Ann Christine Tabaka – Five Poems
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.
stimulating the senses, as
painted sails glide by.
Saturday morning, cleaning house,
the sun streaming in.
I find it tucked away, in the back of
a shelf of dusty old books.
Slowly releasing it from its place,
it falls open to the precise page.
There lies the white rose pressed flat, now
browning from a time almost forgotten.
Memories flood back to that day, I can still
picture your face smiling at me with green eyes.
You surprised me with my favorite flower.
The first of many to come.
I carefully tucked it away to preserve
for forever, well, at least for today.
Too many years have passed, and the
young hand that first held that rose is
now wrinkled with age.
But with just a single touch of that token of
love, I am once again young and alive.
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.
Dizzying dance of the dervish drawing me in,
swirling twirling losing control.
Musical movements mesmerizing the mind,
feverishly flying through air.
Sanguine songs being sung in full voice,
as vibrant visions venture forth.
Imaginative illusions inching deeper within,
tactfully tricking time and space.
Like a moth to the flame,
I am drawn to you.
Your brilliance lures me in
with intoxicating appeal.
I am the bird that flies into your window,
lying dazed at your feet,
waiting to be gently lifted in your hands,
and held to your heart.
You look deep into my eyes,
as I melt under your charm.
Your healing touch warms my heart,
and gives new life to me.
No longer a moth,
I am now a butterfly.
Life is now a beautiful blossom,
Author’s Statement on Beauty
The poet’s job is to awaken the imagination
to open the door to the mind
that sets you on a journey
where that journey leads
depends on your own personal experiences
each person will go in a distinct direction
everyone will find their own path
to some a poem can mean one thing
while others will envision something completely different
a poet’s job is to tell the truth as they see it
then the reader puts themselves into that poem
according to their perspective
that is the beauty of a well written poem
Ann Christine Tabaka lives in Delaware. She is a published poet and artist. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her most recent credits are The Paragon Journal, The Literary Hatchet, Metaworker, Raven Cage Ezine, RavensPerch.