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Ann Christine Tabaka






Painted sails in the wind, trailing

colorful dreams in their wake.


Rings around the sun. Sights

of the imagination singing

back to me in a soft voice.


Brisk salt breeze ripping

through my damp hair. The

scent of brine filling my head.


Sand crusted limbs. Sun burnt

toes. Sound of gulls overhead.


Off in the distance the shoreline

vanishes into rows of dune grass,

as billowy clouds float by.


Visual …

Tactile …

Aural …

Odiferous …

Multidimensional facets

stimulating the senses, as

painted sails glide by.




a line, (a short blue one)




Breakfast – cooking eggs.

Sleepy eyed, an attack of the

mundane yawns. Burnt toast!


Where did the paper go? The cat

looks up and meows. Misplaced

glasses, jangling keys, same

crossword puzzles everyday.


Open the window to let the

world in. Outside, a butterfly

visits a coneflower. Inside,

the coffee maker burps.


Time to shake off the morning

and step into the day. Same

routine week after week after week.

Breakfast – cooking eggs …




a line, (a short blue one)


On the Shelf


I sit here and wait

for someone to come along,

and snatch me up.


like free goodies to sample

at a grocery store display.

The tasty tempting morsels


that everybody wants to try.

Who will grab this delectable

treat and claim me for their own?


I’ve sat on the shelf for far too

long and fear that I may grow stale,

forgotten and out of date,


pushed to the back of the stacks.

So, won’t you please come

and get me while I last?




a line, (a short blue one)


What We Say


Sometimes words are not enough

But words are all you have


At times the words are accessible

Other times they are convoluted


You cannot take words back

Hoping things will turn out right


It is impossible to extract

The day out of the night


You know what you want to say

You know what you need to do


But the words sour in your mouth

And never seem to form


As you wait for the right time

Which never seems to come


And so you continue to

Swallow your own pride




a line, (a short blue one)


New Age


Backward spinning, idea turning, time lost.

Trying to figure out where I started,

or if I finished, and how I got here.


Undefined words of peculiar descent,

falling into sentences that phases

never recognized, a puzzlement at best.


Answering the call, the light goes on at midnight.

Lucid thoughts now scrambled by the dark night.

Did I ever make much sense even

when the day light greeted?


Who am I to ascertain the wisdom of the learned?

I acquiesce to the new age of time.

A confusing language of their own device.


Quandary, do they talk the same way that they write?

Answer, doubtfully my dear!





a line, (a blue one)


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