Monday, August 22, 2022

Nothing Ever Happens on Sunday By Ann Christine Tabaka


It was the day I learned to cry …

sitting alone / watching the wind dance through trees.


Time was split in two, hanging on a dream,

each part fading into noon.


The sun trapped behind clouds, could not smile.

It listened to bird songs / while fighting back tears.


I tried so hard to be someone else,

but Sunday got in the way.


Sunday –

no mail delivery

offices closed

people sleep in

choir voices piercing silence


Nothing ever happens on Sunday –

except it was the day you left,

    & I rained. 







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 and 2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 15 poetry books, and 1 short story book. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: Eclipse Lit, Carolina Muse, Sparks of Calliope; The Closed Eye Open, North Dakota Quarterly, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, Burningword Literary Journal, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Silver Blade, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Fourth & Sycamore.


3 comments:

  1. I absolutely love this poem Christine. Beautiful

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you so much Elaine! I am honored by your kind words of support!

      Delete
    2. i loved it too. the last line is stereotype while hittting you like a brick to the head. sometimes the truth is a stereotype.

      Delete

Improv with Whiskey & Cars by Linda Bryant

That night, a broken axle, sticks inside me, sweet burnt odor of bourbon & Marlboros. Drunk on Wild Turkey, Mama cussed Daddy out, my si...