October 21st, 2017 by Magdalena Tabor


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Be afraid!

For didn’t you see my shirttail fly

As I stand stock-still with a glint in my eye,

Pretending to be just stuff of straw?

But know this, raven, I am much, much more!


Tremble at my arms a’flailing!

The wind discerns my wit by wailing,

And you, fine raven, consider my threat

As nothing more than baseless fret,

And weary at the effort, less hurricane than zephyr.


Be afraid, I say!

As night descends with its screeching owl awry,

For in this field of stubble rests the shadow of time gone by,

And I must rise to shake the dust,

For know this, raven, I must, I must!


Quiver just a little now!

A feathered pile to fluff my brow.

Will nothing ruffle, rift or tousle?

My words deflect, devoid of muscle.

Oh, raven, cock your head

Give me an ounce of dread.

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September 18th, 2017 by Magdalena Tabor

Image result for abandoned farm with silo

Half capsule upended.

A barn’s best bud.

Towering with its moon helmet

In a memory field of grain.

Sleeping on its empty stomach.


A pile of lumber

Sinks to its knees.

Silo gone solo.


Long abandoned to the wind.

An empty drum

Echoing a swallow’s song.

Or an owl on a wintry night.

Or a sigh emanating

From the soul of one,

Such as I.


A sigh so low.

A sigh so low.


If I could resurrect

Something from the dirt

I kick with the toe of my boot,

Something worth saving

Besides a dream

Sticking halfway out

Of someone else’s back pocket,

I might fill it with more

Than the beating of wings

Against the moonlit drape

Of night sky,

Illuminating nothing but

A silo.


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July 24th, 2017 by Magdalena Tabor

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This road has kept its secret.

Posing as some farmer’s sense of purpose

Where neither tractor nor billy goat

Can amble over rock and ruts so coarse

As to run rivers through its hardened veins

When thunder cracks the valley,

And the rains are heard rushing like chariots

Through the birches

Pelting everything in its path

And filling every pothole

Until the earth is glorified

With mud.


No rubber boot has lived until it’s tried

The slippery slide of redemption,

To catch oneself with brisk assuredness

Or fall sloppily into the mess

With a self-deprecating grin

And a swear.


Mud has served its purpose then,

Putting me in my place,

And with every ounce of dignity mustered

Hoist myself from the trenches

To look beyond the laughing cow.

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Horses of Sticks

April 15th, 2017 by Magdalena Tabor

Image result for sunset canyon wild horses


Skies to the West are bleeding,

Toes gripping an Eastern shore,

The sea thrashes about the ankles,

And Heaven’s an open door.



But the danger lies in believing

We’re rooted to sandy soil.

Oh, the rush of a golden nugget

And snakes that don’t recoil.



Fading like Wrangler blue jeans,

Broken like boots that are scuffed,

A cowboy knows when he’s beaten

Calling the canyon’s bluff.



So gone are the days of Roy Rogers,

Tonto and Rin Tin Tin,

Galloping into the sunset

On horses of sticks and whim.

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April 7th, 2017 by Magdalena Tabor

Image result for Blue and White Nikko Ironstone cup and saucer

She promised the box

Full of blue and white china

And says, in effect,

This is my legacy.



I imagine us

Arranging the bits and pieces

Of her storied life

On empty shelves,

Spelling out the chipped

And imperfect syllables

Of broken English

In cups and saucers.



But now she asks if I mind

Handing the box to Nina instead.

But if she has to ask, I reason,

Then the Legacy must

Be hers.

And the disappointment



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March 14th, 2017 by Magdalena Tabor

Image result for antique empty page and pen

In my cache of poems

I draw one out

And consider its worth,

Or worthiness.

Finding neither

(I am my own best critic)

I wonder at my inability

To express the simplest

Of emotions,

But there lies the difficulty.


Why must everything be said?

Shall I paint the eyes then instead?

Can the brush exude

The depth of soul

I wish to expose?

Why wish it?

Why must everything be laid bare?


Hush, don’t say a word.

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January 7th, 2017 by Magdalena Tabor



.Image result for winter black and white

Winter deprives us of the sun

We succumb to our weaknesses then.

Dvorak –

And another glass of wine.

Reinventing myself –

A Vanessa Redgrave

As Agatha

Frozen in a block of time.

And the snobbery

Of over indulgence

In everything fine.

And sheer.

And delicate

As the intricate patterns of ice

Melting at the edges.

And at the corners of my mouth.

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I Saw Jesus

March 28th, 2015 by Magdalena Tabor

I saw Jesus
On a New York City sidewalk.
His hooded sweatshirt
Pulled up over his face.
The dollar bill I gave him
Went through the holes
In both his hands.
And he never looked up.
Not once.

I saw Jesusi saw jesus
Carry his cross of cardboard.
I followed him into an alleyway
Where he slept
With the trash of humanity.
The sweat that trickled from his brow
Was bloodstained.
And he smiled at me
But once.

I saw Jesus.
He wore the face of every man.
He was at Seventh Avenue
And at 31st and Broadway.
He was the beggar, the friar
And the multitudes.
He was everyone
And everywhere at once.

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Springtime Jaunt

March 22nd, 2015 by Magdalena Tabor

Through the tangled depthspringtime jaunt
Of forest
Moves a form
Amongst the trees.
But its heart
Begins to flourish,
Man with dog
Trots at his knees.

Was there ever such
A kinship,
Loving glances stolen
Off he runs, an act
More selfish.
But with a whistle
Shakes the dust.

Once more
At his master’s side,
Two connected
Without chain.
One must seek
As the other hides
Yet neither one
Would dare complain

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Sir Robin

February 28th, 2015 by Magdalena Tabor

Fat, round, harbingersir robin
Of Hope,
Startled at the absence
Of anything verdant,
Suspiciously eyeing
The quilted conundrum
At my throat –
As if I could sing.
But here,
My lovely golden orb,
An utterance of delight
Caught between the breath
Of winter
And the gloved hand
To my lips,
At what you might choose
To bring.

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