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.
stimulating the senses, as
painted sails glide by.
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
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?
Ive 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forgotten and out of date,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, wont you please come
and get me while I last?
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
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!
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