where
harsh lines now trace an age of regret.

I am prey // hunted by time // a fragile
carcass to be devoured. Age = blessing &
curse. I am dragged through a mire of
disseminated intentions – wanting more.

Rippling rivers of skin // waves crashing
on a desolate shore. An assault upon all
sense of humanity. When did I become this old?

A Miracle in the Making

A jade-green bullet with droplets of gold,
glistened in the sun. It caught my eyes as
it dangled from a fading asclepias tuberosa
plant. Contrasted against silken white tuffs
escaping from ripened pods. I examined it
closely. Its beauty entranced me.

Days passed slowly. Like an expectant
mother, filled with hope, I waited for new
birth. The pale chrysalis began to transform.
I watched as hours crept by. Then breaking
free, new life emerged. Wings pumping and
expanding, it flew away, leaving me in awe.

Gloriously lifting ever higher, I understand
the truth … it is only in dying to ourselves
that we truly live.


About Ann Christine Tabaka

Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry. She is the winner of Spillwords Press 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 15 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: 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, West Texas Literary Review

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