by Diane E. Dockum
May 20, 2026

He sang a song persistently
Before the sun was up --
Kept singing oh so urgently
While others slept in gentle peace
I heard him clearly, though my fan
Was blowing in the dark
And through my torpor called and trilled
Pulling my mind from dreams
Making me surface and open an eye

He waited there outside my door
As I left the house today
Standing proudly straight and tall
In his coat of red - and pointy cap
He observed with a beady eye
My trek to get into my car
But first I turned and called his name
And smiled with approving grin
I saluted the cardinal who graced my day
At the break of dawn again. 


By Diane E. Dockum
©April 30, 2026

In my home where soft light glows
And chocolate melting on my tongue 
No alarm’s cruel chime, just peaceful time
Where silence soaks into my mind 
All day they filled my world
With little hands, hugs and joy 
Sweet voices sharing every thought
Each moment burning with their glee
My heart full even as my energy scattered
Like their toys across the living room floor
But here, finally, the hours belong to me
No one to answer to, no schedule to keep
Transitioning into solitude
I reach for chocolate to reward my day
It melts on my tongue, unfurling my mind
To wander where it wants
Following threads of thought
That got tangled in the beautiful chaos
I find again the part of myself that I had gently given
Without condition
That grandparent giving
Tomorrow will bring that bliss again
But tonight I hold this quiet space
To taste the sweetness of both love and rest
One peaceful breath at a time


By Diane E. Dockum
©April 29, 2026

Wires slither, crawling up
Sides of houses and weaving their way across rooftops.
The village breathes through veins of blackened cords,
Each strand a silent messenger,
Binding walls and windows,
Threading through the sky in tangled, wavering lines.
Above, the network grows — 
A web
Spun by invisible powers,
Connecting every soul to another,
Unseen but felt.
Tentacles stretch from pole to pole,
Searching, grasping, crawling through holes in the walls,
Drawing us closer
In the hush of electric hum,
While below, shadows flicker
As the serpents glide overhead,
Linking us all together, both captive and free.

By Diane E. Dockum

©April 28, 2026

Well, he’s one pencil short
Of a full deck.

He is not the sharpest crayon
In the silverware drawer.

He has bats in
The windmills of his mind.

He’s not playing with a 
Full pencil box.

We’ve taken the horns 
by the scruff of the neck.

I wish he’d stop running around
Like a chicken with his hat off.

I believe this train has sailed.

Now, we’re sailing close to thin ice.

But it’s not over until the last whistle 
blows the fat lady over.

Till we meet again,
Keep your eye to the grindstone.

And don’t let the door hit you
Where the sun don’t shine.




By Diane E. Dockum
©April 27, 2026

Even though the dark was closing in
I silently sat in the back yard
And waited for the deer 

Making their way across my yard 
To the other side of town.
I didn’t know what they did

When they got there,
But I liked to see them come and go
Without noise in the dusk.

In Spring, they are
Black across their back
Brown further down,

And little ones hop and dance.
As the night fell and lights came on in town
It was harder to see them;

Black shapes moving and some caught
In the headlights of cars passing.
The river calls them,

And fields of fresh grown grass;
Cedars to browse with tasty green branches,
The deer picnic under the stars.




By Diane E. Dockum
©April 26, 2026

We sit across from each other—
your hands folded like old maps,
lines charting rivers I’ll never cross.

You speak in slow ripples,
each word a pebble tossed
into the still pond of memory.

Your voice is the wind’s hush
over fields that have forgotten their harvest,
and I catch stories like fireflies—
glowing, drifting, just out of reach.

You tell me about days
that wore different colors,
about love that outlasted winters,
about loss that never quite left.

I ask questions, scatter seeds,
but you answer with laughter, sighs, silence—
all the wisdom that cannot be held.

The night grows thicker,
and I feel the weight of your years
settle gently between us,
filling the spaces words can’t.

In that quiet, I learn:
life is a conversation
written on the skin, on the heart,
on the bright edge of every remembered moment.



By Diane E. Dockum
©April 25, 2026

The paper blank, a silent dare
White page waiting, empty air
Ideas rise, and then they fall --
Just shadows dancing on the wall
Words once flowed, but now a drought
Doubt seeps in, I want to shout
I reach for thoughts that drift away
Inspiration does not stay
Yet still I sit, I hope, I try
To tell a story, not sit and sigh
For in the quiet this is true
One line whispers: “Begin anew.”

By Diane E. Dockum

©April 24, 2026

So, did you know that trees warn us 
Before volcanos erupt? 

On Miranda, a moon of Uranus, there is a 20-Kilometer-high cliff, 
and if you jumped you would fall for 12 minutes in silence.

Ancient Romans used powdered mouse brains
for oral hygiene.

Your eyeballs remain the same size
from birth until death, unlike the rest of your body.

Wombats produce cube-shaped poop. 
This unique shape prevents the droppings from rolling away,
helping the animal mark its territory.

Did you know that your fingernails grow at approximately
One and a half inches per year, and that is also the rate 
The Moon is leaving The Earth.
So, I am guessing, every time we go to The Moon, 
We’ll just have to go a bit further.

The Universe asks questions.
As noted, by Hydrogen, given enough time,
Turns into people who ask where they came from.


By
Diane E. Dockum
©April 23, 2026

Winter passed.
I rake the leaves that matted under snow.
The excavation of layers moves.
I am scratching at the ground
In a rhythm.
     Fluffing -
          Flinging-
               Moving-
Yellow tender shoots of grass appear
Taking their first breaths, unhidden.
I am taking away this heavy blanket.
It’s time to shed the winter darkness.
Fragile new growth is coming.
What will I uncover?
Encouraged by the discoveries,
My rake moves with swift precision;
A race against time
Before the sun sets.
Pausing for a breath, 
I see time is shortening by the minute.
Must get these to the curb before dark. 


By
Diane E. Dockum
© April 22, 2026