Sunday, August 1, 2021





Broken Line


The line is drawn.

The line is crossed.

Colors of the day bleed out.

Painted on the ground,

a sign that points to nowhere

is now standard rule.

Losing their direction,

people wander off grid.

Seeking justice.

Seeking peace.

Empty streets intersect,

while silence plays hopscotch

across the broken line. 





Link missing,

chain broken.

Connections pass beyond repair.


Anchor sinks,

craft drifts.

Truth rises to surface once more.


Lives lost,

hope drowns.

A thesis written to the past.


No one knows

which way to turn.

Paths cross but do not intersect.


Sky darkens,

rain falls.

Lonely cries echo in the wind.


Daylight wanes,

night falls.

Chaos is the reigning queen.


Hearts search,

hands clasp.

A new chain forged in fire.


Revolution fought,

ideals played out.

We win in strength what we lose in weakness.


Bonding all to love,

we find deliverance.



A Taste For Life


My Babcia’s tiny two room apartment,

a refuge in turbulent times.

A retreat from harsh reality.

I can see it in my mind.

Bedford Avenue, Brooklyn, New York.

Polish and Jewish part of town. 

Bakeries, butcher shops, churches, and parks.

Streets always crowded.

Invariably the same journey,

train, then subway, then walk,

and walk, and walk.

Forever it seemed.

Trudging up three flights of narrow,

well-worn stairs, as rickety as herself.

It kept her spry.

We were poor, but she was poorer still.

Everything she had was used,

other people’s discard.

She had very little.

Things she never had; she gave.

Scrimped and saved to provide

a feast whenever we would visit.

Peasant fare, exotic to me.

A treat to the senses.

The smell of Bigos, Kapusta, Kielbasa,

all the delights of home.

My first taste of pot roast,

string beans and mushrooms.

Not those anemic white mushrooms

purchased in a store.

The pungent wild Polish Wood Mushroom,

handpicked, dried, and sent from

kuzynki in the old country.

Tastes I recreate today.

Tastes that bring comfort and love.

Memories of a land I never knew,

except in my heart and soul.

Tradition carried by aroma and taste.




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 & 2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. Chris has been internationally published. Her work has been translated into Sequoyah-Cherokee Syllabics, into French, and into Spanish. She is the author of 13 poetry books. She has been published micro-fiction anthologies and short story publications. Christine lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: The American Writers Review, The Scribe Magazine, The Phoenix, Burningword Literary Journal, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Silver Blade, Silver Birch Press, Pomona Valley Review, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Foliate Oak Review, The McKinley Review, Fourth & Sycamore.