Christine Tabaka

Words Spill Out 

 

Torn open,

words spill from the wound,

leaping off the paper,

cascading to the floor.

Chasing them,

they tumble out the door.

Reaching out, they elude my grasp.

Following I become lost.

 

An empty ache torments my mind,

wondering where they vanished to.

Capturing one,

then another,

but there is no cohesion.

Phrases running amok in my head,

drift slowly to my pen.

 

But alas, there is no tale to tell,

only words stacked up one

against the other.

They will not align themselves

to paint the image that I hold within.

No panacea for my plight.

Another day,

another week,

and words spill out again.

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Laura Zucca-Scott

Whispers

 

Invisible whispers in the stadium

The rhythm of footsteps on the track

A bitter winter day

When the cold freezes your thoughts

But not your heart

 

Another step, don’t stop

Tomorrow will be a better day

We will celebrate our victories together

We will find other challenges

Tomorrow, we will cross a new finish line

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Harris Tobias

Harris Tobias  returns with a flash

Babka

     When the angel of death knocked on Mrs Kaminsky’s door, her reaction was not at all what he was expecting. “Come in, sit down. Can I get you something to eat?”

     “No,” said the specter.

     “Are you sure? You’re looking gaunt.” She ushered the visitor to a chair saying, “You’re in luck. I just baked a babka. It’s still warm. People say I make a really good babka. What’s your hurry, it’s not like you’re going anywhere.” 

     “Well, okay,” said the angel pulling his seat closer to the round oak table. The table with the oil cloth cover. The very table where Ida Kaminsky had served thousands of meals to her children, her husband. Meals all served with such love and devotion it almost made the angel feel ashamed.

     Death propped his scythe against the wall and waited as Ida cut a generous slice of the fresh pastry. And it was by far the best babka the angel had ever tasted. One slice led to another until the angel groaned with contentment.

     “If you like, I can wrap up a piece for later,” Ida Kaminsky said.

     “Sure,” said Death, “Later.” And he took the piece of cake wrapped in aluminum foil from the old woman’s hand and left.

Some stories

Some stories

My books 

 

 

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Christine Tabaka

A New Day Dawns

A sleepy morning yawns,

stretching its arms across

the land. Moving into the

light, reaching for dawn,

at last burdens fall away.

 

Gingerly stepping over

the crumbled dreams of

yesterday tossed on the

floor. Burnt offerings cast

upon the sea, I make my

way through another door.

 

The day advances slowly,

with hope on its wing. A

single thought buoys me

and strengthens my reserve.

That with every sunrise,

another chance dawns anew.

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Paweł Markiewicz Debuts

Paweł Markiewicz was born in Siemiatycze, Poland, 1983. He ist the poet, that writes in three languages: in German, Polish as well as recently in English. He studied both laws and German studies in Poland. In relations to English writing:

I and the Rainbow

I, a priest, am waiting behind the magic rainbow, 

in the beautiful Druid-temple, illuminated by the fire,

that does not burn brightly, but shimmers such the magical jack-o’-lantern 

its sparks and sparkles are called the earthly sea of wonderful feelings.   

 

I, the real Apollo, am waiting behind the mystical rainbow,

in the cloud of Zeus with beautiful muses, like hummingbirds,

 who never cry, but create gentle laughing longing wings,  

these wings belong to the honorable nice bird of melancholy. 

 

I, a falconer, am behind my winged rainbow,  next to the dreamy hawk,

you release it into many gusts,  

so that it does its first flight like golden eagle and buzzard, 

in a lazy air soul, the magic bird has a courage of the poet.    

 

I, a collector of antlers, am waiting behind the old rainbow,

in the light, gentle jungle of the angels full of noble deers, 

that keep the traces of hope in the heart as in the cup of the souls,

these dreaming hearts are able to perpetuate all dreams of the forest.

 

 

 

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Bobbie Troy

Clocks

by Bobbie Troy

clocks are everywhere

on our phones, our appliances,

our exercise watches,

our ipads, gps devices

and so much more

we can hear them

we can see them

like a hovering shadow

reminding us of the minutes

and hours that have passed

and the precious days

that will never come again

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Robert Ronnow Debuts

Robert Ronnow’s most recent poetry collections are New & Selected Poems: 1975-2005 (Barnwood Press, 2007) and Communicating the Bird (Broken Publications, 2012). Visit his web site at www.ronnowpoetry.com.

Snow. . .

snow.

A year

in which

each day

brings one

tenth inch.

First the

window sills

are covered

then door

jambs. Our

lips are    

sealed then

our eyes

shut. Sleep

like this

we’ve never

known. Will

Spring return?

Unknown. We

care not.

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