The Old Man







The Old Man

 

Dawn creeps in.

The cock crows,

scratching our heads.

 

Wondering what just happened.

 

Embers fading,

ashes flying,

eyes like a smoke filled room.

 

Morning dies like a flower,

petals dropping to the ground,

shriveled, dry, brown.

 

Brown, on second thought,

his eyes were brown,

and sparkling like topaz.

 

Words still gushing from his mouth

like a swarm of angry bees,

the story continues on, and on.

 

Checking watches,

packing up,

it was time to leave again.

 

Another night of eerie tall tales,

that no one else could tell quite like he,

and the old man knew them all.

 

 

Ann Christine Tabaka

  

Ann Christine Tabaka is a nominee for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry.

She lives in Delaware, USA.  She is a published poet and artist. She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her most recent credits are Page & Spine, The Paragon Journal, The Literary Hatchet, The Stray Branch, Trigger Fish Critical Review; Foliate Oak Review, The Metaworker, Raven Cage Ezine, RavensPerch, Anapest Journal, Mused, Apricity Magazine, Longshot Island, The Write Launch, The Stray Branch, Advaitam Speaks Literary Journal, Ann Arbor Review.

Comments

The imagery in this piece is astounding. The phrase "words still gushing from his mouth like a swarm of angry bees" continues to haunt me.

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