Sunday, July 29, 2018

Jazz Club. by Ann Christine Tabaka



The lights dim
a horn wails
smoke and whiskey    fill the room

A voice like silk
    from some long past era
hearts mellow
    tears spill

Bodies sway
    fingers snap
Feet     s h u f f l e
across the floor

Hushed voice        conversations
    glasses clink
        toes tap

Drunk on
atmosphere
a slice of heaven    on a paper plate

High notes - low bows
    the jazzman walks off
        claps and whistles follow
            the lights rise





Ann Christine Tabaka has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry, has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from publications. She lives in Delaware, USA.  She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her most recent credits are: Ariel Chart, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, Oddball Magazine, The Paragon Journal, The Literary Hatchet, The Stray Branch, Trigger Fish Critical Review, Foliate Oak Review, Better Than Starbucks!, Anapest Journal, Mused, Apricity Magazine, The Write Launch, The Stray Branch, Scryptic Magazine, Ann Arbor Review, The McKinley Review.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Bedroom anatomy lesson#3 by Mike Zone

Every knock I here I think it’s you left your over night bag on the floor half zipped open like you were here the bed is a lonely place...